I’ve had some ask what the impetus is to keep coming back to the rail trail for big distances when I could just as soon start them from my front door and go anywhere else. The cold little voice on my shoulder says it counts less, and I giggle because the pain inflicted by monotony and metronome turns you inward in a sharper way than the mountain and the wood.
I cannot hide from you there.
Some cannot survive you there.
I come back to you in rehearsal of the day when you’ve decided I’ve done enough, hoping I can appeal to your mercy to meet me with nothing left unsaid.
I’m certain reckoning doesn’t come after death, but in the centuries-long moments before; it will land like an assault for those whose closets rattle with skeletons not yet dead.
And so,
I draw my sword.
-‘Letters to Thanatos’
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That has only come to bear more weight since I began to work in a hospital. Even though my presence in a patient’s room spans only five minutes, the way pretense tends to be useless in a bed means each time is an opportunity for me to really meet somebody. Three days of the week I am consumed by the effects of that.
The other four have been consumed by rallying for bike fitness at the very end of the season. I’ve been riding problem-free for two months, and although it was not enough to make any meaningful short racing comeback this year, I know where the weakness is and solving that is my winter plan.
But the attempt to take back the Katy FKT is green-lit like it’s Christmas. The bike is ready. I have (most of) my faculties back. We’re now just watching the weather.
Because I’m me, I’ll either be slower to publish than usual or be struck by impulse tomorrow. I’m sorry. I have less control of my fingers than you may assume.
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I was lurking late a couple nights ago on Strava and ended up scrolling all the way back to two winters ago on my own account. I had driven an hour to ride with people again but exploded before we even got out of town.
Someone in the comments said, “Keep coming back.”
I will the machine. 