I was dreading it. Coming home, to Westport Connecticut, my hometown for more than fifty years. But the act was inevitable, like a pigeon or having return instructions implanted on a chip inside my mind.
I am still in quarantine, for more than a week, but showing no symptoms of infection by the bat virus.
On May 15th, 2020, I ventured out, not exactly sure where I was going, on my bicycle. I had just spent two months on complete lockdown. And before that, I had spent the two winter months of January and February at a secret mountain location writing my 4th novel, the first draft called, In Ten Years, where I go about predicting the future of our society. The operative point is that I spent the winter alone. So, that by May 15th I had been technically on lockdown for more than four months, and, at this point, I was thoroughly ready to venture out into the void that is the outside world. That the world might not yet be ready for me was not a concern, only that I get out there — west.
My bicycle was previously outfitted, by myself, for an around-the-world journey, that had never launched, because of my return to college, in my fifties, which is the subject of a different non-fiction expose. However, the theme is the same, getting old but refusing to act like it.
So there I was, peddling. My very first hill was Weston Road. I began to sweat right away. Cycling is a sexy sport but quite gross in its many aspects. My breathing was laborious. I realized right then the full extent to which I was out of shape. With all my gear weighing me down, I had to hop off and push the bike up the hill.