Elvis Lives

I took Black Rock Turnpike to Redding Road to Hulls Farm Road to Westport. It was a great ride. There’s the Easton Reservoir (which I learned is in fact called Hemlock Reservoir and that Easton actually has two reservoirs – the other is actually the Easton Reservoir, but everyone calls Hemlock the Easton Reservoir anyways) on Black Rock Turnpike. It was a little distracting because I kept looking out at the water and forgetting that I had a road and cars to pay attention to. One stretch of road is actually right on the water and it feels like biking on water. Of course, the rain only added to the effect.

Redding Road and Hulls Farm Road is filled with the kind of houses people dream about. Myself included. Large houses set back from the road with gorgeous gardens complete with horses. I rode past a horse grazing in a field speckled with yellow buttercups and it looked more like a painting than real life. It was a relatively empty long stretch of road, which is always nice because I can shout and talk to myself and make weird noises (a habit I picked up from my brother) without caring if someone heard me. The few cars that did come along were always something like a Maserati or a Lexus, but my absolute favorite was the old van painted with peace signs and “Elvis Lives” on the back with big, enthusiastic yellow spray paint.

At first, I was a little bummed by the rain, but in the end it made the ride that much more enjoyable. The road was void of any other cyclists (I think I passed one) or dog walkers or whatever. Not to mention I felt really hard-core with my new raincoat. Sometimes I felt like I was in a Nike commercial. And the rain here is not like the rain in New York. In the words of Halpin, “New York rain water is like stomach acid falling from the sky.” It’s pretty disgusting and as soon as you get indoors you just feel grimy and the only thing you want to do is shower. But here, the rain feels like a shower. After my two-hour ride, I felt as clean as when I started. Of course, I did shower anyways so not to worry.

Other times, Forrest Gump’s voice would pop into my head. I don’t know how, it just sort of did. I thought about his cross-country run and my cross-country bike ride. And I thought about all the fascinating and wonderful things he saw and how happy he was to tell Jenny about it. And, I suppose, since I have no male equivalent of Jenny to tell my cross-country story to, I am writing this for whoever is willing to listen.

Or read, I guess.