cry me a river

i'm getting lazy.

and i took it out on my darling on Sunday.
~

we went out for a training spin and i did a little bit of discipline work up Eureka climb ... but mostly i was enjoying being with her, talking with her, sitting at the summit store gnawing on sandwiches and plotting new routes to pedal with her.

then we cruised down some hillz and i got the taste of endurance in my mouth and started pushing tempo up and down the hippie towns. and she was trying to relight burnt matches from her mtb sufferfest the day before and i had no pause for it.

but she loves me, so forgave me, and made me a luxurious dinner after ~

and so i owe her treats tonite.
- -

but i am getting lazy.

i know what it takes to get fit and fast for 3 hour races and it's become autopilot. it's easy to allot the time for it during the week, there's no real sacrifice, no need to live only for the bike.


ah well.
- - -


Story Time

When we are young and small, life seems big and endless. The vastness beyond the bubble oppresses inward, at times, and all the strength there is pushes out against it, keeping it from crushing in upon us.

The first man i fell in love with was a tall, brown, pot-smoking Indian. Well, i assumed he smoked ... but i actually only ever saw him buy, so who's to say? But, now that i think back on it, he did have that calmess about him that some of the smokers have. Some.

The seller hated him. The Indian never drove up to the house, so the seller never heard him coming. And the seller always wanted to hear people coming. The house was at the top of a lonely, dry tree'd mountain. But i was young, so maybe it was just a hill. There was a tired, nasty barn where i first saw cats. There was an outhouse that i was afraid of because it never had light, even when the sun beat you down and reflected burning heat off its metal roof.

I was watching the cats clean themselves the first time i saw the Indian. I was crouched down next to that old barn, looking through a crack and trying to be quiet. He was off in front of the house, standing next to a tree, leaning ... just waiting. I changed from watching the cats to watching the Indian as the day passed between us. I didn't know if he was a buyer or not. We'd been at the farm house a few weeks now and i'd never seen him before ... and the buyers usually drove up in big, throaty cars. Cars you could hear a long time before you saw them. Music, just above the grinding motors and crunching tires, music with guitars and men singing together.

The first time the seller saw the Indian, he bristled up like he did when things would get bad and i wondered if it was a fight. I was far enough away and there was room ~ so I could wait and see.

The seller called out loud and banged the screen door open, using that voice i remember when we had to pack up fast and get out of the house with the black people. We'd been there a few months and I'd seen some of them having sex and I didn't much like it, so was glad he threw us into the car. I remember the woman crying a little bit about it, but i couldn't be sure if it was leaving the house or the voice he used to pack us in the car that made her do it.

The Indian didn't say anything when the seller yelled at him - i don't think he did, anyway. I just remember him lifting a hand up as you would at a friend, and kind of slowly begin to walk over towards the seller, like he had a million hours in the day to play with. I remember them talking for awhile in front of the house, and then the seller kind of pausing, then going back in the house to get the pot.

He came back out and they sold it and the Indian nodded and turned and, slow as leaves, walked right back through the trees, never once touching the dusty, bumpy road that died at the house.
-

oop, gotta jet. blah, blah, blah