I am listening to Dorothy Moore on the car radio sing "Misty Blue" on the way to the blue lake. If suns were like wines this one would be of finest vintage, held in winter's interminable cask but now cracked open and spilt into the goblet of a Sunday.
I settle down on a bench and read a Louis L'Amour novel, the words as crystalline as the setting, but soon I walk down towards the translucent water as if involuntarily. I think if I were designing a lake it'd be a lot like this one, full of inlets and coves, nooks and crannies.
I hike beyond the park limit down a nearby road, almost get attacked by unleashed dogs, cross a bridge and come to another lake, a jeweled beauty with an island in the center that screams "heave ho, land the canoe and claim the isle for America!" "...One small step for man," I'd say, after breaking out the lunch meat & beer.
The lakes, fifteen minutes from my house, taste like travel. From the trail's rim I can see the parking lot and the gleaming cars arriving and departing, as audibly impotent as '70s Matchboxes and hence for that reason an enjoyable sight. Off to the right there are happy cries of dogs along the canine beach, black labs frolicking with the swift changes of direction so natural to the young. Two black men stand like sentries, fishing at separate inlets, reminding me of the iconically bucolic scene of the Haitian fisherman in the distance as our cruise ship sailed away.
I want to slip into that glove of water and glide. Instead I run - I realize now why I always lose weight in the summer: my metabolism gets a boost. Instead of reading long from the virtual trail in "Westward the Tide", a real-life trail calls me to an unscheduled run.
Greedily I carry my suddenly weightless burden of excess fat over hill and dale, under sunshine and shadow. I haven't quite gotten over the James Fixxian trust in the elixir of exercise despite seeing first hand how little it's doing for our 11-year old dog. Not to mention what happened to Fixx.
The car tastes like travel too, what with the satellite radio and its strange and wondrous offerings like blues song "You Gotta Move" by Cassandra Wilson. Not unwelcome too is this indoor/outdoor aspect, the sun-roof well-named for the burst of sun through the previously opaque ceiling.