Austin, TX

Crashing is a lot like losing a spelling bee. You feel like an idiot though in the grand scheme of things, no one is going to remember in a week. You learn from it. Though I've never been in a spelling bee, I've crashed a lot. Too much. Last night I added another to my list, this being a bit more harsh.


My shoulder looks like it's been gnawed on by an R.O.U.S. The tiny spot of road rash on my wrist is a small telling of the joint aches that are lying beneath. A blue and purple haze highlights the range of bones nearing my elbow, focusing around the burst of red and crimson- a physical description of the exact moment of impact, the momentary tattoo of guilt.

The guilt lies frankly on the right side of my head. A protruding knot. A knot that wouldn't exist had I had my helmet with me. Instead, while a rough paved surface was burning through the first through layers of skin on my shoulder, my lips let out a "fuckfuckfuck..." but internally all I was thinking was Watch your head, keep on your shoulder, keep on your shoulder. No luck.

I can count the number of times I've ridden without a helmet on one hand. I am not one of those folks. I'm an advocate. I strap on the plastic bonnet even to go two blocks to the grocery. Cause I'm safe. Cause helmets are sexy. Cause I have trust issues with oncoming traffic.

Guilty. Can you use it in a sentence, please? G.U.I.L.T.Y

*Dear Ma, Minor MINOR concussion. Only wounds that will heal. I'll return to MN in one piece for Thanksgiving. Promise. Love, yourfoolishdaughter.

Austin, TX

The Wizard of Oz is on TV. It's at that part where color inherits the screen and boatloads of little people made their acting debut. Having just stepping out of the shower, removing all traces of the red dirt mapping my weekend of mountain bikes and camping (read; sleeping in the van on a crash pad as I have no tent. Whine. Moan.), I feel like I may be stepping into a new world, myself.

So I'm watching the Wizard of Oz, trying hard to place the last moment I watched this movie. A memory I place somewhere in the '95 range. Much has changed. I'm drinking from a stale bottle of red to compliment my crisp pita bread with chevre. In bed. It's 7:30 pm. I'm an adult, damn it.

I'll spare you the predictable no place like home moment. If there were a place to compare to what used to be home, Austin would have to be it. But warmer. Enjoyably warmer.

Dallas, TX "There's no panic in his fight." The Old Man & the Sea.

It's barely three in the afternoon on a weekday and I'm already sitting with an empty Shiner bottle to my left and a half a bag of bakes Cheetos on my right. This is about as close to a moment of weakness I get these days.

I've been on the road for one year. One year of diesel lanes and height restrictive bars; waking up to vacuums on the floor above me, attempting to place accents to determine what state I've just slept in.

Recently, it's been Texas. Lately, the accent's been mine.

The van and I died today. Me, parting ways with it like a mother leaving her first born in kindergarten. My hand slowly sliding down glass window built into the door, my hesitant steps to leave. Despite my insistance, they assured me things would be fine, I'd be more comfortable if I left for a while and returned at four.

So now I sit waiting, with nothing to distract me, wondering where I'll pick up in this situation during the van-free winter months to come.

Austin, TX

It's raining in Austin. Despite the sky's efforts to cut through the heat, the final result is more in line with a hot sigh, heaved after a summer afternoon spent moving furniture. Wet and thick, the air urges me to pedal slower as beads of perspiration form on my reddening cheeks.

The coffee shops proves to be a bit drier with the same weight to the atmosphere, keyboard cackle with business transactions and love affairs, the desperation and narcissism of social networking all fueled through over-caffeinated fingertips. I am a zombie amidst the productive mid-twenties crowd. Though in season, I still feel out of place.

Minneapolis.

II. Vegas.

She adjusts her boobs in the mirror, pulling her dress up just slightly, the pulling it back down to where it had been positioned just above R rating. She leans closer towards her reflection and wipes the corners of her mouth where lipstick has begun to clump together.

"Ready." She blurts, maintaining her gaze into her floor length twin. Our bodies flinch on the golden paisley patterned couch cushions unsure if she's asking or affirming. We exchange weary glances and raise to turn off the televised version of the Odyssey we'd use to distract us from the bright lights of the strip, leaking temptation in from open window occupying the far wall of the hotel room.

Minneapolis.

I.

It needed to bake longer.

My second serving of my first batch of cheesecake brownies is sitting to my right, resting on a mousepad that also holds three small notebooks. I'm sifting through them in attempts to piece together the last few weeks. My mind isn't cooperating. 5 minutes would have made all the difference. Three even. Chocolate milk and cheesecake brownies for breakfast is a great celebration of the independence of adulthood, and a reminder that the recently accumulated ten pounds should not have taken me by surprise.

After Missouri I dropped off the van in Minneapolis and caught a plane to Boston to share impromptu stories with an old friend and sneak in a $16 concert. Fall caught up with me as I fell asleep reading short stories in a park near the harbor. I awoke surrounded by tweed jackets walking dogs, students priding college logo'd sweatshirts, and the goosebumps on my arms- a braille telling of the end of summer. I flew back to Minneapolis and caught a plane to Vegas to bronze once more before snowfall.

St.Louis

The crack was loud. Instinctively heads snapped towards the direction of the crit. Instantly someone is running my way from their position against the gate.


That's your rider. Bike down.


Crowds aren't easy to run in. I reach the gate as a torn team kit circles round the far side of the course, medics attempting to steer him towards the awaiting ambulance as he makes way to our red tents. A race mechanic waves me through the gate, warning me of carbon splinters. I pick up the empty hullahoop of a destroyed front wheel, still dangling from his frame & carry it back through the crowd.


There are too many people waiting helplessly on our side of the ambulance doors. The crowd of former shop employees, old friends, & new fans take turns passing close to the window on tiptoes in attempts to see the carnage.


We pack quickly and head to the hospital.


The hospital is a new sort of terrifying that affirms my decision to avoid them until necessary. Not bleeding down the bone necessary, more of a that guy stabbed me and I think it might have caught an artery, sort of necessary; impending doom.


(Amy?
I'm not wiping your ass.
No. That's... no. I can't pull my pants up.
I walk upstairs. Despite injury, ever the fashionista, he's picked out a pair with a botton fly. I'm glad we've firmly established the sibling relationship in the past few months.
Anything else?
Eh, he hands me a stick of deoderant and we both laugh, shake our heads, and get to it.
Let's change those bandages.
They'll be fine today.
Nah, they're pretty soaked, let's change em.)


Eventually we retreat. The bedroom I've longed for all day seems less welcoming in an apartment alone. I don't attempt to wait up for the cab or phone call. Sleep finds me.

St.Louis.

"From this angle...no. Yes," his shoulders go limp and head shakes slowly, "that's a 54."

"Measure it," I call from behind my computer screen.
"Look at it."
"Measure it."
He walks to the kitchen and pulls a compact tape measure from his tool case which is sitting open between a canister of Teflon cooking utensils and a block of knives.

"That would be a top tube of a 54."
"Measure the seat tube."
"It's a 54," he humors me and does it anyway before bringing one hand up to wipe his face.

An uncomfortable laugh escapes from my direction and despite being the only two in the loft I'm left looking down the couch for someone to blame.

"I'm sorry. It's just, seriously? Of all things to go wrong."
"54."
"Yeah. Huh."
"He brought this here himself."
"Three weeks late."
"He was so proud, and now I have to tell him."
"I'm sure it's not a big deal."
His eyes snap towards me, "He packed his clothes into the box around it to make sure it wouldn't break."
"Huh."
"Think he'll notice when I'm not racing on it tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I answer swiftly before catching his face and adding, "But I bet it'll take a while, they're both black right?"
"Maybe I can just jack-fit it. Extra long stem..." his voice trails off.

We both know it won't work. That history doesn't bode well with bikes assembled by the rider in the early morning hours before a race. That riding an ill fitting $5,000 bike would only add insult to injury at the finish line rolling in behind all of the pro teams. That in a hometown ride, when you've been gone five months, even estranged relatives will appear clad with an armour of new cycling terms to use against you as to where your first mis-step was taken.

Free stuff only tastes good for so long before you get greedy.

St. Louis, MO. If you love it set it free.

I have a bed. A bedroom. With attached bath. A bedside table with outlets close enough to let me waste away prime sleeping hours with ramblings that went bottled during my 9 hour drive. An empty desk. A fully utensil'd kitchen with cupboards housing only energy supplements and electrolyte replacements.

I'm staying at a co-workers apartment that overlooks a small nook of downtown. The sheer joy of staying in a real home rather than the mundane hotel setting I've grown accustom to left me excited to retreat from the bar. As I curled up on the couch with my book I was shooed into "my room." The left overs of a man on the go clearly stacked into a corner bookshelf. Collared shirts neatly pressed hanging in the closet. An empty golf bag.

From first sight, I have little in common with the former tenant who is currently holed up in Georgia training for the CIA. Though I suppose if I were to move into a place anytime soon, it wouldn't look too much different. Empty pieces of what used to make up important focuses of my life would struggle to bring a room together. The focus of what's missing over what's present.

Eden Prairie, MN

I wish I could tell you it was monumental. That this moment, these seven years of build up, came to a breaking point where crowds gathered, or clouds parted, where a line of buckets were each filled in succession with the proud vomit of my endeavor. Sadly, this is not the case.

