“That felt better,” is what I said aloud.
But, my body began to respond to demand once background programs were no longer running is what I understood.
_____
I am in constant conversation with myself. The magma underfoot shows me where mind and body diverge.
The crust rises as they meet.
Almost three weeks ago, I moved into another tiny space. I just finished settling into it today, psychologically, and moved my writing desk in. That took months the last time. I am no longer debating with tension before bed, nor issuing my own reassurance that everything is as it seems.
As much as heightened vigilance has served me well, it is no longer in service. I can feel that. It is its own free spirit; it shows up uninvited when it knows something I don’t, and heads out on sabbatical just the same.
I declined in that house. There is no single culprit, but I had never felt more consistently despondent on a bike than in the past six months. I’d feel myself one day, and a husk for the next few. Within these past few weeks, I’ve gone from being insta-shelled in my first criterium back in five years (longer since they were a trend), to sticking to a men’s category 4/5 field and thinking “Nobody expects shit from me right now. Should I create 45 seconds of chaos for no reason?” (Maybe next time.)
I have been forced to adapt to changing environments, and the people in them, for my entire lifetime. I went to seven different schools between 3rd and 6th grade, and moved three times in the year after I was kicked out at 18. Then I got the van at 24, and rapid acceptance of change became an artform both when it was my choice and when it was fated. Zip codes, relationships, employers; any one of those is upended and I spend 48-hours or less with emotions about it. After that, we’re right back to analyzing what went wrong and anticipating future goals I have little reason to believe will hold, simultaneously. Perfectly understandable grieving periods have been unconsciously converted into readable material.
I’ve been joining a Tuesday evening group ride that I will get dropped from every time, get frustrated by it for about 7 seconds, recover from the effort, and then settle into a steady-but-hard solo effort to the end automatically. The first half of the ride bludgeons me with speed I am only just beginning to retrain, and the second I re-enter the solo rhythm where I do my best work. Two vastly different operations, accessible at once.
It’s simple to label all of it as resilience, but calling me that closes the book of struggle when I’m not done studying.
So, if you’ve wondered why I rehash so much in writing, and keep putting all of my existential energy into trying to live big stories on bikes despite everything that shuts me down,
it’s that Windows needs to update.
I will restore all tabs.
_____
My crit bike is currently in pieces, curing for final touches and then a clear coat. We begin the slow ramp to Mishigami while we wait.
I will the machine. 