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.