Early Fall Dawn

Was thinking this morning as I was heading out how lucky I am to have the morning commute that I have.

I wish I could adequately describe it. Let's start with, take a moment to walk out on the front deck.

Dead calm, low tide, pink and grey sunrise over the back side of Bainbridge Island. Southeast, God's morning message catches the east flanks of Mt. Rainier, glacier peaks glistening in the dawn.

On the water, wingtip whorls from two mergansers water-skimming; you can hear the synchronized wingbeats from two hundred yards until they pass by heading up Rich Passage.

My morning seagull sits on the rocks on the point, watching, no squawking, no noise, just an alert eye turned cautiously my direction. Low from the bay to the south a great blue heron swoops over the point, hovers for a moment, then steps down lightly on the rocks where the sea-otters play. Noticing me he gives his dinosaur screech and heads up Rich Passage too, following the mergansers by a minute.

In the garden, there's quiet stirring; leaves, moist from the dew, stretch toward the warmth; blossoms, hidden overnight begin to greet the day. Tomato plants thirst for sunlight, and strawberries drink dew until lunchtime looms.

But I'm off the deck, and it's been my morning sixty-second refresher. Need to get up ten minutes earlier, but for some reason I don't.

Up to the carport, fire up the motorcycle. Bending to strap on the chaps I catch a glimpse of my neighbor the morning runner. Absolutely buff, absolutely dedicated, absolutely ignoring me for the first two years I've lived here, I've now gotten to the pleasant "good morning' greeting. Slow progress indeed. I love running shorts.

On the bike, slowly into gear, slow on the throttle, for after all I live here, and it won't do to wake anybody if I can help it, though I'm told by another neighbor that even at my quietest he knows when I'm outbound to the ferry for work.

Heading up the hill into the forest land, catching the running neighbor, a wave, a glance in the rear-view mirror, a smile on my face. Around the corner and out of sight, now to the top of the hill and it's the pasture. One cow, two horses, one white, so I do the lucky-fingertip-lick-palm-touch-fist-in-palm gesture I've been doing since I was a child whenever I see a white horse. Hello Mom, long dead. Hello Dad, long dead, wish you were here with me this fine morning. Hope you're happy wherever you are. Thanks for giving me life.

Around the corner by the mailboxes, no dogs up this early to bark their way down the fenceline as they will on my trip home. Reach to the handlebars, grab my coffee mug, slurp quickly while avoiding the bump in the road that's spilled it on me more than once....and down to the first stop sign, by the farmhouse where my firewood for next winter sits piled, waiting for me to pick it up. Chickens are scratching near the barn, and the pigs are snuffling in their pen.

Nobody coming along Beach Drive, as usual, so I pull out, turning left, and accelerate hard through the first two turns, feeling the bike come alive, smashing the choke full forward; she's warm now, and ready to go, and the tires are softening as they should.

On the straight, there's farms, more pasture, more horses, and low fog. Today's the first day of the morning fog; a sure sign that fall's here, that my summer fun is fore-shortened, that I'd best make the best of what's left. Six Canada geese in formation flank me for a few moments up-sun, and I know for certain that fall's arriving. No honking boys, it's early still.

I look for the African camel, and the Asian camel. One hump one, and two humps the second, though I'm not sure which is which, only that they live near my home, content in the Pacific Northwest, and a long way from their desert homes. They share pasture with another white horse; a brief thought for my family long gone, and into the heavy braking for the next set of curves. I'm feeling for the line.

The line's important. If I miss the line, if I'm thinking about work, then it's hard onto the brakes to survive the corner. If I'm in the flow, then no brakes required, using every part of the allotted lane, but never touching the yellow double lines that define where unexpected death lurks. A glance at the rounded back-out-mirror on the high tree on the outside of the corner tells me I'm safe if I did make the double-yellow mistake, but not today. Today I'm flowing, and the line leads me on.

Past the first farm I stopped at the day I found my home. There's an old truck, and a Volvo. I forgive them the Volvo, because they have the truck, and because they were kind to me, welcoming me to Kitsap that first day. Across the road wood-smoke drifts from the chimney, and the massive flat-panel TV is on, the same as it is every morning at this time. Another set of curves coming up quickly, these ones always with gravel from the intersecting road. And later in the fall, black ice from Beaver Creek will get my attention in a hurry if I'm not paying it.

Into the chain-link fuel-depot high-speed quarter-mile curves; the Navy ships will drink well this day, for there's a tanker moored to the docks, waiting to head to sea with the aircraft carrier and nuclear submarine at the base behind me; but that's another morning this fall. The gate guards must hear me coming, must be vaguely amused, but I can't glance to see, because the hard left over the rise hides danger, and maximum alertness is required to hold the line; downshift to fourth, then to third, hard over left, hard over right, heavy acceleration and we're past the muskrat pond, past the sewage treatment plant, and heading into a two stop-sign town. Dogleg left and then right past the two taverns, the barber, the tax-man, the post office, the boat launch. There, over the water, is the Seattle skyline, the Space Needle pointing into the morning fog; grey, purple and blue Cascades in the background beckoning me to work.

Heavy acceleration up the long hill, hugging the double yellows to give me that last second warning of the guys pulling out of their driveways, down to the Mile Hill intersection, with the sand-cliff that hides the oncoming traffic if you choose to run the stop-sign, which I have only done once, and almost died as a penalty....

Glance right, quick left, downhill fast, through the cathedral grove, deep hanging gloom pierced by bounced-yellow rays from the water on the left, heavy downshift and into the left hand corner at 75, over the wooden bridge with a wry thought for the railing, glance at the boat hull mired in the muck upstream, the abandoned storefront, the church with new landscaping, now to the tide-flats, smelling them before I see them, knowing they're going to have high-school kids wakeboarding late in the afternoon when I'm chasing the rest of the motorcycles off the ferry heading home.

But now, nobody, a jogger, a dog-walker, no cars, no school buses, no transit bus. Downshift at another post office for the Harper Pier corner, the cigarettes-are-welcome-here restaurant with the fading for-sale sign, heavy acceleration into the four curves past the baseball field, one last left, and into the roller-coaster hills on the straight to the ferry. Horses stamp in the fog. Cars and bikes in front of me pop up and down like an Ikea Volkswagen ad.

A stop sign, a corner store with fried-chicken and bananas, one last post office, and it's swipe my pass at the ticket window, a quick g'mornin greeting to the ferry worker, a high five to the second ferry worker, and into the lineup of fifty motorcycles who have preferential treatment to board the ferry. Engines silently ticking, we wait the loader's signal to fire up and move-em-out.

It's 5:55 a.m. and my day is launched, and we haven't even gotten to the boat ride yet.

God I love where I live. Thank you.