THE ENIGMA OF THE WHEELIES

So this morning, because there was a bunch of heavy logs blocking the way I habitually take when staidly edging my motorcycle out to the conventional northside road, I had to remove the chain from the gate to the narrow bamboo-lined southside road, then for no discernible reason I what-the-hell zoomed out beneath the big oak, zipped past the garden, roary-jounced down the jaggedy bumpy stone steps, leaped the culvert at the bottom like stunt man, did a damn right! couple of rubber-burning whirly spins just for the hell of it then lay some more rubber in a long wheely nearly all the way down through the bamboo tunnel to the other road that leads back to the conventional northside road, where I was soon back in the quiet rut of the normal world's way down the mountain to the ho-hum train, looking as staid, unwheelied and nonrubber-laying as I generally do, and no one suspected, not one had a clue, excepting the crow that had been shocked by my actions at that hour of his day, and cawed from his overhead perch all the while at the what the hell I was doing, and the usually quiet dog across the way, who had never before had the chance to bark at a motorcycle bouncing down stone steps like in the movies, to say nothing of all the roaring and the superbly executed wheelies. At the office, those events were on another planet.

The days lead on, do they not. Especially the mornings...