Life as an empty-nester who recently moved “down the hill” is its own odd adventure. These days I find myself flustered by the demands of my dogs in much the same way I once was by my children, though at least the dogs don’t talk back. That’s the bonus. Still, I know their needs, and the guilt creeps in just the same—the canine version of mama guilt when I crave space or dare to come home later than expected. But I’ve learned a thing or two—hence my evening rides.
By the time I roll my bike out of the garage, suburbia is already tucking itself in. The grills are off, the basketballs have rolled into flowerbeds, and I’m sure somewhere a mother is arguing with her obstinate child who won’t take a bath. Inside my house, my three dogs, Miles, Woodrow and Luna, are pressed to the window like inmates watching someone else get parole. Normally, I’m the one being yanked down the sidewalk in three directions at once, my pockets bulging with poop bags like some deranged fanny pack. But tonight? I left them behind. Tonight, I’m taking myself for a walk.
“I’m in my own heaven.”
I feel strangely naughty, almost like this is an illicit act. I pedal down the street, half expecting a neighbor to step out and ask, “Where are the dogs? Did you forget them?” No, I’ve simply chosen to exercise me this evening, unaccompanied by creatures who believe every patch of grass is a sacred relic and that bunnies are enemy combatants. And worse yet—recently, my pups have decided to be little shits toward other dogs on leashes coming toward us. Their chests all puffed up and lunging to kill. I cannot tell you how embarrassed I feel as I awkwardly apologize. “I’m so sorry. They really are kind dogs.” The reciprocated death look that follows is my favorite. But I digress.
The neighborhood is putting on its closing act this evening. TVs flicker blue behind blinds, a Golden Retriever lets out a lazy bark, realizes I’m not worth the energy, and collapses back into retirement. Sprinklers sputter to life in precise choreography as I debate riding through them. The air has that perfect evening balance… warm enough to ride in a t-shirt, but cool enough that each downhill stretch feels like someone waving a giant fan in my face. My tires hum smoothly on the pavement and, for a few blissful blocks, it feels like the whole world belongs only to me.
The freedom of being alone without the four-legged (adorable) tyrants is intoxicating.
Street lamps spill little halos of orange—polite spotlights for anyone inspired to perform a monologue. Between them, the dark stretches out like velvet, indulgent and quiet. I loop around cul-de-sacs just for the thrill of it, coasting wide turns like a child on a summer afternoon. Sometimes standing, sometimes without hands. A breeze drifts through the neighborhood carrying the scent of lilacs and freshly cut grass. I’m in my own heaven.
The light on my bike guides me safely home as the cricket chirps and frog trills welcome the dark. By the time I coast back into the driveway, suburbia is officially asleep. The garages are sealed and the final porch light has clicked on like a night watchman clocking in. Inside my home, I can already imagine the scene: Miles glaring at me after having marked half the house in protest, Woodrow pretending he doesn’t care but sighing loudly, and Luna quietly plotting to puke somewhere odd later in the evening….
They’ll never understand the joy of a walk that doesn’t involve their bathroom schedule. But tonight, I got away with it. Tonight, suburbia and I shared a quiet, ridiculous secret: Sometimes the best “walk” is the one where you leave the dogs behind and pedal straight into the stillness of a neighborhood putting itself to bed.
