Spring in Utah always comes as a surprise, like a best friend your haven't seen in ages showing up to a party unannounced; shock, surprise, and joy overcome you. The days begin to wax with sunlight little by little, pushing out winters long nights in favor of evening spent on the patio and on the bike.
Spring nights are what I fall in love with, year after year. On the first few warm nights the smell of bbq grills and fire pits fill the air, regardless the day of the week. The scent of hickory and charcoal seem omnipresent. Then the flowers on trees begin to bloom and every day ride through the city is filled with sweet aromas of tree blossoms and sunshine. What was frozen in winter begins to warm and decay, filling noses with the sweet smell of decaying organic matter and the base of trees, where fall leaves were left to feed earths cycle.
Late night rides through the city are filled with the stories of spring being whispered throughout every neighborhood via scent. The smell of fabric softener from a dryer vent mixes with scent of glowing coals from a fire pit. I inhale deep, like testing the smell of clothes from a campfire the day after. As I pass main street I notice the hemlines and shirt lengths have become shorter, a stark contrast to the apparel found on the average bar goer in Salt Lake in December. I get a waft of garlic as I pedal past a home, wondering what their dinner was. The delicate smell of plants in bloom weaves itself through the ride till I arrive home. I take in one last breath before I go inside. A smile overcomes me and I am reminded that all is well.
Spring nights are what I fall in love with, year after year. On the first few warm nights the smell of bbq grills and fire pits fill the air, regardless the day of the week. The scent of hickory and charcoal seem omnipresent. Then the flowers on trees begin to bloom and every day ride through the city is filled with sweet aromas of tree blossoms and sunshine. What was frozen in winter begins to warm and decay, filling noses with the sweet smell of decaying organic matter and the base of trees, where fall leaves were left to feed earths cycle.
Late night rides through the city are filled with the stories of spring being whispered throughout every neighborhood via scent. The smell of fabric softener from a dryer vent mixes with scent of glowing coals from a fire pit. I inhale deep, like testing the smell of clothes from a campfire the day after. As I pass main street I notice the hemlines and shirt lengths have become shorter, a stark contrast to the apparel found on the average bar goer in Salt Lake in December. I get a waft of garlic as I pedal past a home, wondering what their dinner was. The delicate smell of plants in bloom weaves itself through the ride till I arrive home. I take in one last breath before I go inside. A smile overcomes me and I am reminded that all is well.
