The map is not the territory
There's a corridor in silentq and photiq's apartment that's lined with maps, more for personal reference than decoration, and in the minutes and seconds of idle time between waiting for people to get dressed or coffee to brew, I've found myself hovering near them, tracing the paths of cross country road trips I've done in years past, placing thumb and index finger on Omaha and Denver and trying to remember what I saw in that space between my fingers.
Lately, I've been looking at the map of Eastern Massachusetts, and more specifically in the stretch between the apartment and the new office, trying to chart out my bike commute and visualize the terrain. The maps aren't topographical, and they don't tell you that the first two hundred metres of Concord Ave. outside Belmont Village are murderously steep. There's no map symbol that says you will be down at the lowest cog of your granny gear and still cursing the climb, wondering what on earth motivated you to pack the ten hole steel toed boots that you were going to change into when you got to work. There isn't a notation that tells you to expect full force headwinds across open plains. There is no universal warning for pot-holed streets with a malicious hunger for your wheel.
Likewise, there are no indications for a stretch of great scenery -- where you'll glide past low stone walls and fallow fields waiting for spring. There's no sign that tells you to expect the scent of baking bread wafting quietly across a sleepy neighborhood waking to the dawn. And, on the way back, there's nothing that identifies that slight slope with the tail wind that gently pushes you home.
There's no way I can plot out any of those moments. All I can do is get on my bike and seek them out for myself.
Lately, I've been looking at the map of Eastern Massachusetts, and more specifically in the stretch between the apartment and the new office, trying to chart out my bike commute and visualize the terrain. The maps aren't topographical, and they don't tell you that the first two hundred metres of Concord Ave. outside Belmont Village are murderously steep. There's no map symbol that says you will be down at the lowest cog of your granny gear and still cursing the climb, wondering what on earth motivated you to pack the ten hole steel toed boots that you were going to change into when you got to work. There isn't a notation that tells you to expect full force headwinds across open plains. There is no universal warning for pot-holed streets with a malicious hunger for your wheel.
Likewise, there are no indications for a stretch of great scenery -- where you'll glide past low stone walls and fallow fields waiting for spring. There's no sign that tells you to expect the scent of baking bread wafting quietly across a sleepy neighborhood waking to the dawn. And, on the way back, there's nothing that identifies that slight slope with the tail wind that gently pushes you home.
There's no way I can plot out any of those moments. All I can do is get on my bike and seek them out for myself.