Passed Winter Solstice

We’re on the other side of the Winter Solstice, and the festival of light is upon us. Well almost.

Rain all day on Christmas Eve, and I circle Ohare’s terminal waiting for Katie and Scott to retrieve their bags. Meanwhile, Satchmo Louis Armstrong recites “Night Before Christmas” on the College of DuPage’s jazz station. Finally, my Santa Feans appear at Vestibule 3E, and we are off to the Upper Left-Hand Corner of Illinois through a steady rain and holiday traffic express.

It snows all Christmas Day and all the Saturday after. We have a houseful, and grandsons Luca and Massimo make enough noise to drown out all ten adults talking at once. This is Christmas at “Condo Fondo” and surprisingly not as cramped as Linda and I feared.

Outside, the snow thickens, and we join Luca and Massi for a Saturday morning sled. In late afternoon, flakes fade, and the western sky glows faintly pink. I manage 40 minutes on the trainer imagining I’m out on Schapville Road in the glorious hills.

Now it is Sunday—the first in the last two that we won’t be riding out-of-doors. Alas, I sit at the computer thinking it will be several days until we ride in fresh winter air. Meanwhile, we’re on the trainer with my IPod time transporter.

I let music dictate tempo and intensity. The Thad Jones & Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra drives “Little Pixie.” This is big gear high rev stuff. I “scat” along, fly my head and shoulders, and give the legs their freedom. Thad’s fabulous arrangement is nearly eleven minutes long and fills the workout time with a big sound.

We switch genres and gears to Ravel’s “Walses Nobles et Sentimentale” with solo piano by Abbey Simon. For fifteen minutes, we ride from the Noble monumental “Modere” to the sublimely Sentimentale “Epilogue.” I visualize a delicate light in the French countryside.

Finally, Butterfly and Pinkerton sing Puccini’s “Bimbi dagli occhi piene di malia.” This most lovely opera duet attests that this love and all indoor cycling are temporary. I am transported from a view of Yellow Creek to Nagasaki and hence to Tuscany.

So what would otherwise be 40 minutes of drudgery pass joyously through rhythm and imagination. Now, please let the sun come out and the thermometer rise.