How Pheasant
As spring asserts itself here in Northfield, the differences between the city and the country (or at least the small town) are emerging very starkly. I feel a bit stupid for having assumed, "Well, it's a college town in Minnesota - how different can it be?" The answer is, "Very." Rollerskiiing around the "neighborhood" has brought this home with special clarity.
For the past few years, I did all my rollerskiiing on the Minnehaha Creek path in Minneapolis. To do so, I had to pack all my equipment in the car and drive down to the path - not a terrible burden, but fifteen minutes wasted. The path itself was mostly flat and straight and often pretty (especially going around Lake Harriet), but I had to share the narrow two lanes with slow bikers, inattentive walkers and runners, meandering dogs, and the occasional waterfowl. In short, the density of pedestrian traffic made it more nerve-rattling than a workout needs to be. And then there were always the hecklers. Not loved, those hecklers. Not brave, either, as they shouted, "Where's the snow?" from their speeding SUVs. Covering your fresh grave, jerk.
In Northfield, though, it's the opposite in almost every way. I've only encountered two other people doing workouts - both bikers. The route is a rectangle, but it demands a few challenging climbs and some quick downhills. Rather than beautiful parkway houses or stands of trees along the creek, now I see little except rolling farm fields and lonely-looking but massive farmhouses (and one giant wind turbine). The sky is always towering with massive banks of clouds. The dominant smell - at least at this time of year - is of, shallwesay, local-source organic fertilizer, recently applied to the fields. Apart from the dopplering roar of passing cars and trucks, the characteristic sounds are the panicky gurgle of turkeys in their long, low farm sheds and, far better, the bark-squawk of pheasants lurking in the fields. This is an odd and otherworldly sound, but not an unpleasant one - even when, next thing, an actual pheasant pops out of a ditch and scuttles across the asphalt in front of me. And I'm only ever scrutinized by cows, sheep, and horses, none of whom see fit to comment on my exertions.
For the past few years, I did all my rollerskiiing on the Minnehaha Creek path in Minneapolis. To do so, I had to pack all my equipment in the car and drive down to the path - not a terrible burden, but fifteen minutes wasted. The path itself was mostly flat and straight and often pretty (especially going around Lake Harriet), but I had to share the narrow two lanes with slow bikers, inattentive walkers and runners, meandering dogs, and the occasional waterfowl. In short, the density of pedestrian traffic made it more nerve-rattling than a workout needs to be. And then there were always the hecklers. Not loved, those hecklers. Not brave, either, as they shouted, "Where's the snow?" from their speeding SUVs. Covering your fresh grave, jerk.
In Northfield, though, it's the opposite in almost every way. I've only encountered two other people doing workouts - both bikers. The route is a rectangle, but it demands a few challenging climbs and some quick downhills. Rather than beautiful parkway houses or stands of trees along the creek, now I see little except rolling farm fields and lonely-looking but massive farmhouses (and one giant wind turbine). The sky is always towering with massive banks of clouds. The dominant smell - at least at this time of year - is of, shallwesay, local-source organic fertilizer, recently applied to the fields. Apart from the dopplering roar of passing cars and trucks, the characteristic sounds are the panicky gurgle of turkeys in their long, low farm sheds and, far better, the bark-squawk of pheasants lurking in the fields. This is an odd and otherworldly sound, but not an unpleasant one - even when, next thing, an actual pheasant pops out of a ditch and scuttles across the asphalt in front of me. And I'm only ever scrutinized by cows, sheep, and horses, none of whom see fit to comment on my exertions.
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