PERSPIRATION trickles and, subconsciously, I lick a salty lip as I await the elevator in my urban building, mountain bike in tow. Why a mountain bike in the center of urbanity, you ask? I ask, "Have you seen, experienced, or stupidly dropped into a pothole abyss lately?"

That's why.

The ride was a delight workout in 90's temperature. I am out a little late today so I have ridden into the heat, as they say. Instead of just ahead of it. I stop to chat with a jogger friend moving in the opposite direction promising to send him a reliable remedy to high blood pressure. Signs tell us that Charles Street is closed, a fact that brings smiles to walkers and bikers, and scowls to auto howlers. Grumpy, grumpy.

This 1822 Boston Garden Park is a jewel in an otherwise skewed crown of the city. As I leap off my seat inside the gate, I note a Park Ranger who heard my gears before he saw me and reminded me there was no bike riding in the Gardens. "That's why I got off my bike," I utter. Not only is this the first time in a year I've seen a ranger in the Gardens, but I will put big money on the fact that every other biker but me rides through the Garden. Note the 27 August 00 commentator. So now we are cruising down old Charles Street having noted the usual walker couples, baby carriage-pushers (dads-only included), tourists, elders, twenty-somethings and techies.

At Savenors I am once again loving the exotic fare. The thrill of the vegetarian stalker is to note the fresh duck and quail eggs, ostrich fillets, wild boar loin, fresh native pheasant (also inside raviolis), Cajun boneless alligator tail meat, whole wild blue hare, bear loin chops, and marinated quail breasts. That's haute exotica. Prêt-à-porter delicacies include zebra steak, veal brains, venison rack, kangaroo patties, rib eye musk ox steak, squab, duck, and game hen. Baseline steaks, chops, chicken, pork, and beef are anticlimactic. Like appearing after Cher on stage, or James Brown or Carlos Santana.

Peddling back to the Garden I am pit-stopping at Rebecca's, then DeLuca's for coffee-cum-Times glad to have remembered my sunblock. In the Garden, there is a dachshund walking a one-year old, a seven-year-old male screamer trying to put the fear of God into the poor ducks, and (aha!) my personal bench is free! I sit enjoying the moment since I usually have to hover nearby waiting for illegal benchers to leave MY bench. The Times, the coffee, the apple pastry. I am at peace.

The City of Boston was founded in 1630. It took them until 1822 to build this urban anachronism of serenity. What were they doing for parks meanwhile? Under the Meta Sequoia (Dawn Redwood), are languishing lovers and feasting families. If you can't get there it's the next best thing to the beach.

© 2001 Robin M. Chandler

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