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.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 4, 2009
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.
"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.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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.
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.
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