Of Hidden Beauty

Progress comes incrementally. Wednesday morning, I thought my legs would fail less than a mile from my house. Today, I greeted the same momentary weakening as a sort of bodily stretch and yawn. Today I approached Penn more aggressively, wondering how much speed I could manage without using the brake. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I now am comfortable at a much higher speed than I previously have been. And my comfort revealed other beneftis: the ability to look around.

At the bottom of Penn Avenue, as it bends left for its transit into the Strip District, for a change I was neither eyeing nervously the light, monitoring closely the behavior of my legs, nor worrying overmuch about the cars in front of, beside, and approaching behind me.

And for this I was blessed with an upward glance, which revealed a perspective on the downtown skyline I've somehow managed to miss. It resembles other views I've had from nearby location, but with something so majestic each new point of view, however subtly different from the others, is a revelation. It took my breath away, towers of granite and glass and steel reaching skyward in the slight morning haze, rising up behind the tree-covered hill district to the left, and reigning over the low brownstones and warehouses of the Strip, buildings old and new, patient, waiting for me.

The weather has improved, it's getting warmer, but this morning my banana was still browned from the chill of the ride in. That sounded awful. But I'm really talking about a banana.