This started six weeks ago. In Utah. Under a large red tent with fifteen or so other brothers in bike, we were slinging to the masses when a van pulled up and unloaded forty bagged lunches. Turkey or ham. I picked up a turkey bag and made my way back to my station near the back of the tent, parked myself on an orange plastic construction bucket and unwrapped the plastic wrap from the layers of turkey, mayo and lettuce. I lifted the right half of the sandwich towards my mouth, pausing to check for observers around me, the turkey surprising my nostrils. I went for it. The first bite dripped in delightful expectation. Glimpses of my childhood spent in wayside rest stops on family vacation flashed into mind; the midnight viewing of The Longest Day from behind humid slices of wheat bread encompassing the mound of layered turkey and Dijon mustard, my brother on the couch. This was it; this is what I’d been missing. Four bites in, the gleam from my eyes began to fade, the excitement of the first bite was lost in the second and third and by the time half the sandwich was gone I was yearning for the rush of the first hit. I tucked the remaining half of my crushed dreams back into the paper bag and tucked it under the table holding my tool box. And that was that. As some whispered traitor and other carnivorous bystanders exchanged proud nods, I dug back into my tool box searching for a 4mm bit for my torque wrench, washing away the last of my efforts with an orange soda.

Then there was Ragbrai. The six hours of heat and banter that led up to the lunch hour. The hoards of people passing by with porkchops and footlongs. The hotdogs being cautiously dipped into yellow corn batter across from our tent. I caved. With no emotion or reservation, I caved. Wiping the remains of ketchup from the corners of my mouth, I slumped into a foldable lawn chair under the shade of our tent, my belly feeling giddy and dense.

"Well clearly I can't be considered a vegetarian anymore, but I dont think I'll be at Ribfest anytime soon. I just felt... heavy. This rock, this settling in my stomach. I felt slow."

"That's called being full, and you haven't felt it in seven years." my younger brother jabbed from across a slice of sausage and pepperoni pizza.

Week's brought on the satisfaction of sausage, the gluttony of gravy. And today, jam packed into a wooden booth, in an out of the way roadside diner, with the selection of six options stenciled on the wall, the contentment of cheeseburgers.

Minneapolis, MN ; sleeping dogs.

There are moments when you know you should keep your mouth shut;
That time of year when stranger’s children are giggling with anticipation on the sidewalk, exchanging dreams of Santa Clause in oversized boots on the walk home from school. Your clenched jaw muffling those three words that could crumble their whole gleeful season.

When an extended family member goes in for a hug. The preventable aftermath leaving you plastered in potpourri Febreeze for the rest of the week, washing each article of clothing individually in attempts to shed the cling of deaths approaching grasp.

There are no take-backs.

Especially not when you’re afternoon drinking glasses of Basil Hayden’s discussing relationships.

Wheaton, IL

Every once in a while the extremes of my life intersect on one fantastically memorable day. Like leap year, it’s not often, and always seems to pass faster than I can predict. Last week, due to an unpredictable cancellation, stars aligned. I found myself getting my hair done, in full salon mode complete with gossip and magazines I’d never subscribe to, and later, crushing the two hours of tedious scissor work with a helmet, mountain biking.

It was in the most girly of moments, under a hair drying orb in a flowered nylon chair, analyzing the chipping paint of my toe nails, that I stumbled upon a contest in the back of a women’s housekeeping magazine. A writing contest. Having no pen within arm’s reach and unwilling to risk lifting the futuristic heat orb, I attempted to commit details to the dust ridden vault of my memory.

I’ve spent the days following this encounter trying to remember the topic of the essay or the name of the magazine. I’m certain I’ve become the target of a new women’s marketing focus group as one of few women to have mountain biking now paired with bridal magazine articles, the latest in HID lumen counts backed with dinner suggestions for mom’s on the go occupying my browser search history.

But I found it. Game on.

Kansas City, MO

The cars in the ditch weren't even the worst part. I think I'd rather it be raining again. I hit a button to my left and the window disappears into the door. No, no I wouldn't. Is it getting hotter in here? Is that possible?

I had left Minneapolis at 8am, expecting the morning haze to lift as I headed South into Iowa, but the sky grew darker. Dense heat slow dancing with brisk winds, each turn meeting the car with its own dynamic intensity. Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot. Winds raised and cars veered towards the gravel outskirts of the road as fat drops collapsed onto the pavement. I trailed a semi and ventured on, squinting, leaning far over my steering wheel, hell bent on Kansas City.

My left hand hangs in front of the air vent separating my window from the steering wheel. So not only is the air conditioning broken, it may actually be getting hotter in here, and nothing is coming in on the radio except church banter. And I'm in Iowa, again.

My right hand slaps the button on the radio. Passing cars drown out what music had been fading into static. My thoughts silence for a moment. The heat stomps on my chest.

This is what I imagine breathing marshmallow cream would be like. Like in those moments when I was younger when we'd imagine a pool filled with Jell-O? Replaced with marshmallow cream. And I'm drowning. Alone. In Iowa. I tug at my seat belt. There is a dark stripe that lays across my chest where it had been resting. The pressure remains.

I press the button on the arm rest that raises the window closed and crank the fan full blast, fingering the grated vents in the dash, attempting to convince them to hold position. The heat's wearing us both out, eh? I give up. My left hand wrenching the steering wheel and the other gripping the mouth piece of my Camelbak, the bladder of which is hanging behind my seat like an IV bag. I put the window down again.

Two hours. Two more hours 'til Kansas City. 'Til air conditioning. 'Til hotel beds and cold beer. My eyes wander towards the groceries which have liquified in their individually sealed packages, the cheese that has now taken on whiz type qualities. 'Til solid foods.

Flashbacks. Minneapolis, MN

(Camping trip, UP Michigan)

I’m walking towards a wooden shack that’s positioned on the edge of the lake. The road is a combination of gravel and sand granules that have been dragged from the shoreline repeatedly by boats and children longing for fireside sandcastles. The tiresome building is being held together by the paint of the season, this year’s color being a thick brown coating attempting to hide the beige of ’08. I open the outhouse door and immediately my mind fills with what’s to become the mantra of the day, Don’t look down.

Ask the locals. Don’t let language or instinct deter you, ask the locals. We’re thigh deep in water, making our way from the shoreline towards an island where we’ve been made to believe there is some excellent climbing. We laugh aside the idea that this could be one of the greatest goose chases, having trudged through dense woods to meet the beach and examine the coastline, only half assured that this was the island the stoutly balding man was referring to.
“If the water touches my balls I’m done.” He’s pants are rolled up revealing traces of skin normally out of reach to the sun, tiptoeing as higher waves roll towards us.
“Yep, I’m done,” his body jerks upwards straining to escape the cold water and I giggle. Our feet search out the long flat rocks on the lake floor to lower the water to calf levels.

We hike through denser wood, following the beaten path of locals and adventurists until the brush parts aside and piles of 2.3 billion year old rock are exposed overlooking Superior. Don’t look down. I’m pushing aside thoughts of my mother’s chiding voice. I can hear her repeat my first and middle name each time I lean over the rock’s edge.

Flashbacks. Minneapolis, MN

Kansas City, Missouri.
The microwave smells of floral spray. The cinnamon roll, whose scent I expected to loft through my King suite, has been engulfed in dense potpourri, as if an elderly woman was trying to recreate the comforts of home, or incense was burned in the microwave to avoid setting off a smoke alarm. My cinnamon roll tastes of orchids, each sugar coated petal nauseating the senses that had been craving the sweet warm cinnamon.

Damn this hotel cooking.
-------

Lawrence, Kansas.
It's quite warm and my beer has already lost its chill. I now have a quarter glass left to finish of a temperate Mothership Whit before I begin the slow walk back to my hotel. No one walks quickly here and time passes slow enough to make one feel relaxed, yet fast enough to assure tomorrow is still within reach. The accent here is minimal but noticeable. each drawn out syllable enticing me to stay just a bit longer to enjoy what comforts could be considered home. I suppose, true to theme, it's time to move on.

Stumbled upon a unique looking patio as I wandered towards my hotel. The old wooden counter tops and bar have an old timey feel, luring me to stay inside after placing my order. Or maybe it's the air conditioning. I order a lambic after a toss up with my traditionally post-ride stout, but only because it was on tap. A rarity that reminds me of the boy at home. It's served to me in a glass that's roughly nine inches tall and a mere inch and half wide. It's presentation and burgundy coloration is making me feel rather feminine, sitting here alone covered in bike grease and surrounded by images of the latest parts spec of the 2010 line.

Burnsville, MN

It's written in cursive on manila masking tape that's stuck to a cardboard box with handles on the sides. Le Roy's box. Hands off. The box is similar to the cable lined RC cola boxes that hold what's left of my belongings in my mother's garage.

Le Roy, or the culprit stealing his box, is wearing three shades of blue. Worn Levi's pulled high above his hips, a navy collared button down shirt tucked into it's collapsing waistline, and a periwinkle adjustable baseball cap with a mesh backing teetering atop his white hair. Tight lipped, his lower jaw pushes forward as he reaches for the stack of white Styrofoam cups. He pours his coffee and drinks it black, his back still turned to me as I shift in my chair, attempting to make out the contents of the box.

Hands off.

My brother growing up had a Bible which he had written KEEP OUT!! on the binding. I had convinced myself that his Bible had been far cooler than mine, stories far more epic, or had been whittled into a book-safe. Knowing that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, I felt no shame in opening the book, as His devine intervention could have been targeting me through a new marketing scheme devised by the Catholic church.

Le Roy's flaw had been using cursive lettering, as it took away from the severity of the statement, much like the deliquent permanent marker scrawling had lost all authority when written across a Bible.

Liberty, Missouri

Alarm didn't sound. It's 11:30 am. As much as I may have needed this extra sleep it is very unlike me. Looks like that road ride is off this morning's schedule.

There's a white bill on the floor by the door. My checkout isn't until tomorrow, so an immediate boot would leave me thirty minutes to collect my scattered laundry and sanity. I head down to discuss things with the lobby attendant.

There's a couch flipped over in the hall outside my door.

