I’m just about the only one in the secret city who rides a 700×23
wheel, so whenever I see hard, thin tracks like these, I know I’m the
one who made them. The 105 psi of air in my tires leaves nice tracks
on the dirt lots; these traces I left just to the south of my lodging,
on the way to the refectory.

 Seeing my tracks comforts me, making me feel as if I belong (I don’t
really want to belong in the secret city, but…). Maybe belonging
isn’t the right word. More a sense of continuity. When I came back
after my trip out of town last month, they were gone and I felt like I
had just arrived for the first time.