In which the general surveys the field of battle after the campaign

No noisy crowds this time. No lycra army skewing towards the white male 28-45 demographic. No fluorescent tape. Nothing going on at San Felasco except single track burned into the ground by a thousand tires. Future archaeologists will remark on the leisure time available to the middle class during the late twentieth and early 21st centuries. They will shake their leathery heads in shame thinking of all of the misspent kilowatts that could have been diverted towards building the innovative solutions to survive the Great Adjustment period of the 2050’s, like the human gill and the implanted braInpod. These ones enjoyed themselves they will say The two-wheeled Roman Fiddlers Society.

Taking the Redline to the cornering limits, I surfed the grey line through the slippery pine needles and tasted fresh air instead of dust. After losing myself somewhere in the back corners of the Red Bug Run I topped out in the late day sunlight, my mind eased at recognizing the way back as the day grew dark. I should just about make it if I keep this speed and make no mistakes, not that I was ever concerned. I keep that speed and make a couple of mistakes. The sun is gone but the day still glows. A flock of deer blow across an open pasture, eyes flickering as they pass into the trees.

I sit on the tailgate of the van and strap tomorrow back on, the pants and the measurable outcomes. That is the real trail back home, and this one just a skirmish in a much larger campaign.


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