The Cape swarms with bicycles in July and August. The Cape Cod Rail Trail, a good many miles of paved bikeway along the old railroad track, has been in place for decades, but in the past few years, racers in full regalia on thousand dollar bikes, courting couples, and large families equipped with training wheels and trailers have jammed the secondary roads as well.

We're year-round residents now, but we were visitors once too. We wish them fun and a safe holiday, although we can't imagine shepherding our own four children through traffic like this summer's. Typically, the man goes first, a half dozen children wobble on behind, and the harried woman corrals the strays. Among the younger couples without children, one rider usually goes too fast. We see red faces and grim expressions.

The trails are open to pedestrians as well, and we've finally learned how to react to calls of "on your right". It's sometimes a tense squeeze along the narrow and winding roads, with cars and bikers traveling in both directions. Fortunately there were no fatalities this year, but weren't sorry to see it end. Noel Beyle, our local historian, posted the count of so many days to Labor Day at his house overlooking Cape Cod Bay. This was in addition to the sign announcing The Viagra Oyster Company. The Chamber of Commerce hopes for an ever longer shoulder season, but the pressure is definitely off by September.

I've had a bicycle most of my life. I rode a rugged fat-tired Schwin, stripped of inessentials and painted black, until my senior year in high school, when I got my '38 Chevy. I wish I still had them both. I bought a new 3-speed Rudge for $65 before I went on a thousand mile American Youth Hostel tour of New England in 1956. I rode it again for a few years in the mid 1970's, from our house in the suburbs to a Philadelphia commuter station. Coming home in the dark, I had to keep to the deserted sidewalks. By then one of the tires had been inflated for nearly thirty years.

There are five bicycles in our garage now. My son hasn't needed his back in Philadelphia yet. I bought the ladies' bike for $5 at our church's tag sale. My wife says she'll try it after I've fixed it up. The two clunkers didn't sell at any price, so I took them home for parts. Unfortunately, bicycle innards aren't as standardized as I'd thought they were. My own bicycle is an old ten-speed Schwin in fine condition. It was given to me by Dave Eagles, a friend in his eighties who just bought himself a new trail bike.

I generally ride at around 7:00 in the morning, when even in the summer I pass few cars on the back roads. I've raised my handle bars so that I can sit up and be a tourist, rather than have to pedal hunched over like a racer. I don't own a helmet. This is a preference more than a statement. Helmets aren't required for adults in Massachusetts, and I don't feel in danger on the early morning roads.

My wife and I enjoy walking several miles a day on the National Seashore trails. Driving at the 30 mile an hour limit on local roads can be pleasant too. But bicycling is the best. It's wonderfully smooth and silent, and if you're in no hurry, the scenery glides by at a perfect pace for viewing.

For the Buddha, all existence is suffering or "Dukkha," an expressive term that might work well on a New York state license plate. Certainly life is imperfect, and occasionaly it's quite painful. When it's at its best is when its impermanence and loss are most threatening. Still, if you ride down to Cape Cod Bay on your bicycle early in the morning, the sense of earthly joy and beauty can be overwhelming.

The trees are shorter near the bay, perhaps because of the storms and the salt air. The presence of the water brings the sky nearer and strengthens the light. The brush and grass are thick from the sun and moisture and tend to hide the houses. After two dud summers, the beach plums are bursting with purple fruit. The broom sedge is three feet tall and beginning to turn its autumn red. The full cast is here: pitch pine and scrub oak, bearberry, poverty grass, yucca, and bayberry, just a little more intense than farther inland.

From the 30 foot bluff at Thumpertown one morning, the terns flashed bright above the surf. With the tide well in, the beach was a band of smooth beige sand, draped evenly with strands of seaweed, like Japanese rice paper or a bowl of spinach soup.

Occasionally someone else will be at the beach. We keep silent for a moment, but we both want to speak: "Wonderful, eh?"

Today there was a fellow standing at the top of the wooden stairs with a hand to his head. I thought he was talking on a cell phone, but he was only scratching his jaw. We agreed it was a fine morning, and he left me alone with the bay. I met two walkers and a coyote on the way home We looked each other in the eye and said a cheerful 'good morning'. If it's an illusion, it's a grand one.