I Scream, You Scream, No More Ice Cream

The trail led down the hill, disappearing through a tunnel of houses, then up and into sight again, vanishing over the horizon. It beckoned me to follow, but at 7:30 p.m., the sun had set and darkness was falling fast. Reluctantly, I turned toward home.

Late this summer, I rediscovered the joys of bicycling. Tonight, pressed for time, it was the mountain bike I chose, spinning out of my garage and around the corner onto the dirt trail, a dog-eared bicycle map tucked inside my T-shirt. Shoes open-toed, legs bare. No helmet. No water. No destination.

Racing the descending sun and clouds that threatened rain, I rode hard and fast, thinking about everything and nothing: The man at whom I was pissed, loose plans already made for the upcoming weekend without my sun, the Sunday choir performance for which I felt unprepared, a too-long-absent friend with whom I'd finally spoken that day, the man at whom I was pissed.

I stood on my pedals to ease the pain in my knees of schlepping the bike and my body up a hill. It was not even a steep hill, I noted with equal parts dismay and disgust. I'd felt deceptively fit only a week ago when I rode 20 quick miles on my slender, laughably light, aluminum-framed Trek. But sailing on a road bike over Denver's flat, paved trails was one thing. Riding the heavier mountain bike over the small roller-coaster-variety trails of the south suburbs was an exercise in humility.

At the top of that rise was a split in the trail, and here was where the trail unfurled down, up and away. It seemed to disappear into the mountains, which were framed by dark clouds. Drops of rain began to fall, but lazily so. They lacked the enthusiasm necessary to become a storm, a soaker or even a dust buster.

With or without rain, the newly discovered section of trail would have to wait for another evening. I headed gratefully downhill.

By the time I rounded the last corner of the bike trail and bounced over the curb and back onto the street, darkness was only one slim layer of light away.

Out of the gloom, the sound of chimes rang, taking on an audible shape that was instantly recognizable. It was the song of the ice cream truck. The small, boxy vehicle drove into view at the end of a nearby street, pausing at the stop sign.

Something was wrong with this picture, I thought. It was the lights. The ice cream truck was piercing the darkness of the neighborhood streets with headlights.

The ice cream truck belonged on sun-drenched summer streets, with kids who ran to it from the front yards in which they'd already been playing.

Yet here it was, the driver making one last, seemingly desperate round on a Monday night, the first of autumn. I imagined the arguments he sparked in kitchens throughout the neighborhood as the heads of children, obediently bent over homework, snapped up at the strains of their favorite summer song. They pleaded and cajoled, and work-weary parents responded with firm, then frustrated 'nos'.

The ice cream truck, so welcome on a summer's day, did not belong here this eve.

The truck and I passed one another on the street. It slowed, the driver perhaps momentarily confused at the tiny light bobbing toward it, then regained speed, the driver and I waving at one another in the off-handed way of mere visual acquaintances.

As I rode by the truck's side, the sound waves broke and shifted and the happy tune suddenly devolved into something you'd expect to hear from a horror movie fun house. It was as though the truck were speaking. Summer's over, it seemed to say. Close the windows, pull the blinds, put away the sprinklers, drain the pools, bring in the flower pots. The bitterly beautiful season of winter is waiting impatiently in the wings, ready to take center stage.