Forget the wind.
I turned into the homeward direction, and felt the full friction force of the stated 20-30 mph headwinds, like riding up a hill. Hills are not my favorite. Perhaps it is fortunate or wise that I chose to live in a place rich with flat rides, with the option to choose the hills, the "sky islands" in the desert they are called, if I feel the impulse to give due time to the hill climb. But hills generally remind me of headwinds, which are owed no due in my book.
This headwind pushed against me, and it made me push harder against the pedals to keep even a moderate speed. Slower does not feel right. Harder does not feel right. I just want my homeward spin, my meditative evening trip, my easy ride. Easy gone when the wind blows in your face, JRA. Discouraged. Spin harder. Work home.
But this guy showed up again. He's making a habit of this absurd quest, seeking small heron fishy dinner treats where only giant sterile grass carp lurk, but I give him points for tenacity. Who knows. Maybe something will float by. Something like a small silver fishy.
I decided to ride closer, get a better shot. He's been skittish before, but this time he let me coast up close. He didn't move, so neither did I. The wind rumbled my ears, ruffled his feathers. Still neither of us moved. So intent. Such focus. The s-curve of his neck, the graceful legs, the splayed toes across the cement. The rushing of water drowned out most of the other sounds. It was a moment: I was there, the wind was the wind but less intrusive or significant, the water rushed, the heron focused his laser intense gaze on fishies that would never come.
I left him to it. Yes, the air pushed against me all the way home, but I let it. I guess I worked harder, but I didn't sweat it. I forgot the wind. Somehow heron showed me how. Get up. Go ride.