Chasing Cormac

I have been hindered as of late by September infirmity, nearly as predictable as other rituals of autumn. I did seek medical authority and thus felt a return to the living yesterday. I had spent the week reading the remaining two thirds of the Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy and was inspired to seek the natural. The myriad lands around Loop Island do not recall the Southwest and Old Mexico of the maestro's explication on Duty and the sundry caprice of Life. No, it actually recalls Sutree, primoridal stretch of striated Natura Firma a stones throw from inerstate traffic. The brambles and ivy have yet to concede the onset of chilly weather and I pedalled along accordingly, noting the cadres of young people fishing, homeless blokes catnapping and the presence, en masse, of New Albany's finest investigating some situation where Silver Creek empties into the Ohio. There are paths below the old railroad bridge, though the topography of such requires greater skill on a bike than I can reasonably manage. So it goes.