Thanks to my recent stress-induced sphincter-clench regimen, I managed to maintain control over my bodily functions in a moment of life-threatening drama. As I surveyed the faces of other drivers around me, it appeared to me some were not as fortunate. Miraculously, no one was injured on the bus or in the 137 cars now compressed into an area designed to hold about 125 cars. There'd been no pedestrian casualties, either. While the Taurus hadn't been hit, I saw many fender-benders behind me on the bridge all the way back to Hull.

An hour later, I'd given a brief statement to the police, extricated the Taurus from the blocked bridge, and zipped back to Centre Block via the Portage Bridge to the west. I'm not sure what unsettled me more, the action-movie accident directly in front of me, or the thought of Angus on his own for 45 minutes in a meeting with Rhonda Atkinson the charismatic and relentless head of the ACW. I'd had no time to brief Angus for the meeting. He was walking into a buzz saw, and it was my fault.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Rhonda Atkinson was a pa.s.sionate bully. No one was more committed to her cause; yet, in my view, she lacked the finesse to read the room and adopt the approach that would take her furthest in each situation. Rhonda had only one speed full steam ahead and d.a.m.n the torpedoes. In her 15-year reign as president, the ACW's annual lobby day on the Hill had evolved from a series of polite but pointless MP meetings into a cage-match marathon, for which politicians would train for weeks. Not only did Rhonda live by the phrase "take no prisoners," but legend had it she actually coined it years ago before politically knee-capping a member of Cabinet she had aptly dubbed the "Minister of Misogyny." She had put the ACW on the map as a potent and powerful lobby and had spearheaded dozens of legislative and judicial reforms to advance women's equality in Canada. She was a shining star in Canada's pantheon of advocates. I like to think of myself as a committed feminist. But Rhonda had a knack for making even the most progressive and enlightened man feel like a polygamous p.o.r.n magnate fighting universal suffrage.

Camille shot me a worried look as I rushed past her desk and threw open the door to Angus's office. My worst fears were confirmed when the first thing I saw was Rhonda and Angus locked in mortal combat while the four other women in the delegation watched from ringside seats. They didn't need to help. Angus already looked overmatched. I'd been in several meetings where Rhonda had verbally abused MPs, but I'd never actually seen her physically attack one. She had Angus in a fierce bear hug and was rocking him back and forth. Outdated and rather boring for the fans, that technique was still an effective submission hold, and I half expected one of her colleagues to step up and count Angus out. I noticed a large hardcover book in Rhonda's hand that would make a formidable bludgeon. The fight would soon be over if she started swinging that weighty tome.

I was about to tag Angus and take my own chances with Rhonda as any loyal executive a.s.sistant would when I noticed that both of them were not actually grimacing in mutual combat but smiling in mutual affection. It was a subtle distinction, particularly in my frazzled condition. They were, indeed, locked in a bear hug, but not of the Hulk Hogan variety. Then, Rhonda misted up, and Angus followed suit.

"I am so touched and so grateful," she said, clutching the mystery book to her heart and dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex handed her by an ACW staffer. "I know you're with us, so let's stop convincing the converted and move on to some of your more patriarchal caucus mates."

"Aye, Rhonda, you're very kind to use such a benign term as patriarchal. Neanderthal is a compliment for some. But I know you'll set them right, and I'll work them from the inside as a fifth columnist in this most just of causes," Angus said gruffly as she gathered her papers.

Her compatriots rose en ma.s.se and filed out the door. Rhonda caught my eye as she pa.s.sed me. "h.e.l.lo, Daniel. You missed all the fun. You've got a real rough-cut diamond in him. Let him shine." She was still smiling and nodding her head as she dis appeared out our door.

When I spun back to Angus, he'd already regained his composure and returned to the Sanderson Shoe Company initiative.

"Well, do you bring good news from Industry Canada, or is our little plan imperiled by bureaucratic inept.i.tude?" he asked.

"Wait a second. First things first. What just happened here?" I replied in a voice that occupied a higher register than normal.

"What are you on about, man? We just finished the ACW meeting. As you may recall, you were supposed to join me for it. No matter. It seemed to proceed well enough."

"I can see that, but how did it happen? Do you have incriminating photos? Did we just give the ACW a million dollars? Did you slip something in her coffee? What just happened here?"