The airconditioner has broken in the lobby. There are four fans blowing over an overweight moo-moo clad attendant. Papers are blowing everywhere. She's given up on catching them.

I explain the check-out error. She never makes eye contact, but extends her hand for the plastic room key I'm holding above the chest-tall marble countertop.

My eyes wander over the clutter and stumble upon a three ring binder. There is a spreadsheet listing each individual room, next to each room a square box to fill out any problemmatic activities worth checking into. I paruse while she pounds away into her computer, mumbling to herself.

102: television won't turn on
106: jaccuzi not working
111: spray this room for cochroaches
121: ants under table
130: toilet running
132: ants under table

I'm starting to feel like I just asked for a kitchen tour of my favorite restaurant. Somethings are better left unknown. I hesitantly take back the keycard from her and tiptoe back to my room.

Red Oak, IA

"I can tell you're very active."
His hand brushes against mine as I'm torquing down the handlebars on the bike balancing between us.
"Your veins are just so large I want to stick an IV in them."
I look up from the bike.
"I'm a nurse."
I don't find this to be an acceptable excuse. Nor do I really believe this guy has a nursing background.

This is the creepiest thing that has happened to me at Ragbrai. So far.

Considering this was in a parking lot during Ribfest shortly before the Barenaked Ladies took stage, I think I got off easy.

translated in Minneapolis, MN

ONE
I’m sitting in an airport in Denver, my tongue burning from the early sips of a chai latte and belly aching from the over-sweetened dinner choice of a brownie that alternated layers between chocolate chips, chocolate cake batter and cheese cake. The scenery is more like a public library. Silently folks shuffle by. Every once in a while a cart stops in front of me, checking literary titles of distant cities and comparing them with a piece of paper clenched in hand.

A bird flies by.

I pause for a moment in the bewilderment of seeing a member of the outdoor community choosing to be indoors. Ticket attendants pause briefly watching it fly overhead, as a child would watch a plane before returning to the on goings of a sandbox. Murmurs amongst the ill-fitting blue blazers breaches the silence in sector C38. This is not the first bird they have seen, nor is it to be the last. The obvious question looms over them, how does one tame an uncaged bird? In an area so vast, with no nest to be found, the grey bird pauses on window sills, glancing outside and turning back to the life cart vendors and shot glass souvenirs.

TWO
I’m sitting on the matte carpeted floor of an airport in Salt Lake City, leaning against a glass elevator attempting to put words to my last ten days. The exhaustion is setting in as the amber ale begins to settle in my belly. Any words, thoughts, episodes from the week deteriorate amongst the gorgonzola cheese and raisins from a California inspired salad I consumed in a mock 50’s airport diner, where feeling depressed at a table for one was the least of my concerns. My eye lids are growing weary.

I board. My bags properly shoved above and below me I stare out the window into the peaks of orange cones below me. I awake to a large thud. My head aches. People are staring. The business men in front of me have turned around to meet my gaze. I’m rubbing my forehead squinting, wave on the attendant who has begun a catwalk inspired lurk my way. The weight of my eyelids fractured the support of my neck causing a collapse when an unassuming sleep found me in seat 7D. My head slammed into the window at the moment of first collapse. I check for cracks. The woman next to me is avoiding eye contact, though I think she’s relieved that for the moment the attention isn’t on her oversized arm cast. The over plastered mass featuring individually wrapped fingers gives the impression of an elementary paper mache project poorly executed by a premature Dougie Howser. Health insurance costs are expensive these days.

THREE
The busty woman sitting across from me is playing with her cell phone while sipping pink contents through a clear straw from the smoothie booth around the corner. The second button of her blouse has come undone just below the ruffles dangling from the collar of the black and white blouse. While I have no problem telling casual encounters that their zipper is down I have no intention of telling her. Does this make me a bad person? Likely just adds to it.

Buford, Georgia; Devil Went Down to Georgia.

The skyline of Nashville always reminds me of Batman's head cover. The pointy ear tops of their signature skyline stands tall above the waters edge, overseeing the city and meeting folks coming around the bend of the interstate.

Hopping city to city, it's these small details that help me remember where I am, where I'm arriving from. The downside of this is that instinctively, as my brain recalls my brief encounter with Nashville, my index fingers creep up to my head, in simulation of Batman's costume.

The shock of the women's faces make me quickly realize this could also be confused with devil horns. Apparently, not everyone sees the Superhero resemblance. This explanation is much easier done in retrospect, sadly the following would serve well for the docudrama reenactment.

"So where are you coming from?"
"Uh..." Light bulb flickers on and my fingers jump up to the sides of my head, bending at the knuckle almost as if putting my next words in quotation. "Nashville."

Que confused slightly horrified look.

"That city always reminds me of Batman. Not in the Gotham City sort of way, but... You know, that big building by the river? The tall one? With the pointy ears, er, towers on it? Anyone? Well, ladies, believe you me, if Batman truly had to choose a city to live in, I think we all know it would be that tower for obvious reasons."

They exchange glances.

"Not that Georgia isn't amazing! This is a way prettier area, plus the drivers aren't nearly as crazy- trust me on that one." Apparently I've grabbed a shovel. They sip forcefully out of their water bottles, murmur between themselves and turn away.

I try and brush it off as the next group of women approach my table.
"Would you ladies be interested in filling out this survey for me?"
"That depends," A younger brunette smiles nodding towards the retreating group. "Is it whatever they just experienced?"

"Explaining Batman is pretty difficult. I'd say it's up there to a chirade enactment of Jurassic Park."

"What?"

"So is this your first Iron Girl?"

Chattanooga, TN

Not dead. Been writing more.

More of this lass on the way.

Marquette, MI

There’s sand in my bed. Not little granules, stubbornly hiding near my feet, piles. Handfuls of sand that have shaken from my clothes, my toes, escaped from my gnarled ponytail and are now scattered soundly between the gold comforter and the while pillow-top mattress. This is the end result of a night on the beach watching the lights from boats in the distance disappear behind islands and reappear on the other side; squinting at the fading yellow string of lights to differentiate one boat versus many smaller boats; digging my toes into the white sand and watching them sink a little lower with each lap of a wave.

Two days from now, as I am still emptying pockets and shaking my ears from remaining sand, I can build sand castles from another comforter and listen to the bath run in the dark, recreating these past few nights in a desolate town at the beach. I just need one of those ocean noises cassettes with the seagulls in the background. Or a neighbor with a kid.

Overland Park, KS

After circling the neighborhood for twenty minutes, I pin down the Rainbow foods I had spotted from the freeway. The lot is desolate. Carts are spilling out from the corral. I pause for a moment wondering if it is, in fact, a functional grocery store, or one that has gone out of business since the last update of my GPS unit two years ago. I venture in.

Every once in a while, I find myself in a grocery store like this, seemingly healthy and green from the outside and toppling with sugary cavity inducing pastry goods lining the walls like lick able wallpaper. The lettuce is aging and wrinkled, the fruit section is deteriorating from underneath the shadows of the doughnut table. The dairy section lining the back wall is fully stocked, while a lone lemon-lime can stands as the sole survivor of a victimized six pack atop empty shelves of the soda aisle.

Unable to find a basket, I tuck three yogurt containers under my left arm and Jenga the rest of my items atop a cereal box I’m carrying horizontally. I’m walking briskly back and forth, dodging the other twenty-somethings. They’re hard to miss. Anyone remotely close to my age is wielding a rather shiny speck of light on their finger and two or three snot faced children. I’m suddenly quite confident in all of my life decisions.

My balancing act is becoming more difficult as I add the one salvageable ball of lettuce to the stack.
I have three choices;
1). Walk back to the entrance and get a cart, which I will likely only fill the child seat of. Because I have that ability. Because I am here alone. Because I don’t have children. Suck it.
2). Check out. Leaving behind the beer which has at this point become necessary.
3). Deal with the looming scent of piss and apple juice that will inevitably cling to me after using the throat lozenges in my pocket to bribe the youngsters into carrying my groceries to the checkout counter.

I turn to survey the nearest toddler. His sticky chubby little fingers are slowly releasing his grasp around the handle of one of those child sized carts. He wanders away down the aisle to, presumably, his mom who is waving him towards the check out. I nudged the cart with my foot, wheeling it forward a few inches to see if he would run back down the aisle towards it. Nothing. I waste no time dropping my items into the basket-sized cart and turn the corner.

I hunch my shoulders in attempts to control the cart while maintaining a seemingly casual walk. It doesn’t quite work. The cart veers to the right with each push, a flag sporting the words “IN TRAINING” extended from the handle whipping me in the face with each nudge. I pause in the coffee aisle. I could easily begin calling out any name, and looking back and forth while pushing the cart and no one would be the wiser. Judging from the amount of bedazzled t-shirts, I’d fit right in.

Instead, I head towards the beer section, pile two six packs atop my salad fixings and make way for the check out.

“Awe, bring your little one with you today?” the cashier greets me, as I begin the Pilates workout of unloading a miniature cart onto the conveyer belt. She has my items completely bagged and is handing me my receipt as I respond with the only thing I can think of.

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.” I look both directions in the store, shrug, and walk to the van.

Grand Rapids, MI

“How often do you do this?”
“Daily. Every single day. Wait, what do you mean?”
“I mean. This. We just met, ten minutes ago. You walk out of a lobby, rush us into hotel rooms, schedule us reservations, climb into the back seat and now we’re across town at a restaurant,” he’s leaning over the table towards me, his hand resting over his amber ale and speaking low.
“True.”
“So, regularly then?”

There was a time when this sort of thing would have mortified me. In fact, when I first started at a bike shop, it was hard enough approaching someone my own age, let alone telling them everything I know about bicycles and convincing them that they should invest money in my knowledge.

More on this later.

Rapid City, South Dakota.

