Speedside

On the way home from work I stopped somewhere I've never been before. I've driven through Speedside hundreds of times, but never stopped except once for a speeding ticket. You're supposed to slow down in Speedside, though there's hardly anything to notice about it: a hill, a couple houses, an United Church that likely dates to the Methodist immigration, and another road running east that I've only had cause to follow two or three times. Around it are corn and wheat fields and a golf course.

At the bottom of the hill, the main road crosses the upper Speed River, and that's what tempted me to stop. It would normally have dwindled to a marshy trickle by this time of year, but today it was an honest stream. I scrambled down the steep bank, and did what any serious boy would do: took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my jeans and waded in.

This stream was clear and spirited, golden water rushing over smooth rocks. It was so cold it made my feet ache! And after a whole day on my feet, fixing organ pipes, this was a good kind of ache, like the way an orgasm hurts.

While I stood in ecstasy, cars and trucks thundered by on the bridge. They couldn't see me there. Normally I would be driving one of them, oblivious to the thread of paradise flowing underneath.

Wading under the bridge in Speedside was a defining moment of the summer, a moment in which I felt fully present and engaged, a child coming to life, finding a fresh perspective on something I had overlooked and taken for granted.

The sensation in my feet was euphoric. By the time I climbed back to the car, I felt so high I was almost afraid to drive.





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