I love what you pick up on when you ride. 

There is so much to take in. 

There are endless new things. 

But there are also things you see often. 

People. 

Things. 

I like to ride at a certain time of day. 

I try to get out between one and two. 

Get home around six. 

There are ‘afternoon’ people. 

People who are not riding. 

People who are walking their dogs. 

Out for a run. 

Pushing a carriage. 

Reading a book on a bench. 

‘Oh, there is the woman that runs with a bandanna.’ 

‘There is the guy with the cute little dog.’ 

‘There is the lady walking and talking on her phone.’ 

This kind of thing goes through my head when I see them. 

Nothing more than that. 

I can tell if I am later or earlier by where I see them. 

I ride without my phone. 

There are little ways I can tell the time. 

If I want a rough estimate, I go by how far shadows of things extend onto the road. 

If there is a fence or guard rail, I like to the ride the shadow line it creates. 

If it is close to the fence, I am earlier. 

If I am further out on the path, I am later. 

I do have one way to know the exact time. 

Pretty well to the minute. 

It is kind of cool. 

She has no idea. 

She? 

A woman in her thirties. 

She walks home from work every day. 

She dresses beautifully. 

For sure, she finishes at five. 

The reason I know she walks home every day is because I see her on the bike path of ‘The Champlain Bridge.’ 

The Champlain Bridge crosses the St. Lawrence River. 

It is 3.4 kilometres long. 

Once you get on, you are committed. 

Few, if any, walk it. 

I must give her credit. 

She walks across the bridge every day. 

She walks across the bridge when I am heading home. 

She is walking one way, and I am riding the other. 

When I am heading home, I can figure out the exact time by where I see her on the bridge. 

It takes about an hour to walk across it. 

Close to the beginning, 5:10. 

Halfway across, 5:30. 

I am never off, because she is never off. 

It is almost as if the bridge is a clock face, and she is the minute hand. 

And a stunning minute hand. 

It is about a ten-minute ride from the bridge to my house. 

I walk in the door, and I know exactly what time it is. 

But I like to kind of give myself a ‘high five.’ 

‘Hey GOOGLE, what time is it?’ 

‘5:59,’ she responds. 

Off by a minute. 

‘The Woman on the Bridge’ 

Insert sundial emoji here. 

‘There is another way to ride.’ 

Update: She is on a holiday this week.