(Dear Mom,
I know that after reading the post where I had mentioned waking up in a suitcase, you were hesitant to continue reading. Somehow you had made it past my toppling toilet experience, but drew a line at passing out in dirty socks. I’ve come to terms with your decision to back-read these updates after you can confirm my good health, but I’m not quite convinced you’ve truly settled in not knowing which state I am currently traveling through. I’m willing to bet you check this page and at least to read the header; maybe skip to the end, hoping for a positive finish. So if that’s the case, if you are reading this before my visit home the final week of May, I’m ok.
But this one’s going to make you nervous.)

It is, in a way, similar to what I can imagine having a tornado crash through your hometown would be like. The photos won’t do it justice. Nor will the police report, unless they’ve found a way to capture the hollow feeling that eats away at ones stomach, the extreme disappointment that hovers above, waiting to crush you at any moment like an acme anvil. At first, it’s a rain drop, and the next udder destruction.

A call came in at 1:15 am. The second came at 1:35. The first e-mail came at 3, and an hour later the next. Then another. By 4:30 am I was wide eyed in bed with a notepad at my side, scribbling what broke down to four possible recovery plans, unsure of what to expect. By 7 we met face to face, vehicle to vehicle. No trailer in sight.

It could have been anyone, but it was a reserved twenty-something from Ohio who volunteered for his first road trip and Memorial Day get away. His pale face remained nearly expressionless for the entire morning. By 3 pm I had arranged all of the clues, side comments, and photos into a possible back story. It started as a flat tire. Two flat tires. Two flat tires and a broken axel. Two flat tires, a broken axel, and a bent hitch. A flipped over trailer. A vehicle spin out. A semi. Police officers. Tow trucks.

In the aftermath, there are too many places to start, too much in need of fixing. I’m finding myself staring at my feet, tempted to click my heels and start over.

Rapid City, SD

There is a certain pleasure I have recently developed in pounding unnecessarily firmly on the keys of my keyboard as I write these little love notes into virtual no-man’s land of blogging; murmuring in a tone loud enough for me to be considered one of those deranged sidewalk mumblers before the days of blue-tooth. Blue teeth. Soon, this will likely catch up with me in public. Mildly embarrassing posts, coming your way.

Minneapolis, MN

“Last summer when I was held up at gunpoint I was enrolled in his class.” She is wearing all black, paired with Doc Marten boots and magenta lip stick. Her black earrings are long and dangle, swaying slightly with her hand gestures. What catches my attention isn’t so much that she had been held at gunpoint but the annoyance of being enrolled in the particular class at the moment of robbery. My guess is Geology.

We’re sitting outside of a corner café under patio umbrellas facing the same direction at two different tables. She is sitting with a curly haired woman who is wearing large sunglasses and chewing on the straw of her blended mocha, nodding along. She may very well be asleep.
They are both on cell phones.

In settings like these, for about two second, I feel a rage creep through my body. Fingers curl into my hand, my jaw tightens, lips twisting together firmly. Whenever I see two people on cell phones within the same frame of vision, I have an impulsive tendency to assume they are speaking to each other. I lose all faith in humanity for those two seconds and then cave, realizing that with so many people in this world, it might actually be someone in a different city, state even. That, yes, some people use the phone when they are in other states.

I prefer carrier pigeons.

Minneapolis, MN

I am not so good at drinking water. I feel as if this should be one of those built in features to the human body. There are many trends pushing me towards excessive water consumption and I’ve been fooled by them all. Nalgine and Sigg have both attempted to swoon me. Both being members of the reusable green trend I can’t attach to. You’d think with biking so often it would become easier. Nope. I go through the routine. I fill two bottles and stick them into the cages on my frame. I fill up my camelbak when I’m trailside, and yet, I always return to the van, toss the containers onto the floor, and inevitably end up with a flood on my hands by morning.

So time to formulate a new plan.
Step one: Mount water bottle cage to my tool belt.
Step two: Invest in some of those straw glasses.

Milwaukee, WI

As you may not be familiar with the ins and outs of the seemingly pathetic but insurmountable joys of hotel living, let me clue you in for a moment. For the cost of an average hotel room, one has the option of staying in a Residence Apartment which includes a full kitchen and living room. This means the average road warrior can feel like a baller for little more than it would cost to hole up in a smoking room at La Quinta. This is the closest thing I have to an apartment these days, but as I usually feel wasteful inhabiting such a space by my lonesome for merely one or two days, it's treat I don't often experience.

Alas, I am staying three days. Worth it.

Tonight I went grocery shopping for about the third time in six months. I placed items in a full sized refridgerator without moving aside left-over cartons or various percentage of milk containers. I stood back in wonder, forgetting about The Morning Blend, I surveyed my purchases, the freshly washed dishes near the kitchen sink, my miscellanious belongings scattered on the couch in the simulated livingroom. I'm waiting for the voice over from Arrested Development to continue guiding me through the "Model Home." What I'm left with is the ear piercing screaches of Rachael Ray, which, when heard from the corner of a couch, with feet properly stacked on a coffee table that doesn't actually belong to you, upon magazines you don't actually subscribe to, can be mistaken for comforting.

Milwaukee, WI

(Tuesday 12th, Minneapolis, MN)
11: “I learned this week how to motivate myself into working at 5 am in front of 45,000 people.” Anything else? I can hear the soft breathing and traffic sounds from the 6 other marketing team members attached virtually through my earpiece. Recap imagery from the week flash through my mind; showing up two hours late for a meeting I presumed had been scheduled in accordance to California time, visiting seven different service centers and auto dealerships before finding one able to service the Sprinter, eliminating four possible breeds of dogs from my truck companion search. “Turns out people really like the color green…”

12: I cough. The light scratching just beyond the back of my tongue has joined forces with the pressure building behind my cheek bones to overthrow my body. I’m willing to surrender, but am having difficulty deciding whether to aim towards a collapse upon the large grey tiles at my feet or in the newly constructed mountain of soiled tissues from the courtesy napkin dispenser near my bag. I’m in the waiting room of an auto-dealership; my coughs occurring often enough to distract feet from gingerly swinging to the serenades of an alto sax emanating from the circular overhead speakers.

3:30: He lights a cigarette and slouches down in the metallic chair across from me. The unnecessarily large circular table is set for five, and with only two of us sitting directly across from each other, the space that has grown between us in the last six months is mapped out between the tea pot and small plates on the table.
“We kicked him out. Did I tell you that? We did. Yeah, it’s just, you know, that guy. He’s been nothing but completely disrespectful to me and everyone else in the house. He’s completely taken over the first floor and it’s trashed. All the time. There were five girls sleeping on our floor the other night and we didn’t know any of them. They were, well, not girls we’d want to know, yelling and screaming at 11pm on a week night. The cops had been called already. We hid out with Scotty in the attic. He was slamming doors and picking fights, getting physically violent. I’m just, you know, tired.”
“Things are okay, you know, I’m just, sort of, venting. So what happened to you, where’ve you been?”
This is not the sort of question that wants a response. After another puff he starts in again.
“I heard a few months ago that you came back. At Grumpy’s, your name came up at Grumpy’s, I don’t remember how, and someone mentioned you were back.”
A waitress exits onto the patio and posts a sign featuring a cigarette with a large red circle and slash around it. He tucks his butt under the teapot in front of me and finishes his coffee.

Minneapolis, MN

This feels like a strange dream. I’m waiting for my eyes to open, to turn to the first acquaintance I run into and diagnose what they think it all means. I pinch myself and watch the skin on my arm change from white to red. This is no dream.

I’m sitting in a room at a seemingly endless conference table. The chairs perfectly lined one against the other. Florescent lighting. Red accented items are strategically placed in a stark white room. Two people enter and sit across from me. They are familiar yet distant. I’m unsure of their middle names or favorite foods but their mannerisms are comfortingly familiar, the small winks, the excessive blinking and eye rolls, the hearty forced laughter. Their murmurs rise and fall. Somehow my hands interpret their vocal vibrations into some form of outline. Suddenly, my whole Sunday is planned on paper before me.

Silence falls in the room. They are staring my way, eyes wide with anticipation. A folded piece of white paper is pushed across the table towards me as they share quick glances of approval. I unfold it slowly. It reminds me instantly of the mock-blue prints my sister and I used to draw up while planning out the older versions of ourselves from a fuchsia walled bedroom. Magazines scattered across the thick browning carpet, we’d turn through pages of headless adults, used in previous life dreams, in search of the most photogenic child to claim as our own.

This floor plan is lacking the color and blinding hope of adolescence. I don’t see any glue sticks handy. I look up from the table and they are both gone. The lights snap off from lack of motion. I stand and walk out to a van covered in blue flowers. Tom Petty blares from the radio.

St.Louis, MO

It's amazing how quickly you can screw everything up.

I feel like I've picked up the dying dandelion seeds, torn from the grass, blown away the fuzzy seedlings, and am left standing with a stick figured stem- unsure of what to do with it.

St. Louis, MO

Hotel 101;
When you pull up to a hotel and a tour bus is in the parking lot. Proceed with caution. When a gaggle of preteens come stampeding out of the lobby doors like moms on Black Friday, run. Admit defeat. Check into the run down Holiday Inn across the street next to the Dirt Cheap liquor store and spend the evening strategically placing furniture in front of the door.

I’m sure restroom graffiti will be at an all time high after this weekend. As eager as I am to see if the Jamie + Andy 4eva romance makes it past Saturday, I fear I’ve been a little distracted by the fire alarm that was pulled. Between watching the two fire trucks and surveying the evening attire of the other guests, I’m a little tied up.

Lawrence, Kansas

1 pm: Just now entering Lawrence. There is a key point in the route I take to get here where you reach a T in the road and have to fully commit. Lawrence? Or get the hell out of Kansas. My fear of commitment has subsided these days, I turn left.

