Five years ago today I geared up to ride to work on a chilly morning, yanked the commuter off the workstand and set it on the garage floor only to hear rim and flat rubber bang into concrete. I pulled off my jacket and gloves to avoid overheating as I fixed the flat and re-inflated the tire.
I popped the rear wheel back on the bike, put my outer layers back on and grumbled about my crappy luck putting me a few minutes behind schedule.
Then my wife stepped into the garage and said, "Something's happened in New York. I'm not sure what—some kind of attack. It's all over the radio. I'm turning on CNN. I thought you might want to come back in."
I went in to check the news, thinking I'd see what was up and then hop on the bike. Of course, it didn't work out that way. An hour or so later, I drove to work marveling at an Anchorage sky without a plane in it. The Anchorage sky is always filled with planes. But not that day: no 747s hauling cargo to Asia, no floatplanes heading south to the Kenai Peninsula, nothing.
I'm on vacation this week, so I'm going for a trail ride today. And, for once, I'll make a point of enjoying the sound of jets interrupting the silence of the woods.