"Hey hey, you dinnae make jokes about drugged drinks when the availability of Rohypnol and the incidence of date rape are both on the rise," he thundered, shaking his head and looking as if bodily harm was in my immediate future. How did he know all that?

"I ... I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about what I was saying," I stammered.

"Aye, that was painfully obvious."

"Look, I'm sorry. It's been a rough afternoon so far. I was almost killed in a spectacular bus crash on the Alexandra Bridge about an hour ago. And then, I finally make it back here, expecting blood on the floor, and find you're adjourning the inaugural meeting of the Atkinson-McLintock mutual adoration society." I sighed. "It's all been a bit too much to take in." I fell into the chair in front of his desk.

"Saints alive, were you injured?" he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

"No, I managed somehow to avoid T-boning one of those articulated buses as it wedged itself across all lanes of southbound traffic. But it did leave me somewhat shaken," I commented. "In fact, was I hallucinating when I saw Rhonda and you in some kind of platonic embrace?"

"Daniel, I've known Rhonda since she was a 23-year-old graduate student. Marin was her thesis supervisor, and for three summers she lived in the very boathouse apartment you now occupy. I'm a great supporter of hers," Angus declared.

"But she can be so ... so aggressive. So mean," I pointed out. "She's even got her detractors in the women's movement."

"Aye, but societal change hasn't often come through polite and courteous discourse. That approach would simply take too long. Every social cause needs a 'Rhonda' to lead the charge," Angus argued. "And as for yer observation that she is not universally revered among her own const.i.tuents, if Marin were here, she'd tell you that the emergence of various factions within the feminist constellation reflects a social movement that is maturin' and is confident enough to nurture divergent viewpoints. This is the natural evolution of social change. It happened in the civil-rights movement, too. Malcolm X and Dr. King seldom saw eye to eye; yet each made important contributions to their shared cause."

He continued in this vein for some time, expounding on his theory of maturing movements. I thought I remembered something about this theory in an article Marin Lee wrote for Sat.u.r.day Night magazine a few years back. But by then, I was tapped out and having difficulty processing his theoretical a.n.a.lysis. "What was the deal with the book Rhonda had?"

"I'd been remiss in not givin' it to her sooner. Before Marin pa.s.sed on, she inscribed several copies of her new book to a number of women in positions of influence over the feminist cause. The inscriptions were deeply personal." He paused and bowed his head for a moment before continuing. "Marin was very agitated before inscribin' the books but seemed quite at peace when she finished. I think this last task signaled a pa.s.sin' of the torch, but we never spoke of it before the end. I figured today was as good a day as any to hand over Rhonda's copy," he observed, looking as if he, too, were tapped out.

"Well, she was clearly touched. All I can say is that I've seen how Rhonda's enemies end up, so I'm delighted to count her as an ally," I concluded.

"Enough of this melancholia!" Angus suddenly decreed. "Pray tell of yer visit to our saviours at Industry Canada."

"Well, everything is 'go,'" I replied, "a.s.suming Sanderson turns his back on 35 years of family tradition to manufacture a leading-edge technology he neither understands nor will ever use. He is your cla.s.sic Luddite, a veritable tech-know-nothing. I think he probably contracts out the setting of his digital alarm clock."

"We're not askin' him or his workers to become experts in wireless transmission. He just has to see that this opportunity represents a much more secure and prosperous future than makin' unfashionable shoes on an a.s.sembly line that should be in an industrial museum," said Angus. "Do you think he's comin' around?"

"He's come a long way since our first meeting. Industry Canada has been very good about it, too. They toured the factory on the weekend. Apparently, the s.p.a.ce, the workers, and Deepa's wireless wave router all seem to fit the criteria for industrial-transition funding. The one fly in the ointment is timing," I commented. "Deepa needs to show Canatron proof of manufacturing capability in the next eight weeks. To make that happen, Industry Canada has to approve the funding in the next week. Even if the paperwork were submitted today, that's an ambitious goal."

"So where does it leave us?" Angus asked.

"Well, I've already pulled together the paperwork after spending yesterday on the phone with Sanderson's CFO. So we need Sanderson to say yes today so we can submit the application and the company's audited financial statements no later than tomorrow. Then, it's up to you and the Minister to move it through the approvals process in record time."

