Update on my weekly Dash-to-the-Friendship-Bridge bike ride: On Saturday, I beat my previous record by more than 2 minutes! 37:47 Sweet!
I often use little mental tools to distract myself because I despise exercise with every fiber of my being. This week, I consciously focused on the colors I encountered on my ride. This may seem cheesy, but I’m going to list some of the thoughts that ran through my head during those 37 minutes.
• Wispy low-lying pink clouds glowed against the barely blue sunrise sky. Slowly, slowly the powdery blue deepened to a glorious cobalt while gentle breezes swept away any threats of rain.
• Ubiquitous brown … the dry shade of woven baskets overturned like massive wicker bowls to keep the speckled chickens from roaming … the alternately dark reddish mud and pale dusty dirt of the unpaved roads … sun-bleached wooden stilts protecting homes, restaurants and shops from the encroaching water … shiny dark hair pulled into a thick ponytail, gleaming coffee-colored eyes and golden skin of the smiling woman selling cold drinks at a roadside stand …
• The rainy season’s gift of green in every hue includes the crackling fronds of the coconut trees, the nearly teal floating pads of the water lilies, the waxy dark leaves of the magnolias, the yellow-tipped fluorescence of the rice plants, the seafoam-colored potted plants with twisted prickly stalks, and the bright tufts of doomed little weeds in fields where oxen graze.
• In a landscape of mostly muted earth tones, orange provides a welcome jolt. It pops from the wooden spirit houses, where villagers hang delicate offerings made from banana leaves, tiny white lilies-of-the-valley and vibrant marigolds. It brings a whole neighborhood to life when monks parade single-file (their humble yet dazzlingly bright robes swishing around their feet, baskets swinging by their hips). They pause to bless the locals who kneel at the roadside and then accept the donations of food.
• Glossy red and yellow Buddhist symbols adorn the gilded gates of temples, reflecting the sun’s persistent rays, begging me to stop and soak up some zen.
• Fuchsia blossoms of bougainvillea spill over the top of fences and splash down the dull white walls.
Aw, geez, I could do this all day.

The voice of my far-away mother, an artist, resonated in my head the whole ride, describing the acrylic paints she’d squeeze onto her palette to re-create the scenery. I pictured her waving her finger at that morning sky and saying, “OK, so we need some cerulean with alizarin crimson and a dab of titanium white.”
Next week … smells? Maybe not.