Pushing gears, ragged like
the chainring-patterned gauges in my shins.
Blood coursing, pushing me, pushing pedals,
swelling up in a surge of power that hammers
singing to the hum of spin.
Could I fight off a mountain lion?
If need be, I hope it can be done.
Do I run, use the bike as a shield, threaten, or cower?
How will it come? Will I even know what hit me?
Or will it be slow death like the natural order of things?
pampas grass looks human in the Xenon
never gets old
It's getting dark.
What was that noise? Damn pampas grass looks human in the Xenon.
Those deer are like statuary, motionless and watching.
What's not there in the light isn't there in the dark, but
that's hard to tell when it's dark. And it's dark. And quiet.
And lying in wait for me are creatures of fancy
and tiger pits of worry.
Block that shit out and ride the ride.
But the push fades
as the focus blurs.
Where are my legs? Do I have a flat? Why am I going so slow?
Such a platform for cleansing and purification,
waste must pass through the system before removal.
It can be a painful process, mentally and physically.
So much crap gets whisked out of the psyche and the arteries and the
Deep-fried philosophy hardens the synapses.
It's time to stand
down on the training,
will I ever get back to this level again? It's hard to let go
of hard-fought ground, and the future is impenetrable.
It's time to get reacquainted with my golf game.
Whipped and frothing,
the Hoo-E runs with purpose
precious seconds tick off, and
night fades in the face of electricity and microprocessors.
I disappear into the light and the warmth, but the night remains,