I commute by bicycle as often as I can, 8 miles each way to and from my office, and mostly along Lake Washington.

Many days, I do battle with the physical properties of water vapor on both near and far-off fronts. Nearby, very nearby, the Seattle mist stings my eyes and makes it tough to see. But were it not for the droplets immediately before me, I’d be essentially blind still. Much further away, low-lying, ashen clouds obscure a rocky, mountainous panorama that I know is there, invisible behind the grey curtain. I try to wipe away the moisture quickly enough to spot a nasty pothole that will ineluctably jar me awake – more awake, thankfully, than the cranky driver mainlining a caramel macchiato and poised to sideswipe his two-wheeled companions on Lk Washington Blvd.


But for all the aggravation, anxiety and damp, there are clear mornings when the Cascade mountains glow snow-capped in the East across the lake. I can see, as well, Mt. Baker to the North, hovering unassumingly over the lake like an oversized white mocha chocolate chip, replete with broken chunk bitten away. The cool, dry air of a sun-drenched day chills my whole body when I first set out, but the repeated pumping of the pedals moves my warm blood about and I soon find myself in a joyous sweat , utterly refreshed.


Headed south, on the way home, in apparent defiance of Mt. Baker’s small-scale morning performance, Mt. Rainier monstrously overwhelms the lake at its southern end, in sunset shades of pink, orange , purple and white. It seems to extend a massive volcanic arm and, in a bullying gesture, tap me in the chest, as if to say, "Who the hell do you think you are?" To which I can only reply, "Me? I'm just a humble stone cutter, on my evening commute." Heh, heh. I arrive home in breathless, blissful humility.