Dear Diary 010: Floodgates
You better believe that when I’m quiet for this long there’s bound to be a crack in the dam forming.
Summer’s been like pow! Yellow rays and warm breeze and wrapped in sweat and light and heat and adventure. So the world lights up with long days and the people come outside and run around crazy-style like they’re let free after a long detention.
It’s madness and the manic suits me just fine. At least for the moment.
I’m in Love
The heat of days comes on strong and in the summer we get tanner and leaner and more beautiful. My head turns in a million directions and at the end I fall hard. Goofy style.
It’s a city crush. A town, really. A little town in the high desert filled with bikes and clocks that run a little slower. Smiling people who drink too much happy water. Rivers full of my favorite Veloforma cycling ladies. Crits that circumvent high schools or downtown blocks or little shiny neighborhoods. Kids in bikinis on sidewalks. Candy shops with double chocolate malt balls and those old-style root beer chewies that you just can’t find anymore.
Business meetings begin with smiles and hugs and end on river park benches.
I can’t tell you why it happened because who can articulate giddiness? Who can analyze elation?
Screw it. Just smile.
Portland’s powerful fierce and filled with smart kids and creative brains and culinary amazingness. But when I point my truck at the big mountain in the east and hang a right to meander south toward Bend, I get light in the heart region.
There’s just something about it.
And there’s more of that something in my future.
A Small Race in a Hexagonal Country
So, there’s this bike race. It happens in France, where – in case you weren’t aware – there’s a place where the women wear no pants.
Anyway, there’s this bike race and it’s full of superhuman boys who are arranged (muscularly speaking) to look like men. They pedal throughout the entire country, attempting to best one another over the course of days.
It’s amazing and very, very long. Every morning I wake up and follow them on a computer screen. I’m cheering, but they probably can’t hear me.
I like the large Norwegian and the one called Jens the best. After that, it’s a Romance Novel Model called Fabian and then a little boy-faced Frenchman named Voeckler. They climb with snaking motions and grace – or sometimes mash their way over cobbles in big gears with mouths agape. Some days they are monsters and other days they float.
Either way, it’s a thing to see.
For all of July, I’ll wake up just to see them move and celebrate and cry.
All Kinds of Summer Touring
I’m out of here. Which is to say that all year long I’ve been hoarding the days of August like some kind of secret treasure. The plan is loose and probably reckless: get on the bike and start pedaling. Stop to eat and sleep and dream and possibly identify cloud-animals in the sky.
Rumor has it my rig will be pointed North, with an eye on Canada. But, truthfully, only the bike knows where we’re going – and she’s not talking.
When I get back it’s cross season.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
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