Yoga: check. Biking: check.
Another adorable moment on the bike ride to school this morning, one I wouldn’t have seen from the car. We rode past a teenage couple sitting in on a blanket in the driveway. She wore a hoodie and shorts, and had her phone in her hand. He wore shorts, and the rest of him was under a Jeep with an open hood. Tools — wrenches, sockets, that sort of thing — were scattered on the blanket between them. It was a sweet blast from the past, because I’ve been that girl, with Mr. C, except this was back in the Middle Ages, so I had a book. He and his brother were really into cars. Mustangs. At one time Mr. C owned four of these:
All bought as junk, all rebuilt, except for the “winter driver” Pace Car, which had a V8 in it, and an unreliable exhaust system. I learned to drive a stick in that car, in a snow storm. (It made sense at the time) He also owned a Mustang SVO. 84, I think, or maybe 84 1/2. That matters. Anyway, it looked like this:
I married the boy I used to hand tools to, and just last week – 25 years into the whole “five cars is too many/no, five cars is just right” debate, we were talking about the pace of our lives, and whether or not we could realistically slow it down. Biking does that for me. I add ten minutes to routes I would normally drive, and arrive a little more alert to my surroundings, and appreciative for the occasional slow trip down memory lane.