Control

Last night as I sat in the taxi, anxiously watching the meter and the GPS, my driver turned down the air.  It was an act of control.  I remember long late-night drives home to Lexington from Chicago, through endless Illinois and Indiana farmland, turning the radio dial from one country station to another in my '92 sky-blue Chrysler LeBaron.  It had been my grandmother's and after me it became my brother's.  A great car.

I haven't driven a car in probably over a year.  I can't remember the last time, actually.  I've been in cars, but I haven't had that feeling of control–foot on the gas, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the temperature or the tunes.  The world is speaking of driverless cars, these days.  What will it be like, to give up that control?

During my time in Thailand, I didn't even have control of a bike.  I learned control of scuba gear (well, sort of), but today I enjoyed, once again, the feeling of guiding two wheels beneath me, my version of a car, my trusty steed.

What to do with it?  On my way to HPAC, I chose to sit at one of my favorite red lights.  It's one of those timing things- I can't quite make it from one light to another.  So every time, I sit there.  I know that I could run it–the intersection is usually empty and all the other bikers run it in order to get a head start on the bridge before the cars–but I really like sitting there.

So in lieu of turning down the volume, I've learned a new appreciation of sitting at red lights and waiting at empty crosswalks.  For some reason it seems like a privilege to do so.