Joyride (Encore)

Get more, nothing much happens, with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love.

Subscribe now.

Make your next move with American Express Business Platinum.

Enjoy complimentary access to the American Express Global Lounge Collection.

And with a welcome offer of 150,000 points after you spend $20,000 on purchases on the card within your first three months of membership, your business can soar to new heights.

Terms apply.

Learn more at AmericanExpress.com slash business dash platinum.

MX Business Platinum.

Built for business by American Express.

Chronic migraine, 15 or more headache days a month, each lasting four hours or more, can make me feel like a spectator in my own life.

Botox, onobotulinum toxin A, prevents headaches in adults with chronic migraine.

It's not for those with 14 or fewer headache days a month.

It's the number one prescribed branded chronic migraine preventive treatment.

Prescription Botox is injected by your doctor.

Effects of Botox may spread hours to weeks after injection, causing serious symptoms.

Alert your doctor right away, as difficulty swallowing, speaking, breathing, eye problems, or muscle weakness can be signs of a life-threatening condition.

Patients with these conditions before injection are at highest risk.

Side effects may include allergic reactions, neck, and injection, side pain, fatigue, and headache.

Allergic reactions can include rash, welts, asthma symptoms, and dizziness.

Don't receive Botox if there's a skin infection.

Tell your doctor your medical history, muscle or nerve conditions, including ALS Lugarik's disease, myasthenia gravis or Lambert Eaton syndrome, and medications including botulinum toxins, as these may increase the risk of serious side effects.

Why wait?

Ask your doctor, visit BotoxchronicMigraine.com, or call 1-800-44-Botox to learn more.

Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone,

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good,

and then

you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly.

And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.

Okay.

So we are getting closer to 100 million downloads of Nothing Much Happens.

And that's one way of saying

that this works.

I will put you to sleep.

And all you need to do is listen.

Just follow along with the sound of my voice and we'll actually shift your brain activity

and sleep will follow.

I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn the story right back on or just think your way through any parts of it that you can remember.

Our story tonight is called Joyride

and it's a story about a spontaneous trip for two friends.

on a summer day.

It's also about music coming from the record shop store,

a new book and a beloved series,

and riding off into the sunset with the windows rolled down.

Now,

it's time to turn out the light

and put away anything you've been looking at or working on.

Send your body the signal that it is time for sleep.

Get as comfortable as you can

and let your limbs drop heavy into the sheets.

You have done enough for today.

It is enough.

And I'll be here,

keeping watch as you rest.

Take a slow breath in

and sigh

again in through the nose

and out through the mouth.

Good

joy ride

The day was calling to me.

It was one of those soft summer days,

not too hot, but bright and sweet smelling.

The grass was thick and green on every corner

the tiger lilies blooming in tall stalks along the roadside.

The baby robins whose broken, bright blue shells I'd spotted on walks a a month or two ago

were fully grown

and flying through the treetops.

Kids had been out of school for long enough to have fallen into their summer schedules.

And in the neighborhoods, you'd spot a pile of bikes dumped on a front lawn, marking where they were playing.

The cafes and restaurants downtown had tables and chairs set up for open-air dining.

And the basketball court in the park was busy

with hurriedly assembled teams buying for the next win.

On days like this,

it calls to you

to get out and

enjoy.

To fall asleep under a big tree

or wander down toward the river

and sink your feet into the moving water.

I was just ending my shift at the record shop.

We'd been pretty busy today.

The stores on either side of us were having sidewalk sales.

And while we couldn't set our vinyl out in the sunny spot in front of our shop window without warping our records,

we propped the door open

and played the kind of slow,

languorous jazz

that made passers-by imagine,

if only for a few minutes,

that they were in a movie,

probably one where they drove a convertible

down a dusty desert road,

and their hat went flying off into the distance.

I watched people on the sidewalk turn toward the music,

stop and look in through the window,

a subtle change in their faces as they spotted an album cover they loved,

or took in our crates full of cassette tapes.

They'd step in,

their eyes adjusting from the bright day

to the cool, dim shop.

