Monday, September 5, 2011

Maria’s Mushy Gushes

Tush on the saddle, hands in the drops, feet on the pedals. The fetal position.

Wind curling around biceps.

The knowledge that life is up ahead and you better hurry up and go get some.

The smell of clover. Jasmine. Even cigarettes.

The sound of the chain. Of the coasting freewheel.

That one little droplet of sweat that drips down the inside of your arm.

A bug hitting you in the face hard.

That little whisper of rubber on asphalt.

Riding with a group, like we’re a gang. When you’re a jet, you’re a jet.

Leading a paceline. Sucking someone’s wheel. Riding alone.

Coping with pain. Digging down to that hard little core inside.

Having arrived at your destination every second. Now and now and now.

The Italian-ness of it. The French-ness. The American-ness.

Body meeting machine, the ultimate robotic organism.

The slow and quick, easy and hard, utility and luxury.

(excerpt from Vancouver Bike Club September newsletter article)

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