I broke away from the machine that tells me what to do next and scheduled a little play date with an old sweetheart, the Cadillac trail. This was no workout. Nobody was trained-like a dog. Straight up funsies. This was flexing singletrack know-how and can-do.
That is not to say that rubber wasn’t burned because the Espresso Love and the calcified righteous indignation of a Willie Loman bucking script; a man who has tired of politely excusing himself onto the ledgge– this is the atmosphere for a play date.
I went to have tea with the Death-Eaters.
The trail playgrounds were full of activity, and a few people gave me the opportunity to reclaim my humanity by communicating with intent and purpose. All that non-manic talking felt a little dusty in my mouth after a week of eyes rolled back in my head madness. The Titus jumped like a Red Pony. The trail was dusty and loose, a tunnel of green and not yet summer!
Junior Cottonmouth got caught out in the middle of a wide sandy section of trail and he was high-tailing his ass as fast as he could when I rolled up on him. He was looking embarrassed and sure he was done for certain. I passed and spun around as quick as I could stop to catch another look.
I lost him in the leaves and realized he had regained the upper hand.