To his credit, Angus stayed on the phone with Sanderson for an hour and a half that afternoon, convincing, cajoling, arguing, occasionally yelling, and then rebuilding trust until the recalcitrant, old industrialist finally arrived at "Yes." From the perspective of a distant observer, the decision was a no-brainer, but I could see it was a wrenching choice for Sanderson. Angus played it more sensitively than I'd ever thought possible. His approach presented an impressive display of patient persuasion and deft diplomacy.

"Now what?" asked Angus as he hung up the phone in triumph.

"You need to reach out to the Minister. She's tough and partisan, but only she can accelerate the funding approval to make our deadline. I'll try to set up a call with her and will send over the application to Industry Canada and the Minister's office right now."

As it turned out, the call could not be arranged until the following morning after caucus. I'd been dreading caucus after Angus's performance in his inaugural session the previous Wednesday. Though I didn't want to, I again stayed for the meeting. Angus was quiet through most of it but perked up when the final agenda item was announced the Throne Speech vote scheduled for that afternoon. The Chair of caucus and the Whip laid out the plan as the Leader looked on, nodding his approval. Finally, the Leader rose to close the deal.

"Friends, we have a historic opportunity today to send this Government packing. I know we've all just come through a tough campaign, but our polling confirms that the Cameron scandal hadn't fully taken root in the public's conscience by election day. It has now. The numbers say we'd win if a vote were taken today. In the minds of Canadians, Cameron's twisted morality seems to have cast doubt on everything he did as Finance Minister. Of course, a declining economy has helped, as well. But we must act quickly. Soon, Cameron's despicable performance will fade into the past. Our righteous indignation will dissipate. Our outrage will soften. And we'll lose this advantage and this golden chance. We must strike now. As of this morning, the NDP are with us. Friends, mark well this date in our history, for today's Throne Speech vote will be this Government's Waterloo."

Most of the room rose in a frenzied and mindless ovation of hooting, hollering, and that most fatigued political gesture, good old-fashioned back slapping. Angus just sat with his arms crossed and shook his head very slightly, wearing a thin smile. About six other Liberal MPs also abstained from the partisan histrionics. I sat at the back, programming 9-1-1 into my cell phone speed-dial and charting the quickest escape route. I knew that Angus wouldn't be sitting for long. Three, two, one ... "Mr. Chair, Mr. Chair." Right on cue, Angus rose as the furor died down. The caucus Chair did his best to overlook Angus but eventually had no choice but to recognize him. It was hard to ignore a solid, bearded, wild-haired, aging Scot, waving both arms in an impressive display of semaph.o.r.e. With a fluorescent orange vest and a couple of flashlights, he might well have been guiding in a 747.

"I'm sorry to urinate in the caucus coffee, but I am compelled to inform you that I'll be supportin' the Throne Speech as I committed to in the House last week. I dinnae imagine you'll take kindly to my decision, and I lament this break in solidarity. But my conscience, not to mention common sense, leaves me no choice."

"How can you prop up this morally corrupt Government?" shouted an MP from the other side of the room.

"I dinnae accept yer premise, sir, and nor should any of you who consider yourselves fair-minded. I'm votin' for the Throne Speech for three reasons. Firstly, it lays out a reasonable, balanced, and prudent course for the nation. And I defy any one of you to argue otherwise. Secondly, I said I would vote for it, inside the House of Commons and outside. And thirdly, defeatin' a duly elected Government because its former Finance Minister likes to 'do the dirty' in handcuffs and leather while bein' flogged with a ridin' crop is asinine, ludicrous, and everythin' betwixt." He bowed slightly and headed out the door. "Well, lads and la.s.sies, it's been grand, but I've work to do."

Angus winked as he walked past me. I scrambled to catch up, but not before the Leader, Bradley Stanton, and about 75 Liberal MPs turned on me and committed a.s.sault with a deadly glare.

When I got back to my office, I shut the door and picked up the phone. Michael Zaleski answered on the first ring.

"Z-man, it's Daniel Addison. Look, I really need a favour," I opened.

"Hey, Daniel. I figured you'd have gone underground by now, maybe even had cosmetic surgery. You've got the Centre pretty p.i.s.sed right now."

"Well, they won't be feeling any better after Angus shot down the Leader's pre-battle rally speech this morning. That's why I'm calling. If I were Stanton, I'd be thinking about expelling Angus from the caucus, and I'm sure he's under pressure on many fronts to do just that. So here's where you come in. If Stanton and I are going to play chicken, I need to know whether he's really going to go through with it, or veer off at the last second. Can you help me out?" I fairly pleaded.

