Fast for Not Racing

I thought in an instant, this is a moment you have captured in time. Sunday morning on the way to the races, but not racing, I see a boy riding a bike with his cat.

We are not racing, and so we go as fast as we can, especially if anyone stops paying attention for one second. This is the type of thing that makes us go faster.

The race scene is giant cars and rolling gangs. Forearms with extra muscles flicker through gears. “COME ON!” One racer lady yells at me. I must have been standing in a bad place. It is all terribly confusing- these momentary subdivisions in the park. Everyone else seems to know what is going on. I however, could not figure out what was going on. I felt like I did in College Algebra. I got a C in that.

I got on my bike and rode as fast and as hard as I could, frequently attempting to push my riding associates further back down the trail. Racing, however, just isn’t for me.

Wrecking Ball beat Big Jim Slade but the ‘Ball had a hard look to his face while Big Jim looked serene.

Sometimes there is just no explaining things.

On the way home a little girl dressed like Cyndi Lauper rode a skateboard out in front of me on Beard Street. I slowed down to avoid her and saw the sign, Lemonade 50 cents. Times are getting tough and I know a deal when I see one. Despite the strongarm marketing tactics I bit. Fresh squeezed honest to God lemonade, on an overcast October day with Halloween decorations on every other house.

After that I passed a bluegrass band playing “Home to east Virginia.”

Summer says a slow goodbye.


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