There's a stretch of highway in my mind that speaks of life's possibilities, the freedom of the open road, the wanderlust that eats at every man's heart, the potential of things seen and unseen. There are no billboards there, the road is empty, I pull my car to the side of the road and look along this endless stretch of imaginary highway and feel that anything is possible, that I stand in some warm place beyond time, that every detail has infinite beauty and importance.
And then there's the stretch of highway along the Town Lake hike and bike trail. Interstate 35, to be exact. Sure, there's plenty of potential there, but perhaps just to get run over and flattened by an endless swarm of cars, or perhaps to trip and fall over a pile of garbage.
Michael and I ran down there this morning, across the bridge adjacent to I-35. Quite a nice view of the lake from the bridge, actually.
But I return to my original thought. I-35 is foul in its own way, tis true, but the road leads both north and south all the way out of the country. The possibility of foreign soil, new situations, unknown tongues, strange faces; it's almost enough to run and keep running, all alongside the highway, disregarding the traffic onslaught and keeping the mind moored to thoughts of adventures in far-off lands. Of course, a run to Canada might take awhile. Perhaps by month three, the enthusiasm would begin to wane a bit, perhaps somewhere around MInneapolis. Then I suppose I could just hitch a ride with a pickup truck and run in place in the back bed, and be magically transported.
Ah, the open road.