Sunday, June 28
Blood in thin streams, rivulets down jelly legs, and yet still running: maybe that's determination, laudable; perhaps I'm just a chafed fool, already condemned. Another marathon plus (and a few 5ks besides); I'll forever bandit these things, and they'll always ask why, always wondering. Laughing, of course, but drinking in the warm night & the giddiness of all these beauties sore and drunk, and the details are bygones, blurred: we are the celebration, and these nights are oh so fine, and all this training and smart decision making -- all that can wait until Monday.
These days, sweaty shimmer and glis turn to slimy white paste, the process repeating dozens and dozens of times, and each day's close marks the deposit of salty miles cashed in banks whose ledgers I cannot keep. There'll always be miles, and always one foot more. & if somehow it's been a week, or a month, even... & if I haven't showered nor shaved nor... well, consider it not laziness but practiced reinvention – a mountain man routine. This is some dream slightly less practiced, steeped in folly and forever-ago exhaled lost dreams.
So, three weeks more of these cities, and then off, the newest caper and oh how the anxieties and adrenalines already cut burbling, gurgling, moaning through tossing-turning nights. This hand still healing – managed to break it after all – and sure I could call it off, but for a measly hand? These legs were built for half-continents of bad ideas and a trailer of history pared down and towed behind. Across the windy and forsaken plains into the mountains I'll ride, and I'll find myself there beneath the wide open sky I've too many years now only found in dreams.
It'll rain. And I'll get wet. The winds will howl. And I'll be sore. Inevitably, I'll curse whatever made me think this was a good idea -- at least a few nights, I'm sure – but, so what? Idaho, in six weeks, another home and another beginning and another start. Open skies were made for this sort of dreaming. If you catch me, throw me back.