It being the birthday of L. Frank Baum, himself a scribe of some small renown, I decided this morning to embark on a journey.

Didn’t make it to the Emerald City (that derned yellow brick road doesn’t appear anywhere on my map), but I did reach the bosque, which has greened up nicely. Standing in for tin men, scarecrows and cowardly lions were cyclists, skaters and joggers.

Temps were seasonal, which is to say in the 80s, and the wind was favorable, pushing me back uphill toward home. No tornado, no balloon, no ruby slippers — just the breeze, the bike and those old black Sidis.

And neither wicked witch nor flying monkeys impeded my progress. I guess they’re all busy in DeeCee.