When you could feel

the excitement

of them being about to discover

some new piece of music,

when was the last time you flipped through a stack of records?

When did you last treat yourself to a new album or book

or piece of art?

Some might think it

unimportant,

unessential.

And of course that is the point.

A life without the delights of what other humans can create

with their minds and hearts and hands

could probably be survived,

but it would certainly only be half-lived.

And working here,

playing music every day,

reading the lyrics between ringing up records,

hearing the stories that go with the songs, the memories they revive for customers.

It has made me appreciate

an adorned life,

a decorated,

romanticized life.

A life where

when you get out of work on a sunny afternoon

and feel called by the day to do something sweet

and spontaneous,

You do.

I walked through the streets,

stopping to duck my head into the bookshop

and wave to my friend behind the counter.

A while back we'd found an old armchair at an estate sale

and I'd helped her haul it into the shop.

We'd wedged it behind the counter for her,

swapping it for the rather uncomfortable stool that had sat there for years.

Now she could sit with her feet propped up on a shelf under the counter,

lean back,

and read while the customers browsed.

She had a new book open in front of her.

Just a few pages in her left hand, and a couple hundred in her right.

And I knew that meant she was just settling in.

What are you reading?

I asked as I leaned against the open doorway.

New book in my series,

she said without looking up.

Hmm, sounds like serious business.

It is.

Can't talk.

But you can pet Elfie before you go.

I chuckled and stepped in and around the desk to squat down and pet her sweet dog alphabet.

Elfie for short.

And he was short.

Some sort of Docs and Corgi Bassett situation, but with some other bits in there too.

He rolled over, and I scratched his chest.

He perked up a bit and rolled onto his feet,

taking a slow, big stretch, which of course I acknowledged by saying, ooh, big stretch.

He shook himself like he'd just climbed out of the lake,

then looked at me as if to say,

well, I'm up.

Now what?

I looked up at his mom with her nose deep in her book and got an idea.

Now, a ride in the car on a sunny day with the music up and the windows down

is already a pretty great thing.

But if you add a dog into the equation, it gets much better.

And we could drive to a park,

take a walk, I could get him a puppy cone, and me a

dish of that lemon sorbet I liked.

I must have been thinking pretty loudly, because when I looked up again,

she still had her nose in the book,

but now held Elfie's leash out to me with one hand.

Have him back by six and take his bag with you.

She tilted her head toward a canvas sack hanging from the coat rack.

There's a doggy water bottle in there.

Make sure he has a drink if he gets hot.

Yes, mom, I said, as I clipped the leash to Elfie's collar.

He tippy-tapped excitedly on the old wood floors as I slung the bag over my shoulder.

Have fun, kids, she called from behind her book.

We will have fun, I said to Elfie.

I'd doggy sat him plenty in the past, and he was happy to come with me.

We stopped to sniff along the sidewalk,

Alfie checking and responding to his p-mail at most of the trees.

When we got to my car, I opened his door.

And he hopped up into the passenger seat.

In his bag he had a harness with a seat belt connector, and I buckled him in.

Soon the windows were down,

and Elf had his head stuck out into the slipstream,

his tail thumping against the seat back.

I found some summer music to turn up

and rested my hand on his back as we drove.

This, I thought,

is a joy ride.

Joyride.

The day was calling to me.

It was one of those soft

summer days,

not too hot, but bright

and smelling.

The grass was thick and green on every corner

The tiger lilies blooming in tall stalks along the roadside

The baby robins whose broken bright blue shells

I'd spotted on walks

a month or two ago were fully grown

and flying through the treetops.

Kids had been out of school for long enough

to have fallen into their summer schedules.

And in the neighborhoods,

You could spot a pile of bikes dumped on a front lawn

to know where they were playing.

The cafes and restaurants downtown

had tables and chairs set up

for open-air dining,

and the basketball court in the park

was busy with hurriedly assembled teams

vying for the next win.

On days like this,

it calls to you

to get out

and enjoy.

To fall asleep under a big tree

or wander down toward the river

and sink your feet

into the moving water.

