With nothing to do today but enjoy the weather, that’s precisely what we did. Sunshine, an invigorating NW wind and a very palpable hint of spring (including the faintest record of green in the farmer’s fields). Though I will moderate the gusto by reminding you, dear Reader, that the enthusiasm is that of a septuagenarian. This means of course that the boundaries are limited and the enterprise reeks of facility not diversity or magnanimity. Nonetheless it spoke of a grand day! And limitless inventiveness!

Recovering as I was from yesterday’s unparalleled enlargement, stirring from bed this morning was uncommonly attractive. There was no wasteful lingering or idle Camus-like expostulation and regret. While I hadn’t any reason to hurry, I nonetheless felt drawn to the scene of the crime.  Accordingly I accelerated the customary ablutions, dressed, then set off to collect and examine my new tricycle in greater detail (stimulated by overnight reflections).

Yes, they knew each other. Beckett lived in Paris from 1937 till his death (and wrote both “Godot” and “Endgame” in French). Both frequented a literary bar called Pont Royal Hotel.

Camus was, after the war, the foremost and most popular of the Existentialist writers, and is generally regarded as the inspiration of the “Theatre of the Absurd” to which Beckett and many others, through Harold Pinter to Tom Stoppard, belong. Beckett was an avid reader of philosophical tracts, and would certainly have read “Sysiphe”. So would most educated Frenchmen in the 1950’s.

The shiny red beast was still in its stable; or the “cage” as we call it. It gleamed beneath the silvery overhead garage light. After withdrawing the trike from its original station I took a close look at the battery key.  I turned it a number of times to its different modes (On, Off, Push Unlock). We had already removed the duplicate key from the fob; then put it in a drawer in the apartment where I hope I’ll remember if ever the need of it should arise. We decided it is best to leave one key attached to the battery in the event we wish to “Unlock” the battery from its well and remove it for charging independently. As for testing the battery and charging it, that will wait for another time.  Presently the automatic menu indicates the battery is fully charged.  There is, I have learned throughout this introduction to electric devices, a conviction among those in-the-know that it is wise to use a battery until almost depleted, then charge. Accordingly the functionality of the battery charger (stored in a bag in the cage along with a helmet, lock and and the superfluous rear basket cover) will be examined on another day.

I was ready to go!  After setting the odometer on both the tricycle and my Apple Watch (to coincide and enable further study by comparison later), off I went.  Initially I was careful to avoid using the electric jolt (apart from getting me out of the garage – that is, up the incline to street level). The primary ambition of cycling remains moderate exercise. The new trike behaved admirably. I employed the electric “assist” to get me up Gale Street to the plateau heralded by Van Dusen Street, but thereafter (back and forth along Johanna Street – and earlier by the helicopter landing pad behind the hospital) it was “manual” labour. Curiously I found the new trike more easily governable than the other; it seemed to pedal more easily and it stayed in motion more readily. I don’t believe it was just the pleasant weather that made everything so vivid but nor do I deny the prejudice of the atmospheric enhancement. It was at the very least a happy coincidence of the two – mechanical functionality and the weather.

This limited endeavour throughout the neighbourhood involved 4Kms as usual. The reality of the electric trike is that I do not rely upon its assist feature unhesitatingly. When I returned to the apartment, my legs were “feeling it”.  I immediately removed myself to the balcony to relish the morning sunshine.  I removed my spectacles, closed my eyes and dozed for the next hour.

This however was not the end of the day’s indulgences.  Around 11:00 am we abandoned the apartment and drove to Stittsville then Arnprior and back through the Township of Pakenham to home.  The drive was effortless.  The roads were smooth and dry.  The traffic was minimal. The sun shone brilliantly. We chatted with one another in our usual rambling manner.

So manifestly grand was the day that upon returning home and having parked the car, I hadn’t the least inclination to ignore it.  So once again I hopped onto my new trike.  I have already determined that tricycling – even with electric assistance  – will never expand to include prolonged rides along the Ottawa Valley Trail to the Village of Rosebank.  As much as I would enjoy the views, I am learning that my limitations aren’t to be pushed aside. Just as significantly, I am satisfied with my middling expression of athleticism. It is equally important to me to retain a mooring with my locality. Gone are the days of long hauls where one might have suffered a flat tire without possibility of assistance (as I used to do when venturing along the Ottawa River Parkway into the Gatineau Hills, the foothills of the Laurentian mountains in Québec). That was 50 years ago.