There was a long pause, which I took to be a good sign. I could hear him breathing deeper as he weighed his options. After a final sigh, he came back.

"You didn't hear this from me, but I don't think Angus is going anywhere. We just came out of the field, and your boy seems to be the toast of the country. The gen-pop numbers show Angus to be widely admired a breath of fresh air at a time when public cynicism towards 'politics as usual' is peaking. The cross-tabs are interesting, too. Among Liberals, Angus enjoys very high awareness ratings and mega-strong support. What's more, he's incredibly popular among Tory and NDP voters, too. We've never seen that before. His appeal transcends party lines. If the Tories have run any numbers on this, they'll be hoping Angus is expelled."

I was stunned for the umpteenth time since meeting Angus. I'd been tracking the growing editorial support for Angus but hadn't counted on average Canadians jumping on our bandwagon so early and in such force. The airport speech had started a s...o...b..ll rolling down a slope. Now, a mere three weeks later, it seemed it was time to close down the mountain and call out the Saint Bernards.

Zaleski's voice brought me back. "Besides, with the seat count so tight, they'd be crazy to lose one and risk Angus joining the Government benches."

"Well, I doubt our Angus would choose that path, but your point is well taken. Michael, I really appreciate this, and you can count on my discretion," I said in all sincerity. I didn't really need the numbers to deal with Stanton, anyway, just the big picture.

When I hung up, I had three voice mails already. My half-hour call with Bradley Stanton went something like this: "You know, we're this close to kicking your a.s.s right out of caucus! Danny boy, it's lonely as an independent. No one to talk to. No research staff. No clipping service. And it's worse than h.e.l.l in the const.i.t. You really want that?"

"Bradley, in case you didn't know, Prozac now comes in a convenient, one-a-day formulation." Nice light opening. "Come on, man, you know I'm not pulling his strings. I've got a guy who speaks his mind and is genetically programmed to do the honourable thing. I realize that makes him a freak on the Hill, but he is who he is. You can't change him. I can't change him. And I don't even want to."

"Don't give me that s.h.i.t, Addison. Get him to use some common sense and be reasonable! That's your job! You're one of us!"

"Listen to yourself, Bradley. Angus is the only one around here who is using common sense. His position on the Throne Speech is eminently reasonable, and you know it." Time to fire a gentle shot across his bow. "And what's more, I think Canadians know it, too. I sense that people on the street like what he's saying and what he's doing. Maybe we can all learn something from him."

The same general exchange cycled through our conversation several more times at varying volumes and with ever more creative profanities but eventually tailed off. I knew the Centre was taking this seriously because I also had calls from the caucus Chair, the Whip, and eventually, even the Honourable "d.i.c.khead" Warrington our esteemed House Leader and accomplished swordsman and paramour. Ours was a short conversation that neither of us enjoyed. I half-expected Rachel to call, but she didn't. Perhaps she was busy calming down her boss.

By the time the full-court press had relaxed, it was nearly time for lunch, which I'm told is the midday meal, though I hadn't recently enjoyed one. I joined Angus in his office for his scheduled call to the Industry Minister. I'd briefed the Minister's staff, and they'd prepped the Minister for the call. The planets seemed to be aligning. Angus dialed and was put right through. I decided not to risk listening in on the line, and so could only hear Angus. At the last second, he covered the receiver with his palm and whispered to me. "What do I call her?"

"Minister," I whispered just in time.

"Minister, it's Angus McLintock. Good of you to take my call." (Pause) "Well, thank you, I'm enjoyin' myself despite my, shall we say, unantic.i.p.ated victory." (Pause) "I gather you've been briefed on our little timin' problem. We have an opportunity to transform an outmoded shoe factory on its way down into a state-of-the-art technology facility that will produce an advanced wireless wave router to ease computer networkin'. It is a modern marvel of made-in-Canada ingenuity. But as usual, time is of the essence. We need Industry Canada fundin' approval under what I'm told is called the Industrial Transition Program in the next week or so to meet the ambitious retoolin' and production deadlines." (Pause) "Yes, yer officials have been very helpful, and the factory fits nicely into the program's eligibility criteria." (Pause) "Of course, Minister, I would insist on your makin' the announcement. I care not a whit about who gets credit for this." (Pause) "Yes, Minister?" (Pause) "Well, yes, as I said in the House last week, I intend to vote in favour of the Throne Speech this afternoon."

