WTBN session 4 - clarity of place and time

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If we aren't clear about our descriptions, especially when there's a change of time and/or location, readers disengage with our writing. Like radio announcers, we only have our words to hold our readers. We know what we're writing about but our readers don't. This is my first attempt at describing my commute to work - an hour's cycle ride to Surfers Paradise.

CYCLING TO WORK
The boom gate goes up and down as I cycle out of the confines of the over-fifties complex and, before me, is the openness of nature. The serpentine cycle track ahead wends its way through mower-loved grassland and between trees verdant with birds of every screech and squawk imaginable – magpies, cockatoos, parrots, lorikeets, kookaburras – while silent ibises strut about like officious rubbish collectors.
To my left is the tidal lake with the shy, rising sun pouring golden syrup across the rippling waters.
I’ll say hello to Pete with his poodle, Jack with his … yes, his Jack Russell, Marjorie with her clacking walking stick and other regulars in this early-morning sunshine.
Some strangers look startled as I greet them, speeding by, and I know, in a few days, they’ll initiate the greeting and raise their eyes above the ground. Connecting with transient others is a learning curve.
Black is still the new black in town but, here, it’s every other bright colour imaginable. Is it that they’re retired and free, that they live close to nature or some other reason? Not a black garment to be seen and their smiles and banter are as vibrant as their attire.
There’s two men in waist-high water, casting their nets and then an old chap sitting on the lake-edge with his line out and pug dog snoozing wheezily beside him.
Three hundred yards later, two teenagers have clambered over the security gate and are fishing off the private wharf. I yell gidday, give them the thumbs-up and they laugh back – a shared celebration of victory for harmless anarchy.
After five minutes of weaving round curves and dodging walkers deaf to my bell, I break out into a cul-de-sac as trees give way to houses on my right, the inflowing lake my constant companion on my left. Then through another, shorter forest ride.
I appreciate that every tree and bird call is different as I zoom out into another street – square is the shape of houses and the colours are limited to white, beige and grey. No one would dare painting their abode in green, red, green or blue. Like the black clothes in town – and in every café – we don’t want to stray from the unspoken rule about being different, like everyone else.
Mind you, when I get to work I will change out of my green and white lycra and into my slacks and business shirt. We’re all captives of the rules of engagement, somehow, aren’t we!
So, half an hour along the black and white road, watching every black and white car – lest they’re not watching me – I come to the Big Blue, the Labrador beach with the screech of seagulls and smell of brine. This is another concrete path for bicycles, prams, wheelchairs, walkers, runners and dogs … and two chaps cycling along with a budgie on each of their shoulders.
As I cycle closer to Surfers Paradise, the colours, body-shapes and languages increase in variety – the whole planet sampled in this holiday microcosm. The other preponderance I notice is, as the relentless waves play their calming music beyond the smooth sand, are bodies puffed up with exercise and steroids as they stiffly strut their tanned skins before us. Pete, Jack and Marjorie think these people are funny but they regard themselves with grave seriousness.
And I wonder … does the water’s inability to judge encourage people’s creativity and variety? Does nature allow us to be our unabashed selves in