2 pm: She does not look pleased to see me. In fact, she’s either recently dabbled in a wide selection of half rotting cheese, or she is annoyed to be helping me. She asks for my ID again. I explain that it’s in the car and ask if she wouldn’t mind looking me up in the database, as I had just stayed here earlier in the week and my van had to be parked four blocks away due to their height restrictive parking lot. No, it’s not a cheese face, she’s irritated. She scowls typing into her computer. Gradually, her expression changes in a manner which I can sense she knows I’m witnessing it. I’m guessing she just saw my reward status and how often I take surveys of my hotel stays. Looks like bringing those bikes in will be no problem.

3 pm: This hotel has two rooms, and I’m sitting in the living room simulation. There is an investigative report on Big Foot hunters on the television to my left and three postcards with temperatures scrawled on them stacked together on my right.

4 pm: Mid-conversation with one of the local wrenches at the shop in town. He’s offering to squire me about town tomorrow via bicycle to look at all of the historical plaques in the county. How’s a girl to say no?

5 pm: At an outdoor patio of a restaurant called Ingredient. “Peaceful easy feeling” is quietly being played on overhead speakers and the sun is beginning to char my shoulder blades. It’s nice out, but I’m in Kansas alone. My head is jumbled, creating the worst possible scenarios for three uncomfortably open situations I am too far away to fix. The boy; the sister; the job. I’m trying to put my finger on what is different about this college town. Somewhere between observing the local basketball frat boys behind me scold a reckless driver and overhearing the cuff-linked moneybag couple at table 4 congratulate a dred-locked tattoo covered new mom, my food arrives.

6 pm: Mom calls. She makes comments on how I’m likely getting fat. I feel better.

8 pm: The boy calls. We relish in the latest historical tidbits from our day and I ruin another potential surprise by not only telling him that thinking of him I bought a t-shirt, but what exactly is on it and the weave of organic cotton. Some things will never change.

9 pm: Just cancelled plans to meet up with the firefighter/wrench from the shop. I’m admitting defeat. I’m exhausted.

10 pm: This bed is too comfortable to crawl out of and get my book. Looks like another night drifting away to Fresh Prince re-runs.

Kansas City, MO to Lawrence, Kansas

Yesterday. Part one.

7 am- Two banana peels reside next to my sandals in between the seats. I’m struggling with the knob on the radio. I hate listening to people talk in the morning. They are discussing the end of the world and the preparation needed to survive the swine flu epidemic. And Rhianna. I’m thinking of cloned body parts, the ability to keep a closet full of one duplicated organ and narrowing down my back-stock choices.

9 am- I saw the sign… I haven’t heard this song in forever.

10 am- The muffin selection at this Caribou is weak. I used to be partial to chocolate chocolate chip. For over a year I was brought chocolate chip muffins on a weekly basis. The innocent misinterpretation was flattering, and I knew the source of these muffins didn’t usually have access to that necessary extra dose of chocolate batter. But there’s a difference. I pass on pastries all together and settle into a table for two by the front window with my abnormally hot chai. The computer is a mediocre plus one, but our routine is comfortable.

11:30 am- Phone rings. I drop my 5 mil. and rush outside. I can’t listen close enough. I teeter on the curb like a balance beam. I can’t stand still. I wobble one direction and then the other, my right hand holding my phone to my ear and my left arm outstretched to remain upright. I turn to retrace my route in the opposite direction. There are two black cats eating road kill remnants in the parking lot. I sit down, watching the ragged felines picking apart a life, as we dissect hers on the other end of the line.

Noon- I’m listening to him grunt. He doesn’t say much, but his grunts speak volumes. He’s unhappy loading the bikes into the back of his man-van and he’s more unhappy that ye ole me is supervising his every move. Now, now, sir, I wouldn’t be here supervising if you rode a bike once in a while. See how this could be avoided? You familiarize yourself with the two wheeled beast and I’ll back off. Until then, I won’t refrain from asking you not to place the metal buckle from the tie downs directly on a carbon frame. Roll your eyes all you want, I know from experience how much you can brake before that box slides into those Carbones and tears a hole in the side.

Lincoln, Nebraska

The radio is beeping on every station. The sky’s rolling black clouds feel low enough to touch. The tornado siren sounds for the second time in ten minutes as I pull into a nearby parking lot. Sirens in this town are essentially a “don’t walk” sign. People line store fronts duck under awnings. No one is moving. Work seizes to function as employees press their faces against the large glass window fronts, gazing upwards and pointing.

I pause in the van, waiting for the rain to let up. Fat suicidal drops hurl themselves towards the pavement, coming in from the right. The wind changes and suddenly the kamikaze droplets are hammering down from the left. All too unexpectedly it stops. There is a giant breathless pause. Heads poke out from store fronts. It is the break before the firework finale on the 4th of July, we know what’s coming, but aren’t sure when.

I make a dash for it. Despite what nature is up to, I’m hungry, and rumor has it the burgers two blocks down can’t be beat. I duck into the bar right as the rain picks up again and the fourth siren begins. I order and sit next to the window to watch the clouds churn as I sip my lemonade.

I suppose I wasn’t concerned because no one else in the town seemed to be. When the fifth siren sounded someone cranked up Dave Matthews Band, frat boys wearing golf gear ordered another round to ready themselves for the evenings “golf pros and tennis hos” themed party, and I began a quick walk back to the local bike shop.

I didn’t think much of things until the sparkle of metal caught my eye. Newly pierces trees stood adorning their newly acquired shards, insulation squares caught in bare branches. A few blocks away the houses missing roofs made me evaluate where I was, how close I was.

But that burger was damn good.

lawrence, kansas

Arrived into Kansas around 1am to find that my van wouldn't fit into the parking lot due to one of those restrictive beams. Those 7 foot cut off beams have become the bane of my existence. At first, I played nice. I parked on the street and walked, walked further, and kept walking until reaching the hotel to properly check in. The attendant was on an internet chat-room in the "office station." Very 90's.

She rounded the corner and we discussed the parking scenario. She informed me the beam in the back of the parking lot was quote "a lot higher" and I should be able to fit there. Sleepily, I was convinced; determined. The visions of crushed grass and exposed dirt that had flashed through my mind while parking down the street faded into a mirage of endless empty parking spaces.

Sure enough, her eyes had been playing tricks on her.

The red paint on the beam on the rear entrance also clearly said 7 feet. Exhausted, I inched towards the beam, challenging it. The plastic tube rattled on my antenna threatening to snap the weakening wire. Defeated, I put the van in reverse, it's loud beep drawing attention from the college kids crossing through lawns on their walk back from the bar. I parked in the street blocks away and again, trudged back to the hotel, dragging my suitcase and broken ego behind me, thoroughly exhausted.

Of course, as is usually the case when one wants something a little too much, sleep didn't come until late. I fell asleep close to 3 am with Fresh Prince in the background, Will Smith looming over me. Waking promptly at 7, my eyelids half closed, my feet drug me towards the shower and I stood, motionless for a few moments trying to figure out how I got into this pattern yet again.

Two blocks away, I spot the bike shop. I park myself in a near by cafe to caffeinate and practice my small talk on the barista before moving up to the gentlemen from the shop that keep cycling through upon seeing my van. Yes, that would be mine. Who'd have thought the under slept, over caffeinated girl hiding behind a laptop with a pile of receipts occupying the table for four would be the first guess of driver of the bug infested windshield parked around the corner from the shop. Good guess? Or the bags under my eyes are now holding a map documenting my travels thus far.

I can be read all to easily.

I finish my coffee and am out the door in fifteen minutes. There is already a ticket on my van despite the fact that the meters aren't set to be policed until 10. I groan all too loudly, attracting the sidewalk patrons as I stomp over to the van. I grab the ticket and collapse into the driver's seat.

$2.

Should have rammed that beam.

West Des Moines, IA

He’s gripping a nearly empty Budweiser in one hand and a recently uncapped Fat Tire in the other. He leans forward from the stool setting both of them on the floor and steps forward to the man seated across from him on a similar wooden stool, gripping the man’s head in his grease covered hands.
“Bald spot in that graying hair, now I see it. Vanity is fleeting, wisdom is forever. Don’t dye your hair.”
He releases his grip on the man’s head and chuckles.
“Funny thing is they told me that in AA.”
“Not to dye your hair?” I nod upwards towards his shiny bald head.
“No, smartass, the wisdom bit.”

He sits back down, finishing off the Budweiser and tossing it towards the towering trash can to his left. He misses. The can rattles on the floor and rolls towards a bench. There are four empty cans already residing underneath it.
He turns my way, “How old are you, 26-27?”
I shake my head no. “You give me too much credit.”
“Got any kids?”
Again, I shake my head no. “I live out of that van out there.”

He picks up the beer and leans in to cheers me. I curve my wrist bringing the beer in towards me.
“Isn’t that a picture of your kid on the wall, licking that trainer?”
He lets a laugh slip and leans in.
“I love him. Don’t think I don’t. But if someone would have told me, actually told me, how much work a kid entails. Well, I don’t know. We might have had a talk about it. Just makes me want to apologize to my parents if I was anything like he is. People tell you how hard it is and, believe me, it is 150 times harder.”

I stand up and walk towards a photo pinned above the workbench to my right. The shop is a cluttered seek-n-find, the ultimate Where’s Waldo of bike shops. I want to photograph the walls and create a puzzle for my niece & nephews, (Find a three gallon jug of cheese balls, two microwaves, hockey equipment, three calendars, thirteen hammers, seven pool cues, four jars of beer bottle caps) but the scandalous is intertwined with the more typical bike shop findings.

