Exodus Part Two: the beginning.

Tomorrow at high noon I'll be skipping town again. I may have said before I am not as light in spirit as I was last time around, but I think that's just because I have a better idea of what to expect. I will admit to a more melancholy feeling this time, because this summer I got a lot closer to my family. In particular, my relationship with my brother and his kids; huge leaps. 

Last time I wasn't thinking much about what I would miss, I was just thinking of what I had been missing. This time there is a bit more guilt. But that quickly diminishes when I remember the rush of the unknown.

Feeling Jumpy

All I have every wanted is simplicity. In all offerings. Maybe that's why I'm perpetually single, but it could be why I'm perpetually single and content. I love to be in love, I am in love with love, and when I am not in love, I'm never trashing the idea either. I never wonder if it's all worth it.

I don't subscribe to the notion that love is work. The only three times I've been in love I made hardly any effort. I've given a ton of myself and made compromises and fought and bled and cried and suffered for the ones I love(d), but they could never be labeled as efforts.

Talk Nerdy to Me

Fuses got some matches put to them in the last couple of days. It's officially on, but it's a limp start, not like the well campaigned Exodus of the last fiscal year. This time around, the preface is the Hincapie Gran Fondo down in South Carolina followed by four days at a little cottage in Athens, GA. Past that, we'll see what stumbles into us. 

It's a start and momentum, for me, gains speed quickly once its given a green light. I've been reticent this time around to get any cogs rotating because of work. I still have a business and people who depend on me to make sure they have a place to go in the morning and a paycheck on Friday.

Sex or Cycling?

I got to thinking yesterday on my ride if sex or riding my bike was more pleasurable. Both are sweaty, heart-wrenching, emotionally fueled smackdowns that test your stamina. Both can incite euphoria or break you. They can be a hammer-fest or a polite, slow stroll. So now, it's time for the breakdown: 

THE LEAD UP:

Sex:  You think about it full-sprint, swirling around all the possibilities like chinese meditation balls. If it’s going to be with someone whose balls you've been swirling for a long time, you might be nervous, even unsteady. If it's a brand new meeting, there isn't much to it but raw energy. Either way, you want to enjoy every single second of it, allow it to linger, and to never have it end.

We Need Stinking Badges

I have been thinking of badges a lot lately. Powerful little things, badges. The boy scouts and the military figured this out a long, long time ago indeed. For example, and I did not make  this up, I present the the most pathetic boy-scout badge ever; the “Respect Copyrights Activity Patch,” awarded for turning in your buddy for his pirated copy of Avatar. Little snitches will line up for badges like ants on candy.

I’m thinking of them because I am a member of a site called Strava, and also a member of a competing site called RidewithGPS. Neither of these names make it obvious regarding their content or purpose, but then again Google wasn’t even a word until 2001.

The Art of Falling on Your Ass

Yesterday I really wanted to feel the road. So I took a little spill at 30MPH. 

It's something all cyclist's kind of want to have happen to them. It's like going out in a downpour, a tight arm tan and an undercarriage that looks like a mine field. It says "I don't just ride a bike, I'm a cyclist." I never go out expecting to crash, or lose skin, or break anything, but I do know that if you are going to ride a bike, eventually you will fall off of it. 

And I can tell you that finishing off the last 40K of a 100K ride bleeding and torn is vastly more satisfying that finishing it in one-piece. You can get road rash from riding 100 miles a year or 10,000 miles a year, the frat will still approve the pledge. I've ridden this year 6,500 miles with no crashes. But I knew it was coming.

You can fall right, or you can fall wrong. You can go high-side, low-side, over-the-bars or, and this is the one you never want anyone to see but one every cyclist has done: the sack-of-spuds.