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.