FRIDAY 6:30am

The spastic wind that swam through the bridge’s golden suspension cables shook any remaining sleep out of my head. Fully awake and energetic I howled at the city, snuggled in a cozy blanket of fog across the bay. Cool air entered my lungs and cleared them of bus dust. My voice became loud and powerful, and, possessed by some great spirit of the sea, I started reciting poetry at the waves swooshing below. They lured me closer and closer into their hypnotic swirls until I was nearly falling off the edge. Crazy John’s Stetson too was magnetized by the turmoil below and hopped off my head to sink into the ocean foam. My hand caught the hat just in time.

Up ahead there was a biker checking his tire for air. I cautiously approached him to ask if the trail would take me all the way to Corte Madera.

“It sure will,” he said, “You’ll pass Sauselito and a couple of other little towns on the way. But that’s an entire morning ride for me. I can’t imagine how long it would take on foot.”

I smiled and pushed my little hiking boots forward, carefully passing the mountain where the Dead take their photos. The journey was right on course.