I mistakenly tune back in to his next story of his colonoscopy and kidney stones, and use the time to collect my empties and bring them into the adjoining room towards an empty pile near the fridge. I spot the pool table the cues belong to, hiding underneath saddle bags and boxes of unopened apparel.

There’s something to be said for this clutter free, kid free, diesel chugging lifestyle of mine. Not quite sure what exactly it is yet.

Des Moines, IA

It’s mid-afternoon and I am sitting in my underwear in an ill lit hotel room. I’ve refused to surrender the bed. Having sacrificed power to the clock radio in order to charge my computer, I’m able to be convinced the light outlining the pinstriped drapes is from a street light lamp, or the glow of Christ watching over me, anything but a mid-days sun. Exhaustion from the week found me last night, hovering over a high-top table, gripping flavorless pale ale, in Des Moines.

Minneapolis, MN

He’s pacing back and forth in the room. Turning a corner, he appears out of the corner of my right eye for a moment, before turning around back through the hallway, song lyrics echoing with him. He reappears on my left heading towards the kitchen. He’s carrying a hot glue gun, inserted in which is a foot long tube of hardened glue. I look up from my keyboard and he asks,

“What’s that name of that Africa song, by Toto?”
“Africa.”
“Yeah… Africa.”

A light turns on in the hall. I hear him laugh. Moments later he’s back in the living room with his hands above his head, mimicking the cheers of an applauding crowd. He puts a Pearl Jam 45 on the record player and continues on into the kitchen, the electrical tail of the glue gun, trailing behind him.

“I fixed that towel holder,” he says disappearing around the stove, his head peaks out, the open window behind him making his six foot figure a mere silhouette in the doorway. He looks at me, letting slip a low and quiet giggle.

He disappears to the other side of the doorway and I’m wondering if he’s setting down the gun, maybe going to sit at the kitchen table and study a bit, maybe he’ll make a sandwich. But I know better, he’s thinking of something else to glue.

His darkened shadow reappears in the door, “Fixed the Sea Man lamp.” The room fills with Pearl Jam and I hear him mutter; “Now he’ll never get away.”

He stares up at the blinds. For a moment I watch him, face scrunching into a puzzled look, out of the corner of my eye. My keyboard intertwining with Eddie Vedder’s vocals.

“No,” he says, turning back towards the kitchen, gun lowering to his side, “Tape would work better.”

Minneapolis, MN

Five of us walk towards the car, still laughing over an evening of wait staff harassment, personal insults, and pop culture quotes. He turns sharply to the left yelling clear across the parking lot to our sister-in-law as she reaches her car,
“I hate you! I hope you get into a car accident on the way home and only you die!”
Eyes tearing from our heads, we choke back chuckles between gasps, grabbing the bellies we’ve already made sore with Italian food and quick wit.

We’ve never been the “I love you”, sort; the “See you soon” “Have a great night” Cleaver sort of family. Our own translators have been imbedded into our minds from birth, conjugating “You’ve gotten fatter” directly into “Great to see you.” “You haven’t died yet?” merely being the informal/personal adaptation of “I’m glad you could make it!”

Introducing a significant other to this sort of environment is like switching from a hot tub back into the pool. You have to take it all once. It’s not merely sink or swim, it’s learning to walk on water or strapping on cement shoes.

Welcome to the deep end, start looking for a warm spot.

Jefferson City, MO

Waking up to a phone call is worse than waking up to an alarm. When you set an alarm at least you have a general idea of when you will be getting up, give or take a few snoozes. But having family on the East coast and the company I work for on the West coast, there’s a lot of adding and subtracting involved in figuring out who might have been calling me at 9:00 under the assumption I’d be actively conscious. I kept an eye open waiting for my voicemail to chime so I can figure out the mystery caller. Most bike shops support the ethos of bountiful sleep and beer, not opening until 10 or later. No chime. Too awake to go back to sleep.

Columbia, MO

The women’s team wussed out on the ride. As it was pretty windy, I can somewhat understand and chose to view their presence as a generous use of their time, being that they arrived to watch me set up all of my road bikes only informing me of their cancellation after the final handlebar was torqued into place, and remained in the parking lot until I was completely packed up again. Then, I suppose, was indeed the safest moment to emerge from their vehicles to go for a run instead.

Typically, I might feel inclined to pass judgment on such an act, to tell those so called pie-plate pushers to man-up, for instance. But as it is, sitting here in my underwear, in a chair that doesn’t allow my feet to touch the ground, alternating between a juice box and gnawing at the top of a chocolate crucifix, I’m not really in the place to judge.

Columbia, MO

A few hours from now I will be surrounded by women looking to tear my legs from my body. Their goal being to suck on the severed tendon remains, using my failing spirit as an energy boost before tossing the pale appendage aside and demanding more. I can hear the grunts now, accompanying their low cursing as their throw their bike side to side on the repetitious torture of the local hill climb.

After three days in a hotel, suffering on a treadmill staring into my stick legs bouncing in the reflection of the mirrored wall, you’d think I ‘d be mentally prepared for such anguish.

I suppose it beats the snow in Minnesota. Here goes nothing.

Minneapolis, MN

It was August. The gutters were lined with crumpled beer cans, plastic bags, and the dying shades of the first discarded leaves of autumn. The two of us were walking down Franklin towards where the old Acadia used to be on Nicollet. The hard soles of his cowboy boots ticked away the final breaths of the collapsing sun, the last days of summer before class started back up again, our schedules tearing us from our daily lunch meetings and coffee breaks, disintegrating our relationship down to tales of “this guy I used to know.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette before tossing it under the parked sedan to our left.
“You were on that ladder and I came over and introduced myself. You looked down at me and smiled and then promptly fell off. Remember that? It was the summer of Marlboro lights.”

I walked towards the curb, stepping one foot down to the gutter, pinched ambers from the cigarette and stared at him wide eyed as I placed the remains of his addiction into the garbage can on the corner. He shook his head letting a single chuckle escapes from his rounded belly.

“Yeah, you remember.” He extends his arm and shuffles his hand over the top of my head quickly tossing my hair side to side. “You remember.”

His third cigarette thrown at my heels as I rounded the corner was the final farewell of that American Spirits summer. My strongest memory now being his way of classifying time periods with the brands of cigarettes he was purchasing.

It’s only now that I understand, now in my season of Basil Hayden’s.

St.Louis, MO

Unable to sleep, I let myself out of bed at the first sign of light to begin packing my necessities into two compact carry-on’s. They now sit, unbuckled, on the passenger seat, waiting for me to prod through them, looking for reassurance, and top them off with additional reading material.

These last few weeks have dragged on. Rain hasn’t helped. I’ve been trudging through water in four different states and now I’m a few feet in sight of the beach, too close to swim and too far out to run efficiently. St.Louis. My plane leaves in an hour in a half for Minneapolis. I’m on the freeway.

I hate being late. Having a father who honed his time skills down to the minute, it became impossible not to be affected. “Pick you up? Yeah I’ll leave right now. So let’s see, with traffic,” through the phone I can see him extending his fingers and tilting his head slowly to the right as his eyes gazed upwards mapping out the route, “Two stop lights… I’ll be there at 9:42. Meet you at the curb, don’t be late.”

My flight leaves at 7:40. It’s the end of spring break with many flights returning sunbathed and hair braided folks back to their motherland with newfound bragging rights. That adds a significant amount of people to the security line. And, let’s face it, have you seen security at that airport? One island-style counter separate from the X-ray conveyer. You’re forced to trade on and off with the folk on the opposite side, fighting your way to the conveyer belt while blocking the awaiting guest, in attempts to keep all of your drab grey trays together.

My GPS system estimates my arrival time at the parting lot to ten minutes. I pick up my phone and call a cab service to pick me up. I follow the white arrows illuminated on the miniature screen on the dash. Right off of the ramp, immediate left, right into the lot. I pick up the pocket sized notebook sitting in a cubby just beyond my turn signal. Park near frontage road. Backside of the lot. From my back corner of the lot I can make out the shape of bicycles in a three paneled storefront window just as my cab is rolling up. I shove my baggage into his back seat, lock the van until the lights blink farewell, and collapse into the warm vinyl next to my bags.

The sun is lowering behind us as we head towards the airport. I interrupt the silence of the first ten minutes of the drive by casually asking how much time it will take to arrive. The car shakes with the shrug of his shoulders. I lean between the front seats, looking up at the dash. The tank is on empty. We roll up to a red light; the driver puts the car in park, then neutral. He’s staring nervously out the window. I’m trying to remind myself that this is a trained professional, that he likely knows how many miles he can get out of a tank, that he makes this run to the airport multiple times a weekend. I’m not convincing. My confidence is replaced with images of walking on the side of the freeway, my carry-on dragging behind me as I speed walk towards the terminal.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, “This wouldn’t have been an issue if the address you had given me wasn’t wrong.”
There’s no reason for me to attempt words, as he witnesses my wide eyes through his rearview mirror.
“You didn’t notice? You parked on the wrong side of the street given the building number you gave me. Every other building had even numbers. I’m guessing the shop just tacked on that odd number for humor’s sake, you know? Steal the competition.”

I’m frozen. I sit staring out the window for a moment, letting the shake of the dying car resonate through my body, ignoring the potential of missed flights while my mind photographs my van with broken windows, bikes missing from their mounts, spray painted Trek tags on the seat covers. My fingers scramble towards my phone and I begin googling the shop address.

Yup. Trek dealer.

