Tomorrow night I will lay my head down at Oak Mountain, Alabama. Three days of working all day and riding all evening. I can hardly remember what singletrack is like.
I visited the Eastside trails finally. Things are far from normal out there, although if you work for it you can still put a ride together. Deep, sludgy, contaminated, mosquito-farm water is present at the entrance and along the lower sections closest to the railroad tracks. I saw not one riding soul out there on Saturday. Discouraging. This could be explained by the hours I rode, between 11:00 A:M and 2:00 P:M. It was hot and hazy.
Joe and I met at the park at sundown last night like sweet gay lovers and we walked the trail and I got caught up on the nightmare. Our very ownNicol sent a card with a picture of her bike and a Joe’s t-shirt and an earnest letter of support as only a New Plains Re-Migrator could do.
Joe is a little embarrassed by all the love, but I told him it is his own fault for being overly decent. It is not many of us who get a glimpse of what our funeral will be like. He should not be disappointed. Anonymous envelopes with cash show up in his mailbox. He can’t go to the grocery store without being stopped by a dozen people asking after his well-being and the future of the shop. He is not used to the attention, but it is important to people I tell him.
As Joe always has, he brings out a better side in us.
I, for one, seriously need the shop to re-open. I was working on my disc brakes last night with a spoon and a pipe cleaner. Now, they really squeak.