On weekday mornings, most of my fellow New Yorkers descend into the belly of the subway system, where they ride crushed between strangers, to be spit up into the street at their destination.  I unfold Maggie and bike a few blocks to Riverside Park, then hop onto the Hudson River Bike Path. Five miles later, I leave the path at Canal St. and travel a few more blocks to my office.

Along the way, instead of gazing at the human-sized backpack of the subway rider pressed against me, I get to look at this.

And this.

And, on the way home, this.

Squirrels talk to me. I hope this little guy wasn’t saying, “Why did you call me over if you weren’t going to feed me?”

Plus, I can sing out loud if I want. (Try that on the downtown 1 train.) My internal sound track is generated by a part of my brain to which I do not have conscious access; its choices often mystify me. This morning: A Feather’s Not a Bird (from Rosanne Cash’s brilliant new album), Judy Blue Eyes (vintage Crosby, Stills & Nash), and the theme song from The Flintstones.

I arrive at the office alert (gotta focus when you’re cycling), energized and cheerful, even if it’s cold and rainy. This morning was both, but it feels like early spring instead of late fall. Jonquils are blooming along the bike path, and soon there will be lilacs and linden blossoms to sniff as I speed past.

Today’s bike path census: two Bromptons, one red (the rider gave me a thumbs up), one sky blue; one police officer on a horse