That would be me at 5:30 a.m., cruising past a speed trailer on my bike. Yeah, I was on a slight incline, but that raw Alberta air felt great as the sun eased away from the sheltering hills.
At that hour, I woke up dogs across The Nations (the name of my hood). I pass a house and from the porch comes a limber hound or shepherd dashing for the fence, barking all the while.
Sadly, there were no attention-craving bulldogs noisily trotting through the dew-covered grass, just the chow/shepherd mix that tries to run me down every time I pass his house. Even as I passed him licking himself in the middle of 52nd Avenue North, he sprang up with an alert snarl and only ended pursuit at the stop sign like he always does.
The rooster I swore I heard when nearing home woke up on its own.
It's been five of six days for me under my own power, and I forgot how much I missed the old Yukon (the brand is Giant, not Ford). Propped against the sealed fireplace in my bedroom, it threatened to become a piece of furniture as the heat sapped away desire for anything but white ale and daytime naps.
And when I return, the cat dutifully rubs his cheeks against the tire treads, eager to steal whatever road scents he can.
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