Mankato — I am a bike trail. Though I haven’t really been myself as of late.
My black curvy, sloping lane has long disappeared, buried deep under a thick white coating.
Oh, sure an occasional skier crosses my surface, or at least above what is my path. Snowmobiles are allowed during the winter, buzzing on the compacted cover of my asphalt trail; breaking the silent, crisp winter air with the wrapped out whine of their engines and foul smell of gas and oil.
People still come to me during the winter, but not like in the other three seasons.
What I long for is to feel a bike tire’s tread, the glide of an inline skater, the sole of a walking shoe. I long for sweat to drip, the huff and puff of exhaustion, I even long for the buzz of mosquito swarms.
The sun on a summer’s day warms my paved path, no chance of being covered by winter’s harshness.
I don’t look the same now, but neither do my surroundings. Most trees are bare, and my feathered and furry friends aren’t as numerous as other times of the year.
Some have left for the time, others are just hiding, hunkered down, coming out only when they need to. I miss them, when squirrels, deer and birds of all kinds scurry about avoiding man and all his contraptions.
I have gained layers of skin from unfortunate little ones’ knees and elbows. I am unforgiving, but I feel their pain; it pains me as well. Just as their skin will grow back, I need a new surface every now and then. But not now, now my surface is buried under a blanket of white.
I am a bike trail.
