the light grey sky is close, seems that if i reach straight up, i could brush my fingertips against its cool smoothness. in the high 30s, the temps are 10-12 degrees below my preference, but the wind is soft. i've forgone sunglasses in favour of allowing my overworked eyeballs the brisk refreshment of fresh air. they thank me by tearing up.
congratulating myself on having remembered both hat and mittens, i set off. three-quarters into the first mile of three, i ponder why tights are called such, as mine drift off my waist and puddle behind my knees. my as-yet-unacclimated sweat glands elect not to participate.
rounding the corner at the painfully new party pub (which has been specifically designed to look like an established party pub, bathed in false antiquing of the sort bottled and sold in hobby shops), i head up the hill.
the air gradually fills with the scent of roasting pumpkin and, traversing the sidewalk outside the brewery, i envision burly brewers tainting a pure golden ale with squashy spice.
further on, construction workers taking lunch in the refuge of their trucks watch me through rolled-up windows. it's like they're watching me on television, except that i am watching back. i negotiate a small obstacle course - a surveyor's tool on a tripod, an empty tripod, a tall orange cone.
topping the hill at mile 1.5, i tip down the alley to loop the block and make the return trip, revisiting each sight from the reverse, and from the other side of the road.
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