When you drive to work in the fog of a predawn morning, it's unremarkable at best. On a bike, though, you taste the mist. You feel gradients of temperature on your face. Unfiltered strangeness in a murky sky. There's a light close to its horizon. You want to follow it. But the shrouded trees form a picket. On foot, standing with them, under and in, you know this is where you were meant to be.