I was just ending my shift at the record shop.

We'd been pretty busy today.

The stores on either side of us were having sidewalk sales.

And while we couldn't set our vinyl out in the sunny spot

in front of our shop window

without warping our records,

We propped the door open

and played the kind of slow,

languorous jazz

that made passers-by

imagine,

if only for a few minutes,

that they were in a movie.

Probably one where

they drove a convertible down a dusty desert road

and their hat went flying off into the distance

I watched people on the sidewalk turn toward the music

stop and

look in through the window

a subtle change in their faces

as they spotted an album cover they loved

or took in our crates full of cassette tapes.

They'd step in,

their eyes adjusting from the bright day

to the cool, dim shop.

And you could feel the excitement of them

about to discover

some new piece of music.

When was the last time

you flipped through a stack of records?

When did you last treat yourself to a new album or book

or piece of art?

Some might think it unimportant,

unessential.

And of course,

that is the point.

A life without the delights of what other humans can create with their minds and hearts and hands

could probably be survived,

but it would certainly only be half-lived.

And working here,

playing music every day,

reading lyrics between ringing up records,

hearing the stories that go with the songs,

the memories they revive for customers.

It has made me appreciate

an adorned life,

a decorated,

romanticized life.

A life where

when you get out of work on a sunny afternoon

and feel called by the day

to do something sweet and spontaneous,

you do.

I walked through the streets,

stopping to duck my head into the bookshop

and wave to my friend behind the counter.

A while back, we'd found an old armchair at an estate sale,

and I'd helped her haul it into the shop.

We'd wedged it behind the counter for her,

swapping it for the rather uncomfortable stool that had been there for years.

Now she could sit with her feet propped up on a shelf under the counter,

lean back and read

while the customers browsed.

She had a new book open in front of her,

just a few pages in her left hand,

and a couple hundred in her right.

And I knew that meant she was just settling in.

What are you reading?

I asked as I leaned against the open doorway.

New book in my series.

She said without looking up.

Hmm.

Sounds like serious business.

It is, can't talk, but you can pet Elfie before you go.

I chuckled

and stepped in and around the desk

to squat down and pet her sweet dog alphabet.

Alfie for short.

And he was short.

Some sort of dachshund, corgi, bassett situation,

but with some other bits in there, too.

He rolled over, and I scratched his chest.

He perked up a bit and rolled onto his feet, taking a slow, big stretch,

which, of course,

I acknowledged by saying, ooh, big stretch.

He shook himself like he'd just climbed out of the lake,

then looked at me, as if to say,

Well,

I'm up.

Now what?

I looked up at his mom, with her nose

deep in her book,

and got an idea.

A ride in the car

on a sunny day, with the music up

and the windows down.

It's already a pretty great thing.

But if you add a dog into the equation, it gets much better.

And we could drive to a park,

take a walk.

I could get him a puppy cone,

and me a dish of that lemon sorbet I liked.

I must have been thinking pretty loudly,

because when I looked again,

she still had her nose in the book,

but now held Elfie's leash out to me with one hand.

Have him back by six, and take his bag with you.

She tilted her head toward a canvas sack hanging from the coat rack.

There's a doggy water bottle in there.

Make sure he has a drink if he gets hot.

Yes, mom, I said as I clipped the leash to Elfie's collar.

He tippy tapped excitedly on the old wood floors

as I slung the bag over my shoulder.

Have fun, kids, she called from behind her book.

We will have fun, I said to Elfie.

I doggy sat him plenty in the past, and he was happy to come with me.

We stopped to sniff along the sidewalk,

Elfie checking and responding to his p-mail

at most of the trees.

When we got to my car,

I opened his door, and he hopped up into the passenger seat.

In his bag, he had a harness with a seat belt connector

when I buckled him in.

Soon the windows were down.

An elf had his head stuck out into the slipstream,

his tail thumping against the seat back.

I found some summer music to turn up

and rested my hand on his back as we drove.

This, I thought,

is a joy ride,

sweet dreams.