False Equinox

I woke up Sunday at Six a.m., and I woke up in a hurry. I wanted to witness , or better yet, be party to, the Autumnal Equinox sunrise over my city, and get in a long bicycle ride with Joe. Still drugged from sleep, I assembled a pack of materiel and loaded my bike in the truck. As I filled the Camelback with water, Louise made me a smoked turkey on homemade pumpernickel sandwich, which she placed in my path along with an apple. As I made for the door with a cup of coffee in my hand, I scooped them into the pack and burst out into the cool, still, dim morning. Since Joe and I had casually talked about meeting up early and beginning our ride right after the sunrise, I called him from the truck and asked if he was ready. “Oh, Hell no,” he grumbled.

Relieved (due to time constraints), I told him I’d go on up to Chandler Park Hill and after the sunrise I’d meet him at the Coffeehouse on Cherry Street. I pulled onto I-244 West, and picked up speed. Ah, fresh pavement! Black, smooth and soft. Who doesn’t love it? I watched my rearview mirror warily for the police and the sun.

The sun was scheduled to rise at 7:11 a.m. I stopped alongside Chandler Park’s entry road, which winds up the east face of Chandler Hill, clambered up a dew-wet, mown grass slope, and got positioned at 7:05. Perfect timing. Avery Drive ran due east from the foot of the hill, a long finger pointing in the direction of the approaching sunrise. Facing east, I assumed a Tulsa-style Zazen pose, which is a little more, shall we say, laid back than the Kathmandu style. My viewing spot was on about a thirty degree side slope, which was hard on my Mudra, but I’m a tough Okie.

I didn’t see the sunrise. The cool, clear night had left a layer of fog all up and down the Arkansas River Valley. There was no visible horizon. Avery Drive disappeared into the fog. The Tulsa skyline was undetectable except for the dimmest suggestion of the Jetson’s Tower near the 21st Street Bridge. I couldn’t even see the Sunoco Refinery. It was beautiful.

An invisible sun presumably cleared an invisible horizon as scheduled. I first saw it about ten minutes later as it began clearing the wall of fog, peeking over like Kilroy. Soon the entire sun was visible, but still filtered enough to allow you to look directly at it. To ponder it, to see it as a burning liquid ball with a distinct round outline. To see with your own eyes that it’s true what they say about the sun.

It was only later, while I was thumbing through the Sunday New York Times, waiting for Joe to emerge from his own fog of domestic chaos, ready to ride, that I discovered I ‘d been a day and a minute early. The equinox was to be on Monday, not Sunday. I’d be unavailable. I’ll try to catch it again in the spring.

Eventually, Joe and I were on bikes, rolling up Denver Avenue. We caught the Sand Springs bike trail by the loading docks of the David L. Moss Correctional Center and had an easy ride out to Sand Springs, stopping along the way at the actual sand springs, squeezed in between the Keystone Expressway and the Sand Springs Line railroad tracks. We crossed the river on Highway 97 and lunched under the bridge. The brown river was wide, swift and filled with eddys. We split the turkey and pumpernickel sandwich.