There are two full suspension mountain bikes sitting in the kitchen of my hotel room. Though blocking the electric stove, the microwave, and the refrigerator that houses only the leftover Thai meal I couldn't bring myself to waste, it seemed the most logical placement. The plastic dollar-store utensils and flimsy cutlery have received only a glance of appreciation since I've been here. This is the closest thing I have to an apartment right now, yet I can't bring myself to unpack and meet the neighbors, let alone cook.
My suitcase lies bursting, innards spilling out onto the floor. I have almost doubled my load since I've arrived with work manuals and truck necessities, new apparel transforming me silently into a true spokesperson. I have three days to figure out a packing strategy, but the bikes are staring me down.
The bikes are the abusive relationship I come home to. They sit there, mocking me as I turn my back on them, digging out my pajamas and settling into the couch. Yesterday's beating exposed itself overnight. Splattering of purple decorating my ribcage and shoulder, deep red lines map out my shins, I'm in an incomplete color by number, each stroke showcasing a different portion of the trail.
One point, Santa Cruz. Tomorrow the rematch.
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