Monthly Archives: December 2013

A certain kind of day

Today is a good day to go out and break some bottles under a railroad overpass and smoke a pack of menthol cigarettes with a friend.  Wet and drizzly, just a little nameless day between Christmas and New Year’s.  You could put notes in the bottles and deliver them to the tracks, air mail.  When the train runs over the paper, “This note will never go anywhere” gets swept along for a second before dissolving in a puddle. Light another Newport and contemplate your sure to be cool-ass future, once you decide what you want to do.  You feel angst, so you write, “I feel angst” on the side of a lit cigarette and drop it in a Heineken bottle full of bum spit, then wing it sidearm into the abutment across the tracks.  Smashing into another message, “Everyone knows this is Nowhere” painted in fluorescent pink and fading.  “The two thoughts smash together, one burning the other enduring, but certain to disappear eventually.  The abutment has nothing but time.   I guess you could call that a meeting of the minds.

You’re not that kid anymore, if you ever were, more time having been spent craving melancholy than actually coly-ing any melons.  Still, you were dangerous right? Totally.

Clickety clack turning pedals over the tracks, no trains in the distance, no trains today.  You could stop to put your ear to the rail, wait for one to get close then stand with your arms outstretched to either side as close as you dare, staring at the onrush of sulfur-dioxide tanks and benzine containers with illegible tags blurring by painted somewhere in Gary, Indiana or Jacksonville, FL.   If there were any trains, you could do that.

Ride along until the twilight, then lay your head down in a pasture underneath some sky you will never look at the same way ever again, maybe that’s the Hale-Bopp comet or maybe there’s just something on your glasses.  With no dissenting opinions present you declare it the Hale-Bopp comet.  “Behold the comet!” you proclaim to a bunch of cows clustered around your grassy nest.  The cows believe you.  They  look at you in fearful awe.  They might think you disembarked from the sky and landed in their field, wrapped in  flannel and Quallofil like some paper mache baby jesus delivered unto their manger.  No, you’re not that.  You are just today’s disembodied thought stuck in a 1997 cul desac, trying to remember if that was Montana or Colorado.   Probably Nevada.



Crash Report

The dust that Juancho bit down south ended up in Juancho’s mouth.

Three days after the crash new bruises, brewed deep in fatty tissue and steeped in airport layovers, bloomed like bubbles rising from the stem of a champagne glass. Pop! This one looks like an indigo nimbus, this one looks like Mr. Spock.  Bar and stem turned traitors, like being stabbed in  the gut by your best friend, your own damn kin. The contusions are nothing compared to the invisible pain between the ribs. A strain, a pull, a cracked bone? Who knows, but it keeps me hunched like a geriatric wincing out of bed, standing up, lifting a coffee cup.

Is it worth a couple grand to get that pedal a few centimeters higher off the deck? You know it.

Those first few seconds rolling over in the dirt, hunching, afraid to take the inventory.  The sky above so blue and the clouds ever-receding into it.  Always on the move, never disappearing.  What is that? I calculate how far I am from the road, and what will it take?  A four-wheeler? A danged helicopter?  Too much to consider, and besides, you’re probably fine. Ambulatory anyway, once you suck it up and face things.

I’m glad for Hitops.  Standing over me, not panicking, already celebrating the nuances of what was hopefully a spectacular crash.   I remember the taste of dirt, and a hand deflecting a wheel, black frame swooping down on me like a raptor, claws out for blood.

“Just give me a minute.”  Hands and knees now, things slowly un-fuzzing, hard drive reboot almost complete. Open in Safe Mode? Your operating system experienced an unexpected error.  I guess I hit my head, but it doesn’t hurt.  This hot knife in between the ribs is the issue.  Stand up.  Whoa! Bad idea.  Lay back down, feet on helmet, the friendly blue sky and the retreating clouds.  Yes, much better.  Just a few more minutes of this please.

Finally rising, stable.  I can do this.  All I can do not to smash this carbon fiber piece of shit into the nearest pine, or raise it above my head and crush it onto the artificial Munson turf.  Honestly, I should sue the Forest Service for laying down a pitcher’s mound on our lovely sand and pine bed.

“It will bring more riders to the trail!” they said, as if that is somehow a good thing.

Oh well, nothing to do but heal, and shop for a new bike, which always fixes everything.






Comeback number eleven begins with madly registering for endurance events around the state. This is like learning to fight by taunting bullies. Send them harassing messages, talk about them in front of their friends, then three weeks later take a carefree stroll down their block after school. So stupid. I don’t even like events.

I’m all sheet-rocked into adulthood, with no way out except to run madly, blindly, into the walls and hope to not hit a stud. Eventually I’ m going to see daylight.

Like this post, sometimes you have to just blog your way out of a slump and get on with it, rather than wait for the precious stone forming in your bowels to drop.

Packing up to fly west for a 48 hour turnaround trip to Albuquerque. I have my court/church clothes pressed and rolled into my suitcase. It is the perfect Neo-Con disguise, but only I know where the glitter on the bottom of my black derbies came from.