Uh-oh.

"But Minister, I'm not callin' to horse trade. My decision on the Throne Speech is made. Please dinnae approve the fundin' as some kinda payback for my support in the House. That's not how I operate. Approve the fundin' because it's the right thing to do." (Pause) "Aye, I've been gettin' a lot of that lately." (Pause) "When can you let us know, Minister? You'll understand that many jobs and livelihoods are hangin' in the balance." (Pause) "That's splendid, Minister. I'm grateful and so are the workers at the Sanderson Shoe Company. You have my grat.i.tude." (Pause) "Yes, I'll be in the House. I cannae thank you enough."

He hung up and rushed to the fax machine. Two minutes later, the fax hummed to life and regurgitated a single sheet the final page of the funding application with the Minister's signature, screaming at the bottom.

"Angus, you did it. I can't believe it, but you did it. You got the rusted and temperamental machinery of government to do your bidding. Congratulations!"

Then he did a strange thing. He hugged me.

By that time, the forces threatening us into defeating the Government were slackening. I knew Angus was safe. I also believed that the Leader and the rest of the caucus would support the Throne Speech rather than risk parading cracks in the Liberal family for all to see. In the end, I was right about that. After Angus had left the room that morning, caucus had debated for most of its three-hour meeting and ultimately had succ.u.mbed to common sense. Late that afternoon, every single Liberal voted to accept the Throne Speech. The Leader appeared to be in pain as he spoke in the House. In his brief speech, he actually borrowed lines Angus had used earlier that morning in caucus. My, how that must have hurt him. Only the NDP voted against the Throne Speech.

The next morning, my effigy burning in the Leader's office was further fuelled by a feature story in the Globe and Mail. I had steadfastly declined all media interviews the previous evening when rumours of Angus's role in the Liberal flip-flop on the Throne Speech seeped out after the vote. Obviously, someone in Angus's small but growing band of caucus allies was not so discreet and must have spilled the whole story. The piece in the Globe and Mail recounted the entire chain of events link by link in excruciating and, I must say, completely accurate detail. It covered the Leader's caucus rallying cry, the McLintock response, the behind-the-scenes expulsion threats, and the Leader's ultimate Throne Speech reversal. One large photo accompanied the front-page story yep, Angus in full colour, speaking in the House during the initial Throne Speech debate. Just my luck, he looked great in the picture. Fierce and fiery. Almost n.o.ble.

I phoned Bradley first thing Thursday morning. Perpetuating my run of bad luck, he was there to take my call. "Bradley, it's Daniel." I barreled ahead without letting him start in on me. "I swear on a stack of Bibles that I had nothing to do with the Globe piece. I had no idea it was in the works. I returned no calls to the Globe or to anyone else in the gallery last night. I would not do that to the Leader or to you. The story came from someone else who obviously was in caucus yesterday. It's important to me that you know that I would not sell you out like that and neither would Angus." I paused to take a breath. "Bradley? Bradley? h.e.l.lo?" s.h.i.t. And so it goes.

Another smaller but related story appeared in the Globe and Mail that morning. Eric Cameron and Petra Borschart had been located by an intrepid reporter, acting on an anonymous tip. They were living in a newly purchased beach house near beautiful Rum Point on Grand Cayman. They declined comment, but the neighbours described them as quiet, pleasant, and permanent, residents.

I picked Lindsay up on campus and then made the short drive to the ByWard Market and my favourite outrageously expensive restaurant in Ottawa, Le Jardin. Rachel and I had gone there often. It had been "our" restaurant. But just by sitting across from me, Lindsay shoved every thought of my ex into the deepest, nearly inaccessible recesses of my memory. She could do that without trying, without even knowing.

Our conversation ranged from books to politics to popular TV shows when we were kids to my new-found aversion to public transit. We spent fifteen minutes on our favourite Sat.u.r.day Night Live sketches of all time. We seemed to be able to talk about anything with no pretense, no agenda, and no higher purpose other than just sharing the same s.p.a.ce and sentences. Here was an intimacy I'd never before known. Though Le Jardin was packed, we were all alone. Later, I had no recollection of the food or even the bill though I'm certain both were remarkable, if not extraordinary.

