Everything you do could be something else.
A day at work is a century ride.
Writing a poem is fixing a flat tire. Improving that poem is fixing two flat tires in the rain, cursing your misfortune, and worrying about the quality of at least one of the patches all the way home.
A bottle of wine, maybe five miles on a flat road. (As with many things, it depends on your speed.)
Feeding the birds is little more than coasting toward, climbing and cresting the bridge over the Santa Fe double-track line.
A marathon session with The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is riding from Peoria, Illinois, to Columbia, Missouri, crossing the Mississippi River at Hannibal.
This essay is a slow climb up Blue Ridge Road.
Without getting passed by a truck with a hypothetical exhaust system.
On a sunny day in spring, new leaves exploring their potential, legs fresh, drivetrain silent, water bottle full, worries absent.
In other words, a pretty good start to the day.
What will you choose to do now?