On the trail...

Gigi's is closing in about half an hour. Can I pop out another blog? Can I write as much as I need to say in that amount of time? I think I can. Most of the thoughts I've had today raced through my mind as though I were composing the words to write. Did I ever tell you that? Did you know that when I'm speaking, or listening, I see words in my brain as they enter my ears? You say my name, and I see it there before me, spelled out, like on the page of a book. I developed the technique very early on, perhaps to help with my mild dyslexia...and it helped. Unless I don't know how to spell a word that I'm hearing, then I'm just momentarily confused. Now, the technique is habit, and I do it unconsciously. So, as I rode my bike today, guiding it down the various trails of the greenway, my thoughts formed in my mind in a way as though I were already seated before a computer, writing it out. The actual act of writing has always been easy and fast because the words are already there, sentences and phrases already formed, and my typing feels like merely taking dictation from my brain, my brain the author, the words already strung together.

I guess you can't see videos, so I should focus on writing and pictures. Good to know. We talked a lot today. Well, a lot in comparison to how little contact we've had in the last week. It was what I needed. The motivation to get up, get out. You asked me to post tonight for you. I probably would not have gone out, but I knew I would have to if I wanted the internet access.

You either fell asleep or you lost internet access. Whichever it was, the conversation stopped. I took that as a good cue to get off my ass and get going. Life doesn't happen to those who sit in dark basement apartments in boxers and sweaters. Life happens on the trail. Whatever form that trail may take, you get on it. You get up, you start moving, you stretch your limbs forward, even as they ache and beg to stop, you push forward, ever forward, and run towards that which is alive. I can't stay in the apartment alone for too long. It makes me lazy and despondent. I feel it suck my energy the more I sit in there. I need the feel of the air hitting my face, the burn of muscles that have sat idle for too long. My legs are now starting to adapt, though it's taken more pain than I had expected. After the injury, they lost most of the strength that they used to have. A year of inactivity and "taking it easy on myself" may have helped the injuries, but the muscles are now complaining as they are being forced to wake from their overly long vacation.

A burned out lighter. An empty bag of fun-sized snicker bars. A stray tabby cat that looks at me and I look back and it seems to say, "what the fuck you looking at? haven't you ever seen a cat on the greenway before?" I know I've hit midtown. The smells. Grease and spices from various restaurants mix in my nostrils, and garbage cans sit longingly looking at garbage that was so close to being put in the right place. It's a small stretch. It's a dirty stretch. But it holds a certain charm, a bit of nostalgia for me. Was it two years? Three? I don't remember. I was a visitor to this city. California kissed and a rookie of the Midwest. Used to cars and traffic and smog and overcrowded freeways. I had sat under an overpass here, watched the bikers and joggers on the greenway, ate my lunch and wondered, "what is this magical thing, this trail, this freeway free of cars, this road dedicated entirely to the bikers?" I remember swearing then that I would come back, that when I moved here, I would bike this trail. And now, here I am. Thighs burning, tan forming, lungs and heart pumping, my legs keeping time with the squeak, squeak, squeak of the gears beneath me. Which overpass was it? There's a few it could be. I'm not sure now. But they all mean the same. They mean a goal reached. A promise to myself that I have kept. And that's important.

I pedal on. A rest stop. A cafe along the way that's just for the bikers. They sell smoothies and energy drinks, and soups, and sandwiches, and they fix bikes, and they sell any and all parts you may want. The leather sofas look inviting for tired limbs, and customers walk around in spandex shorts as they browse the clothing selection or pick out a new muscle rub. I order a smoothie called the "Vegan Suicide." I could use the chia. It's a pretty amazing drink, I must say. The bikes are overpriced, but you pay for what you get. There's an interesting feel to the place, half cafe, half repair shop, and a pinch of retail. Customers don't linger there long. They are there for a brief stop only, the trail calls us back. We must keep moving.

Refuelled, we pedal on. The more I ride, the more days I spend out there, the more I feel a part of a new and exhilarating community. We communicate through silent or brief acknowledgement, a head nod here, a call of "left!" there. When I started, I wore jean shorts, black chucks. Normal clothes. Now, I find I get more of that quiet affirming, more nods, as I ride. Black spandex shorts, backwards baseball caps. That is my uniform now. There's an unspoken dress code that seems to get you more respect. You can see who's serious about their sport. You can tell by the legs who's been out there longest. You can see it in the legs, this hierarchy, this road respect. Like bucks with biggest antlers, we measure each other, size each other up by our calves. My chicken legs are getting stronger, my muscles slowly more defined. I count more nods each day.