It was late in the afternoon when I got taken for my ride. The sun was hanging low in the December sky, and I was grinning like a fool. I wouldn’t stop until the sun went down.

I was sitting in the front seat of the three-wheeled bicycle rickshaw being propelled by John Seigel-Boettner, an ebullient cross between Big Bird, Johnny Appleseed, and Mr. Rogers. He was giving me a test ride down Hollister Avenue in the suburban wilds of outer Noleta.

I was waving at everybody we passed. Everybody was waving back.