In a strange way, our comfort with one another was kind of what I'd always imagined it might be like to have a very close sister, though I was an only child. After closing down the restaurant, she suggested we go back to our local MP's boathouse and watch the stars from the dock. We went inside when frostbite threatened. After that, it wasn't anything at all like having a sister.

DIARY.

Thursday, November 14

My Love,

This week's been a h.e.l.l of a month. It's been nearly seven days since I last opened this folio. I must be more diligent, but I've been running low on time and consciousness.

Earlier this week, I had a relapse of sorts in what I'm told is called my "grieving journey." Rhonda was the culprit. She and her coterie of advisers came to meet with me as part of the ACW's annual National Day of Action. When my eyes fell on her for the first time since your funeral, I felt my healing heart take a turn for the worse. It caught me unawares and put me down for a moment. I think she noticed, but I doubt the others in the room did. When I saw Rhonda, I saw you. In years past, whenever she was around, so were you. My mind, on instinct, places the two of you together ... always.

She learned much from you, but her "both barrels blazing" style was all her own and still is. I know you're proud of her achievements, even if her path is not the one you might have chosen.

I finally gave her your most intimate parting gift. She read your long inscription right there in my office, unable to wait for a more private moment. She held herself together, though we both shed a tear or two.

We didn't really have much of a meeting, which seemed to perplex her entourage. Having debated these issues with the two of you for the better part of two decades, she knows I am with her, as you are, too. The room was thick with your presence. So we mostly talked of you. I trust your ears burned and your face flushed.

Towards the end, Daniel breathlessly came upon the scene, fully three-quarters of an hour late. He knew nothing of our relationship with Rhonda, and feared the worst, given her reputation as a bruising b.o.l.l.o.c.ks breaker. I set him straight thereafter. Another part of my life revealed.

A coup yesterday. We've managed to help that sourpuss Norman Sanderson switch over his archaic shoe factory to an advanced manufacturing facility to produce Deepa Khanjimeer's wave router. You remember Deepa. Brilliant mind. Our beloved government will be underwriting much of the transition costs to retool the plant and retrain the workers. And why not? In the span of about six weeks or so, the employees will go from sewing leather uppers to a.s.sembling high-tech gizmos from soles to silicon without missing a paycheque. I admit to feeling a wee bit high on myself right now. You are free to bask in my glow.

More skylarking at our weekly caucus meeting yesterday. Our fearless but f.e.c.kless Leader actually wanted us to bring down the Tories because Cameron likes his s.e.x with a side order of spanking. It's clear to me who really needs the spanking. As you would know, I stood in my place, politely refused, and bid a hasty retreat. Alas, young Daniel is bearing the brunt of my obstinacy, but that's his job, I reckon. I hear him on the phone, taking body blows as he protects me from the powers that be. Much to my surprise, the scales eventually fell from our b.u.mbling Leader's eyes, and he stood in the House this afternoon and publicly supported the very Throne Speech he'd privately exhorted us to defeat earlier that morning. Either no one has their hand on the tiller, or too many do. Neither augurs well as this channel is strewn with shoals.

Muriel called tonight to let me know that Daniel is at this very moment dining with the young and talented la.s.s Lindsay. Muriel is an inveterate matchmaker where Lindsay is concerned. She loves her granddaughter and has clearly given Daniel the coveted seal of approval. Though it's not exactly my field of expertise, I concur, for what it's worth.

Hallelujah! I actually managed a couple of hours on Baddeck I this evening. I'm very close to taking her out. I want to make sure the ice is strong before the testing begins in earnest. I'd much rather evaluate her seaworthiness in the tepid waters of July.

I'm on the edge of my sleep, my love. Are you still with me?

Aye, you are.

AM.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

In the morning, I drove Lindsay home. She kissed me before getting out. I stayed calm until she disappeared behind the front door of her mother's house. Then, I rejoiced at the top of my lungs in Stanley Cup Final overtime-winning-goal fashion. As my luck would have it, a middle-aged woman, out for an early morning run, pa.s.sed by my car at that precise moment. She leaped away, aghast. I remained in an advanced state of euphoria as her relaxed jog became a frenzied sprint in the opposite direction. What a beautiful day.