wasillaalaskaby300

As mentioned in my first post of this gorgeous three-post day, I had a great need to get out under the open sky and do something physical, but I did not know what. My first choice was a long, long, long, bike ride, but I knew that I was not yet in shape for such a thing.

If I had been younger, no big deal. I could go out and pedal and pedal and pedal all day long, even if it was the first time in a long time. I might be a bit sore the next day, but so what?

It would feel good in its way.

I thought of various options but, when it came down to it, I still wanted to ride my bike. So I contemplated having Margie drive me 25 miles or so away and then drop me off so that I could pedal back. In this way, I could at least cover some ground that I had not covered by bike in awhile and it would be a decent, though not a long, long, long, ride. And if I had her drop me off as far up as we could get on the still snow-blocked road that goes over Hatcher Pass, then the first long portion of that drive would be all downhill and would not strain me at all - although there was a chance that I would gain such great speed coming down the very steep grade that I would have an accident and kill myself.

In the end, though, I decided just to hop and my bike and go, no destination in mind, and see where I wound up. So as not to overdo it, I would try to limit myself to three hours and I would not push it.

If I wanted to stop and take a picture, I would stop and take a picture.

Maybe I would find myself passing by Dairy Queen. I could then stop and buy a small strawberry shake.

So I got on my bike and went. I had gone no more than a few hundred yards when I came upon these three, walking.

They looked too beautiful to simply pass by, plus I recognized the woman as a waitress who had served Margie and I years back at La Fiesta Mexican restaurant.

So I stopped to chat just a little bit, and to take this picture.

"Your daughter is beautiful," I told her.

"Oh, she's my granddaughter," she answered. I had forgotten her name, so she told me and she gave me the names of her granddaughter and the dog, too.

Stupid me. I was certain I would remember, so I did not bother to speak them into my iPhone.

Now I have forgotten all of the names except for one.

The dog is Maui.

It is a little bit tricky to hop on bike with the plan of not planning where to go, other than to wherever your wheels roll to, because right away you start thinking of possible destinations to go to. The first one that I thought of was the bridge over the Little Susitna River, but I rejected it right away because that would only give me about a six or seven mile ride.

I wanted to go further than that.

I then decided that when I came to an intersection and got an urge to turn one way, I would turn the other, so as to make my destination all the more unpredictable.

But how does one do such a thing? As soon as you decide to turn one way, you have actually decided to turn the other, but then if you go ahead and decide to turn in the direction you had originally decided upon, you have still blown the whole plan.

So I began to pedal and ponder this situation. Then, before I came up with an answer, I found that, without even thinking about it, I had turned right on Lucille, headed in the direction of Metro Cafe.

I pedaled on, until I heard an airplane approaching.

I stopped my bike, picked it out in the sky, waited until it passed over the first wire and then shot.

I then pedaled on toward Metro Cafe, thinking that maybe it was just the right kind of day to try one of their frappes.

Yet, when I reached Gail Street, it suddenly dawned on me that this was entirely too predictable, so I made a sudden right turn onto Gail, away from Metro Cafe.

I cannot quite tell you how it happened, but after I made a few more unpredictable turns, I found myself at Metro Cafe, ordering a frappe, served to me by Sashanna.

I then went out and sat down at one of the patio tables, so that I could photograph any kids who might pass by on bicycles. These two soon did.

Then Carmen took a five minute break, came out, sat down and visited me for ten minutes.

We talked about many things, including her childhood in Mexico, when she lived in a house with dirt floors in a tiny inland village.

No telephone, no refrigerator. "We had to buy our food and eat it the same day," she recalled.

I thought about mentioning how Margie was born under the open Apache sky and lived her early years in a bear-grass thatched wickiup - the Apache version of a teepee - but decided to hold that information for another time. At this moment, the focus was upon little Carmen in Mexico and that was where it should stay.

I had resolved that I would not pedal by the park, but then I realized that I needed to make a restroom stop and they had one there, so I headed for the park.

As I pedaled by the skateboard area, I saw a kid come down one ramp and shoot toward another. I knew he would catch some air so I raised my pocket camera and shot this frame from the bike trail as I coasted by.

Just a little further down the bike trail that passes through the park, I saw these two boys pushing their bikes up this hill. I figured that they would then turn around, shoot down the hill as fast as they could and then commit some dare-devil act, but I did not hang around to see what.

I pedaled on to the restroom.

After that, I found myself drawing near to the Charlie Bumpus ball fields, named for the former mayor who, before he was buried at too young of an age in the Wasilla cemetery, built the Raven View subdivision, named a street within it for his daughter Sarah and then sold us our house on her street.

All three of my boys used to play American Legion Baseball at this field with the Wasilla Road Warriors. I decided to pull over and see if the current Road Warriors might be practicing or playing.

They weren't. But this baseball was lying in the parking lot.

No baseball players were in sight on any field. I figured the ball must have fallen there when the parking lot was full, rolled under a car and so nobody found it.

There were some adult men doing batting practice at one of the softball fields adjacent to the baseball field.

I stopped to see if I could get a shot of Chris, whacking the ball.

Before I did, a pitch went a little wild and rolled to the backstop behind me.

I did what anyone would do and picked the ball up so I could toss it back. Then a horrible feeling hit me.

Have any of you out there ever had a bad dream, a nightmare, where you are trying to throw a baseball but you can't do it? You throw, but instead of flying the ball weakly leaves your hand and falls to the ground?

Remember how, last summer, for the first time after I broke my shoulder and got it replaced, I tried to toss an apple core and it just tumbled to the ground?

At that time, I resolved to build up my strength by tossing rocks every day until I could throw again.

I did for awhile, too. But now it has been a long while since I last tossed a rock.

The pitcher raised his glove as a signal for me to throw the ball to him.

"I broke my shoulder," I said, "I can't throw so good now." I then tried to throw the ball, but instead of going to the pitcher, it went to the left, hit the ground about ten feet away from me and then rolled a little ways away.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," the pitcher said.

How the hell am I ever going to go surfing at Yakutak on July 14, my birthday, like I committed myself to doing?

Why the hell did I ever stand on that stupid rolling chair to take that worthless picture and then when I fell, why did I protect my camera instead of myself?

Dumbass!

After I got the picture, I pedaled away, carrying the baseball with me. Maybe I can't throw so good right now, but a baseball is just not something that a person such as me would ever leave behind in an empty parking lot.

A ways down the road, I dropped the baseball. I decided to see if I could stuff it into my pocket. It fit. So that is how I brought it home.

Next, I found myself going down the bike trail that follows Church Road.

When I got to Seldon, I could have turned towards Sarah's Way, toward our house, but I didn't. I kept going. And soon I came upon these four.

Soon after that, I found myself on the bridge that crosses the Little Su. Despite my best anti-planning, I had wound up here anyway - but by a rather convoluted route, one that greatly increased the distance. My camera battery died right after I took this picture.

I headed home, but I took the long way to get here.

My journey lasted about three hours. When I stepped into the house through the front door, I saw Margie standing on the porch outside the back door.

So I went out to join her. Royce came through the door with me.

It was his first excursion outside since October.

So that was good to see.

I will leave this as the lead post probably until about noon on Mother's Day.

Then I will put up a special post - a Mother's Day tribute.

So if you come here Mother's Day morning and see this, be sure to come back Mother's Day afternoon.

And remember - it is four hours earlier in Alaska than on the East Coast.