It’s too late. Tack on the added time needed to mall-walk towards the terminal when this car dies, the time it takes to get through security, to stand in line waiting for them to call Group 2. I’m screwed. Sweat beads form on my forehead as I mentally graph the pros and cons of missing a flight vs leaving my van with our known enemy. Leaving my van in front of the biggest competitor in the area could easily be interpreted as something done out of spite, a silent jab, the black and white Zorro sword fighting scene with delayed white font sentences trailing. The clash of swords, cling cling cling. "You think Lance is your saving grace, huh? Think doping is going to get us down, eh?" A sword punctures through the heart of the enemy, directly through the velvet cape covering his back. "I, am Tom Boonen, I am Specialized. (uninformed?) Sucker."

The car stutters to a halt in front of the American terminal as the final blood droplets from the feature film are pooling with my sweat. I toss some crumpled bills into the front seat, take my bags and make a run towards security. I’m convincing myself the van can survive one night alone. Just one night.

Hopefully.

Austin, TX

Friday

I jump up from the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor my knees give out and I topple over. I hit my head on the short dresser that holds the television and land in my suitcase. My legs have given up on me. I find myself lying there for longer than I should; taking in the room from the fetal position on top of fading denim and blue collared Dickies work shirts. My phone rings. I sit up, rubbing my head, and answer. My bare feet mingle with disregarded socks and the laundry I haven’t attempted cleaning as I listen to the voice on the other line. Cue teachers voice from Charlie Brown. Morning has crept up on me too soon, but the days can’t seem to pass fast enough. A crumpled flight confirmation reveals itself from underneath a water bottle filled with electronic cables and an assortment of chargers as I stand up. Sunday. 7:40pm St. Louis to Minneapolis. I can survive til Sunday.

Austin, TX

Thursday

-Every so often I hear the voices. “Hard left. Swoop right. Steep drop off. River crossing. Pedal pedal pedal.” Branches claw into my shins with every corner I swing wide on. The voices are becoming less frequent and more distant. Soon all I am hearing is heavy breathing and repetitious pieces of Dosh songs buzzing playing through my mind with each rotation of my cranks like an untamed music box.

-The two of us are sitting on the front porch swing of a house we’ve never been to. The address is 2121 but looks like 2727. We could very well be sitting on the porch swing of a stranger we aren’t supposed to be meeting, but the closed curtains have a welcoming stitching into the bottom hem and the worn Welcome mat doesn’t look too threatening. Worst case scenario, cookies. Pottery remnants perfectly scattered about the yard as urban artifacts, toppled handmade pots holding spices and seasonal flowers. A car pulls into the driveway. We exchange pleasantries. Moments later, between tour busses and cabs, my handle bars collide with the mirror of a waiting vehicle. I gesture an apologetic wave and continue on. The city is a swirl around us. Rickshaws overloaded with passengers. Haircuts with tour badges line the sidewalk, ironic mustaches swoon over acoustic guitars being played in outdoor cafes. I am blocking neon colors and melodies mingling in the turn lane, attempting to focus on the wheel in front of me and one pedal stroke at a time.

-The one person I know in the room exchanges only silent glances at me from behind the long grey hair of an aged indie rock guitar player that has attached to him. I nod. There are no words. Having helped an exiting band carry gear out of one venue into the next, we were able to skip the hoards of folks waiting on the sidewalk. Four nods from security, two unclasped velvet ropes, fifty-some stairs, and three dark hallways later, we’re on a rooftop. Drinks are free. The music is mediocre, conversation is weak, but for this moment, we are something- someone, no one in the room knows quite what. Our shock and discomfort in unfamiliar territory leaves us interpreted as untouchable and mysterious. In no time we’re holding samplers.

Austin, Texas

Wednesday

Running into folks from home in another city is not unlike bumping into an old boyfriend unexpectedly. Do you agree to coffee again, for old time’s sake? Maybe. Do you really want to go? Likely not. There’s a sudden need to prove yourself, what you’ve been up to, what you’re doing. At the same time, you are exchanging knowing glances, recounting where you last saw them, what they were doing, wearing. Surrounded by unrecognizable faces, the familiarity with our hometown unites us. We are the outcasts, and yet, this week, we visitors outnumber the locals. We cram into the left corner of a bike shop, pile around a projector screen and two shirtless riders showcasing Texan themed tattoos as they ride single speeds on rollers for bragging rights.

Covington, Louisiana

Not dead yet, let me assure you.

Just rained out.

Stay tuned.

Jackson, Mississippi.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Ba-ba-ba-baby…”
The song is pouring out from under the door of the room across the hall from me. I can’t help but smile. I mouth the words to the next verse as I stick the keycard into the slot above the handle and enter my room.

Despite being in Little Rock for only two hours, the room already looks lived in. A mess of my belongings are scattered on the counter near the sink. There are several bags piled together at the foot of one bed mingling with dirty socks, cycling gear, a few books. I turn on Food Network for some background noise and return a few e-mails before dragging the clothing pile into the hallway.

“Ba-ba-ba-baby…”

I pause. An armful of grease-marked jeans and short sleeved jerseys slip to the floor. Seriously? Again? I replay my actions since last being in the hall and approximate a fifteen minute gap. Maybe fourteen. I laugh and hum the song as I kick the fallen articles towards guest laundry services.

Doing laundry in a hotel is a gamble. Who is really going to open your wash load and steal something? Likely no one. But realistically, I don’t get to do laundry too often. If someone were feeling bored and was jacked up on enough 5 hour energy, I would be left entering the local mall in either a tiny black dress or a swimsuit with leggings- the only items remaining in my suitcase. I’m feeling brave, so I turn back to the room leaving the items unattended.

“Here’s somethin’ that you’re never gonna forget.”

Now I am completely certain he has played this song a minimum of five times. What makes me think that this BTO abuser tick? Is he a businessman possibly getting ready for an interview, getting all psyched up? A magician, perhaps? As I was switching loads from the washer to the drier the music got a bit louder. I heard the steps grow closer and I forced myself to continue stuffing the drier in order to catch the specimen out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, his socked footsteps moved my way, into the attached room where he entered and disappeared in a flash. The only remnant of his existence being a sign taped haphazardly to the Coke machine. Out of Order.

Having just used the machine myself, I stared at the sign for a few moments wondering if I should take it down or possibly return it. I wondered if I should talk to the creature about his social experiment. If I should knock.

I stood between his door and mine. In one room, Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives. In the other? Something I’m never going to, never going to forget.

Springfield, Missouri

After paying $1.50 for a banana and $3 for the plastic container holding fifteen grapes, I’m feeling bitter and exhausted. I’m in line to board the plane for the final leg of flight series towards Springfield, Missouri. The unfortunate footnote in the quest to find the cheapest possible flight combinations is two-fold. One, my daily workout needs to incorporate the sprint from one terminal to the next, including a jaunt through security if necessary. Two, I usually end up using multiple airlines within the course of one trip. The later is what leaves the attendant struggling to scan my ticket, as it is from a completely different airline that is no longer using a checkout scanner stolen from a Kum-N-Go.

She notices the problem right away, picking up a phone to exchange combat strategies with fellow ticketeers as she types information into her podium. My weight shifts left to right, shifting my bags across my hip. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn, as my eyes frantically check my bags and hands pat down my pockets wonder what I possibly could have dropped.

“Can you please go?” I’m not only stunned by the necklace creeping up over the fold over her turtleneck sweater, I’m taken aback by her request.

I have no time to react. The attendant finishes and hands me back my ticket and I move forward down the walkway towards the plane. The cameras in that area captured an expression I can only describe as befuddled. I’m sure security attendants will sneak the footage into their holiday reel somewhere between expressions of folks accidently soiling their pants and wondering what to do next and men realizing they’ve just walked out of a women’s restroom, and more importantly if anyone has seen them.

The four words have left me enraged. My exhaustion has gotten the best of me and I am fuming as I board the plane. I can feel her behind me with her baggage inching at my heels. There is a miniature, more honest, version of myself screaming inside.

Who does such a thing? You’re in the middle of a line! To board a plane! Even if I had moved aside when you asked, you would have been still waiting for the attendant to finish before she could scan your ticket. And even if the attendant decided, ‘fuck it, I’m going to throw caution to the wind, rip this ticket and throw the remains up in the air to bless the path of this phenomenal creature in front of me’ you would still be waiting for the thirty other people in front of you to shuffle through the tight aisle of the plane, manhandling their roller-boards into the overhead space- squeezing their bellies against the side of their row in attempts to politely let other guests rub up against them as they walk by. Yes, you would still be waiting behind suspenders, here, taking off his jacket to occupy what’s left of the storage compartment above his seat.

I’m coaching myself to breathe. I’m chanting lyrics to Yellow Submarine to the escalating rhythm of my heart.

AND, unless you are planning on knocking all of these folks down, turning them into your own personal blood red carpet as you mash your orthotic attempt at heels into their flesh making your way to your seat, the two seconds it’s going to take for me to get my ticket back from the damn attendant wouldn’t have gotten you there.

I’m trying to forget her as I take my seat, but I can’t resist looking back as I tuck my bag into the overhead. I watch as she stumbles, struggling to manage two oversized bags and her protruding waistline down the aisle. I see her check her ticket, her eyes following the printed digits lining the storage units. She spots her row, pocketing the ticket, and continues her shuffle. Her eyes gaze downwards and meet mine. I’m watching the chunks of her dried out fuchsia lipstick crack with her fading smile. I eyeball the seatbelt in the empty seat next to me. I have time to wad gum into the clasp or tie knots into the nylon belt. I do not, however, have the time or ambition needed to mentally recreate a childhood memory strong enough to turn my tight smile into anything resembling general care.

She takes her seat in the row directly behind me, kneeing my seat four or five times before settling back into her chair and sighing loudly. I miss Beatrice, my elderly flying companion on my flight from Wisconsin into Minneapolis. I know she would have some feisty choice words for this woman. I exchange a knowing glance with the invisible version of her in the aisle seat next to me- she being considerate enough this flight to have let me take the window seat. Again, I find myself struggling to relax. I want revenge.

