Dallas, TX (Lyle Lovett)

Somedays you're the bug and somedays you're the windshield. Though every so often, you're the gas station attendant stuck sitting in the sweltering heat for hours to have a single car pull up only for you to wipe those bugs off of the windshield while they glare at you and deny you a tip for your efforts. I haven't been that guy this week, I've been the bits of remaining cowpie on the underside of his boot.

My rant on Christmas music came back and bit me hard. I realized I had left my ipod in Tempe a few hours into my drive, leaving me with country versions of carols for the eighteen hour drive. It was someones way of attempting to brainwash me into enjoying Christmas songs- and I'd say it didn't work, but I think the rebuttle would result in my radio quitting all together, and I'd rather have Sinatra than silence.

A local shop planned a road ride for me in San Antonio. I asked for a mellow 40 to 50 miles, as I had driven straight from Tuscon and hadn't slept yet. As I left and caught them exchanging smirks and elbows to ribs. They were out to kill me. The route was hilly, though I'm a fan of attempting to rip my legs from my body on little sleep. Then the wind picked up. The route changed. They had dumped me into a makeshift cyclecross course. Adding countless bruises to my ensemble, I kept on. Weaving back and forth between dirt path and road shoulders I had plenty of time to consider why I wouldn't want to mess with Texas. Spit on, cursed at, and swerved at by drivers or face planting into their great American soil I emerged from the ride a true patriot. Red with fresh twig claw marks, drained white with pure defeat and exhaustion, blue bruises tattooing the trail map onto my arms & legs. I was truly an American.

(Lost; just rode down the cement slope of the underpass behind me)