I rode into downtown today in the early morning fog. It was pretty cold, with the wind I stirred up as I pedaled downhill trying to cut through my clothes. Good morning for a heavy coat, scarf and long johns. The fog hung in the air like gray silt, translucent yet giving the same city as yesterday a new dimension. Riding into the fog felt like riding into a wall of blankets, but which gave no resistance as I battered it. On my cheeks was that same chilly sting of cold air, so bracing and energizing in the winter. As I passed over the Broadway bridge the reflection of the grain merchants building in the river was just obscured enough to look like a phantom level under the water. The sky above was the slightest tint of blue in the slowly dawning light, presaging another brilliantly sunny day.

By the time I had come out of my appointment in a windowless room, the sun was up, the fog was gone. But I remembered my ride and cherished the fog all the more for its fragile nature.

Going by car wouldn’t have been the same.