Ding, Ding in the Dark

 Whoever it was had a bell, beyond that I couldn't tell you. Difficult to discern the standard head nod in passing, and the slight movement of a hand as greeting is not much better from the dark sides of the street, so the bell, I thought, was a brilliant idea. I see you over there fellow rider, ding, ding. It was different, a rarity, now a month and a half into this winter season. 

I gotta tell ya, the evening ride this year is about the loneliest riding I've ever done. I've always done plenty of solo riding - a good 80% lately, by my guess (though lower in the past), and on winter evenings that percentage has long been near one-hundred. That goes all the way back to when I would circle the Rose Bowl for four or five dark, cold months, just waiting for the group to come back out and play. I don't know that I ever felt a sense of loneliness during those times.

But this is different; there has been no one else on bikes (other than last nights bell-ringer) - part of it, naturally, is due to the Covid response of the Claremont Colleges - no students, few professors, and few staff. That part is unique to this year; couple it with the more typical seasonal drop in both light and temps, and the result is there just are not that many people out. Those who are out I rarely see, maybe a shadow form along a dark street, a shuffling of feet, or muted talk.

The other night I was heading up one such street when off to my left came a clinking, clattering sound as if someone were pulling a wagon full of scrap metal along a bumpy sidewalk. I never turned directly to the sound, but peripherally, there was nothing but darkness. I have come to appreciate the times some person, or couple out walking, pass within the glow of a street light, or find themselves silhouetted against a colorful display of Christmas lights. And should coyote purposely wander across the dark road up ahead, well, that is nearly cause for celebration.

And right on schedule, there he is, making his evening rounds. I am pretty sure he follows a regular course through this neighborhood. I see him each week, sometimes both nights, and roughly the same place - right around Grand, between Miramar and Alamosa. He doesn't talk to me anymore, not even anything small; I don't know why. He sees me coming up the road, but before my headlight has a chance to light up that grin he angles off the road and slips into the dark.