Turbulence is rattling deep thoughts I had tried to push back. I’m picturing myself jarring my seat back into full reclining position after she sets her beverage on the grey plastic tray in front of her. Do I want it up? Do I want it back? I just can’t decide, ho hum. I shove my headphones into my ears, put my hat on, tugging the short brim closer to my eyes and cross my arms to keep my hands from tossing the contents of the seat pocket over my head into her lap.

I’m dosing off when her humming starts growing louder. She is now standing in the aisle next to me with one hand stabilizing her on the seatback. She begins walking the length of the plane, still humming loudly. The flight attendant comes on the speaker reminding everyone that under turbulence such as this, it is for safety reasons that the pilot has turned on the seatbelt sign. She takes another lap, then a third.
The attendant repeats into the intercom, “Please remain seated with your seatbelt securely fashioned unless using the restroom. Please remain seated…”

Her hum has changed to a whistle as she begins her fourth lap. The flight attendant shakes his arms in front of him and mouths Why Me looking upwards, he’s wondering why he took this flight when he could be in Tahiti with his boyfriend, Leo drinking Mike’s lemonade on the beach, or a cabin in Montana, anywhere but here.

I turn up my ipod and stare out the window, avoiding vigilante justice.

We land. She is up out of her seat the moment the wheels hit the ground, juggling her bags from the overhead. The attendant has given up on the woman and has turned instead to his watch, hiding out in the dark space between the cockpit and the cabin. He makes the typical landing comments without making an appearance to collect trash and soon enough we are at the terminal.

I stand and hang my bag over my shoulder, turning to face the woman as she stands just barely even with my row, inching her way forward. I decide jumping in front of her and sticking my tongue out is just childish, so I motion for her to go ahead, smiling. Her face fills with skepticism and doubt but she moves up immediately, groping the next person ahead of her. The doors open, but there is a slow start to our exit as the baggage is being unloaded and set near the door for pick up.

My hand moves separately from my body. I see it rise, and for a moment it hangs behind her. My eyes have delivered a death stare to my finger. No. No. No. No. Awe, come on! No. No. There is no going back. My hand might has well have crumpled to a fist, turned and nodded back at me. Instead, it taps her on the shoulder.

She turns and I clear my throat, raising my index finger to let her know that I will address her when I’m finished with this precious personal moment.

“Eh, yes. Can you please go?”

She’s shocked. She whips back around, waving her arms rapidly towards the inching line in front of her, eyes wide and mouth open. I cross my arms and smile at her, then pull out my cell phone again, hold out my index finger before she can muster a response, and answer an incoming call.

I am an asshole. More proof to follow.

Springfield, Missouri.

There is a set of tasseled shoes sitting in the row behind me chastising someone on the other end of his phone call. The person happens to be named Amy. In general, it’s a bit odd meeting someone with your same name. Listening to someone discipline an unknown version of you is even more towards unsettling.

“You need to dress appropriately for work- AMY.”
“No more holes in your jeans- AMY.”

He leaves a distinct pause before including my name at the end of each sentence, raising his voice just a bit which is starting to make me think he might actually be speaking to me. I slump a little in my chair, transforming back into fifth grade, avoiding eye contact in attempts not to be called on.

“No tennis shoes to work- AMY.”

I can’t help but analyze my apparel in terms of my working conditions. But, strangely enough, the items he is suggesting I wear, the A-line skirt, and business suit, would be some of the few options deemed inappropriate for my work setting of national parks and shop parking lots. I imagine changing cables and cleaning chains in a tight fitting vest over a collared dress shirt. Nylons. Heels.

I feel myself sinking into But Mom... statements. I’m suddenly ashamed of the hole in the top layer of fabric covering my slip on shoes. I brush the dirt off of the bottom of my pant leg before tucking my feet underneath my chair.

“No, AMY. Not anymore. No.”

I’m picturing the mounting process involved in standing in front of a road bike while wearing a form fitting knee length skirt. I’m thinking of the footwear and outfit necessities needed to hide any visible tattoos, when his phone call suddenly ends.

He curses, pulling the phone away, and walks closer towards the window on my left in attempts to gain service. Nothing. He turns to me,

“Do you have any change for a dollar? I need to use the pay phone.” He then turns to his cell phone and shakes his head, shrugging. “Kids, you know? When will they learn?”

I laugh awkwardly and nod, handing over the change from my pocket.

Springfield, Missouri

My friends, I have betrayed you. After countless e-mails regarding my lack of updates and short verbal exchanges from folks in a huff, I’ve come to terms with it. My virtual world has been at a stand-still as my frequent flier miles keep tabulating.

And so, dear readers, I’d like to take a moment to thank Sloane Crosley and the Twin Cities publications praising her work for refueling the fire. I shall cap my pen and return to the keyboard, no longer censoring passages. Embrace the return of overly articulated diatribes, airport musings, and the world at large.

So thanks, Sloane, and your (grumble grumble grumble) essay compilation of "I Was Told There’d Be Cake."

And sorry to anyone at Cars R Coffins this morning who heard my cursing.

Minneapolis, MN (recap)

I’m sitting in a bucket seat in airport terminal C in Springfield, Missouri spilling preflight parking lot thoughts into a hardcover notebook. He approaches and tosses his bags into a chair between us before bending to sit, collapsing one leg underneath him and turning to face me.

“Both of those bags yours?”
“Yeah.” I close my book and tuck it into the bag at my feet. “I’m not going to risk checking baggage when I have three flights today, not with the way this morning’s been so far.”
“Ha. You’re one of those people, hogging up all the overhead space with your two bags.”
“One fits under the seat perfectly, and the other is smaller than a roller board, which is the real bandit of overhead space if you ask me. Folks who shove all their dirty laundry into the front zippers of their suitcase and have to turn it sideways taking over three overhead spaces, claiming it’s an approved size? Witnessing those folks is what makes me wish for a water landing, heavy turbulence.”

Heads turn towards us, roller-boards being politely nudged out of eyesight. I saw you when you walked in Mr. Mustache. Nice loafers, though.
He smiles, shaking his head and begins picking at a dirt stain on the jacket in his lap.

“I had to park far away, I hate that,” he mumbles.
“Bummer. Where are you flying next, Dallas?”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck. I mean, I suppose it’s all fine and good if you have four hours on your hands to ride the tram completely around to reach whatever terminal you want, but if you need to catch a flight in twenty minutes? Yeah right, save your time. Grab a drink at the bar and walk to the closest attendant whimpering. Rebook. Running is no option in that mess. A complete maze of tucked away terminals and escalators leading to cul-de-sacs of restrooms and water fountains, what a waste.” I finish my grape juice and toss the bottle hand to hand before lifting it over my head and extending both arms into prime free throw position, taking aim at the trash can across the aisle. It bounces off the rim creating a resonating hum along the aluminum before falling in. I recreate crowd noises from NBA jams. My follow-through needs work.

He stops picking at his jacket and takes his boarding passes out of his pocket. His shoulders slump a little and his lips press together, twisting to the left.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“No, No. Me, too. Absolutely,” I nod, digging into my bag for Lifesavers. I’m reminding myself that two hours of sleep is far little to interact with the public. Six am is too early to crush dreams. I try and recover from my burst of negativity.

“So where are you headed after Dallas?”
“Portland.”
“Ah.”
“Then Eugene,” he says smiling, his eyes have a glimmer of hope as if he’ll get there, on time as scheduled with bags, driver waiting for him at the curb holding a sign with his name on it. Birds will be twittering, KC and the Sunshine band will be bursting through airport speakers. A woman will be seated in the backseat of the vehicle and their silhouettes will meet lip to lip as the car drives away into the sunset.

“What about you, where are you headed after, eh,” he leans forward to glance up at the sign above the opposing desk. “St. Louis. You aren’t just flying to St. Louis are you?”
“No. No. Milwaukee. Then Min-ne-a-pol-is,” I drag out the final destination, breaking down each syllable and frost it with an Arkansas accent.
“Minneapolis, huh,” he says this with a sort of muffled chuckle and turns his head away as if to say, I’m taking airline advice from a six year old who was just given plastic captain’s wings.
“You know it. Ever been?”
“Nope. Never.”
“And why not?” I pick up my water bottle, shoving it into my mouth to keep from adding Mr. I’m so well traveled with my checked baggage and my neck-pillow. Mr. my Snuggie is on backorder but lets see if that hinders from reclining my seat back into your knees.
"Cold,” he puts his jacket back on, spotting through the window that he will have to walk through the lot to board his plane as it wasn’t able to pull in directly to the gate, “And I’m not crazy,” he adds.
“There’s a saying in Arkansas, Don’t like the weather? Wait. ‘Cause one day is snowing and the next it’s seventy degrees. There’s got to be something similar for Minnesota. Don’t like the weather? Stay. Complain to your freezing companions only to gloat about how tough you are when you cross state lines. There’s a lot of pride tide into folks and their cold in that state. I don’t get it.”
I shrug and grin. “We wouldn’t take you anyway.”
“Why, cause I’m not a sadist?”

The parents across the aisle break from their stares in our direction, whipping their heads towards their three year old in the stroller and exchange concerned glances. They stand in unison and move the stroller to the opposite end of the terminal.
“Well, I’m guessing that’s not true,” I say, nudging the hard soles of his tight leather boots.
“Take your precious Arkansas, for example. You don’t hear folks talking about the good aspects of the state because they plain don’t want you to come.”
He chuckles.
“You ever been to Arkansas?” I ask, elbows on my knees leaning in towards him.
“Once.”
“And..?”
“Decent airport.”
“Ha.” I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms and looking upwards. “Just wait ‘til Dallas, my friend.”