Tournado

Muddy Buddy

I get that itch sometimes to go on a long, tortuous bike ride for no damn reason other than I need to kick the shit out of myself.  To wake from the cloudy sleep and comforts that afford my very few luxuries any weight.  On Thursday I was at work for about two hours, and two things happened. 1) There really wasn't a whole lot to keep me busy.  2) I had a wild hair up there and burning the demons out with a ride into a warmish winter storm front seemed like the best plan of action.  I hate getting restless and I'm lucky to have a "temp" job that allows me to bail when my ADHD hits 5th gear.  I may have just bought Top Ramen for the rest of the month, but it's well worth it.  I don't only get to exercise those demons I don't want around, I get to revive the ones that only bike tours, death rides and brutal races can birth.  There's a solitude in the saddle, a mental state that snaps on once you've settled in for 5 or more hours of steady cranking.  Masochism is a theme here.  There's a level of consciousness you can't explain to those who haven't pushed themselves to the breaking point.  We don't talk about it, but we see it in others.  It's definitely one of those things.

 

Sunbeams between the snow fronts.

I rode about 75 miles from Sparks to my parents home in California.  Some in the dirt, most on the pavement, a little in the snow.  I spent the last hour in the dark with out food or water in the tank, legs shaking as I pictured the cold beer my dad would hand me in a few minutes.  In the gloaming I could make out the landmarks dear to me as a kid, the sun's last lights dropping like a night light from the high clouds and fog.  My head was clear, my ass was handed to me.  I smiled with the dirt in my teeth and laughed and coughed all at once.  This is what it's all about.  That and riding up the lowest pass in the Sierra's with a Lucha Libre mask on.

Headwinds, I still damn thee.