The smoke blocked out the sun almost entirely. It was night all day long.
You never really want to think about what it means for your world to change irrevocably. You never want to admit that this moment is never going to repeat again, that things will never be as good again.
SMOKE BY JOSHUA FOUST 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 71
I had to stop riding my bike into work. It was one of the few pleasures in my life: riding down the hill, around the curve of the park, along the slot canyon of the dry creek bed, and then up through the office spires to my office. This ride each morning and in reverse each night was my release. I craved the sweat, the hard breathing, the gentle burn in my legs, the focus that came from pushing my body toward a singular goal, even if that goal was just getting into work.
It was just a quick little bike ride, 25 minutes, 10 miles. Barely enough time to listen to a podcast.
But the ride had meaning for me—it was time away from social media, from the office, from the house. It was time I could retreat into my own head and just be.