I see you there. You with your red shoes and your pigeon-toed style. I like your red shoes. They were the first thing I noticed about you. We pass each other at 8:20 in the morning on the bike path. I wonder if you notice it's me there, every morning, on that same stretch by the bend.
And you too. Both of you. Older men in your workmen's overalls and the dog you take for a walk. After three years, we now smile and wave as we pass one another on the path by the river. I have often made stories up about you: you are mafia stooges, out to collect secret stashes of drugs from the drop point along the path; you are brothers with warring wives and you sneak out under the pretense of walking the dog to meet up and chat with one another; you tell your wives you are at work but you lost your jobs years ago and now you walk dogs for cash. All these and more. Sometimes there is only one of you on the path and I wonder whether you are sad or lonely, with your routine interrupted.
And you, tall man. With your saddle up higher than my head.
And you, with the calf muscles of iron. You overtake me with ease, though your bike is made from rust and strange squeaks.
And you, woman-with-panniers. You pedal along serenely at a modest pace, unmoved by the speed with which the lycra-clad whip past you.
I see you all, every morning. I wonder what you see.