Sometimes when I’m riding bikes or driving I have long, uninterrupted strings of prose run through my head-complete in grammar and theme. I think to myself, “Man that is just how I want to write it down!”
Of course I never remember them, I think of them as the lost posts, oh well.
Yesterday was such a day, from the corned beef hash and poached eggs with rye toast- a breakfast perfect in flavor and culturally accurate- to the dry, dusty winds coming off Lake Talquin on a day so bright you can see through your eyelids.
The Lines Tract trail is rugged and woolly, unridden 364 days a year until the BRC invitational comes around again. Four of us responded to the call. We even got lost, or “turned around” after clover-leafing (appropriate to the day no?) for miles and miles. An edge of concern or panic crept in, as people were low on fluids and tired. Mystery and I were right at home. We promptly sat down and ate all the food, drank all our water and rode off in a random direction. That always seems to work.
3 hours of tough plowing in the woods was more than I deserved and almost more than I wanted, but I seemed to gain strength as the sun moved overhead and the heat kicked in.
The drive home. The Erykah Bahdu. The Bocci ball.
It was a perfect bluebird day.