Do you remember that feeling you used to get when you were a child and you knew you were going to be in trouble? Not just 'trouble' but life ending, seriously deep, capital T-trouble. At the time you were committing whichever atrocity it might have been you knew that if you got caught then that would be the end of you. The fundamentally ominous foreboding experienced at the words, “Wait until your father gets home,” or “Go to your room until I talk to your mother.” Only prisoners on death row dining on their last meals can relate to the sense of knowing terror awaiting the child caught with their hand in the cookie jar; awaiting the inevitable spanking, chewing out or interminable grounding to come.
Riding in today amidst the warmth of the rising sun, a cool 30 morning on this eve of Thanksgiving, I gave thanks. I gave the thanks of a cyclist, the thanks of a child, who knows he is about to be punished. I’m so thankful for all that I’ve been given…and while I’m at it…I’m really sorry too for a whole bunch of stuff and whatever…amen. On the north western horizon of the metro area stands a wall of seriously heavy dark clouds. The blizzard, arriving as promised to the northern and central front range. By nightfall our temperature may be 6 degrees. The winds might be blowing at 30mph. It also might be snowing…or raining frogs…or both, who knows? All I know is that I’ll be on a bike headed westbound at about 4:30pm…preparing to be spanked.