The brash gusts of wind on the nose of the loop were unpredictable and frequent. Positive thoughts in regards to the conditions were scant, save for a lifting wince when the sun would occasionally glance across my back.
My process in the saddle and my deep breathing were robotic, so my train of thought easily drifted to journaling. Aggrandizing this moment became a crucial puzzle that I felt obligated to solve; it became a column in my training log. My thoughts alternated between the buzz of suffering-induced machismo and dirty glow of narcissistic exhibitionism. Either way, I impress myself.
I went through the list of pains. I’ve lost high-stakes bets. I’ve fled the clinch of bouncers. 4 times I’ve been denied financing for the MG that sits at the lot year after year, teasing me. I’m not very handsome. Somehow, on this day none of that seemed fair reason to hold the minds of readers preciously in the cupped palms of my word.
I reached back to my pocket tentatively, ready to make retreat and handle the bike, but didn’t need to. Carefully watching the road ahead as if to spot the wind, I removed my other hand from the bar. Blast. No way. It was simply too windy to capture a picture of myself in such travail.
It seems right at this time to mention that from that point forward, the ride was an emotional blur of agonizing vision-feelings. Like my brain, my eyes were barely alive. Though the heart will grow bony in response to the hardships of passion like this, it still pains me to fail you. I’ve nothing to write about from that hellish ride. I am sorry.