They're taking me past the elderly woman walking her mom
in 90 degree heat down Channelside at 6 pm.
They're bending more now, destroying imaginary karate wood,
getting me to my turnaround point quicker,
where I reach walking satisfaction.
The water skier cares even less about his.
Now matter how much I chop, his motor boat pace
takes him up and down the channel multiple times.
His pendulum pattern over the man-made waves
is more reckless than me gunning
and taking one to the hole a decade from now.
He'll attack the waves head on,
collect air under his feet, smash down into the water
and get dragged for a few seconds as the boat stops.
He'll regain his balance,
motion for the boat to go faster,
creating greater waves,
greater air under his feet
followed by an even greater crash.
Some bicyclists doddle in their wind resistant fatigues,
and my 34-year-old knees catch up with them
until they start peddling again
and I walk in the space I've created for myself.