Splog
Out and back.
Up Lk wash blvd, cross I-90 bridge, to Factoria then back along the same route.
28.9 miles
in 2:33:16 hours
at 11.3 avg speed
max speed 36.1 mph
750 accumulated miles.
Coulda done another 10 or 20 easy.
Ahhh...much better!
Up Lk wash blvd, cross I-90 bridge, to Factoria then back along the same route.
28.9 miles
in 2:33:16 hours
at 11.3 avg speed
max speed 36.1 mph
750 accumulated miles.
Coulda done another 10 or 20 easy.
Ahhh...much better!
posted by Lane Savant at 12:53 PM
1 Comments:
Ahhh yes, the Master of Fidelio speaks, and rides, and does good. Now that's what I'm talking about--finding joy in each day, shaking loose the lethargy and malaise and fog and spiderwebs from one's self and pumping their guts out, crossing over Lake Washington, peering at the fishermen and the skidoos and water skiers and rich assholes houses, and sucking deep the toxic air swirled up all around you from the traffic, the urban rider, the brave cyclist who fears no 2 ton missle that barely misses him on a regular basis, appearing in public in a cute helmet and cut off biking shorts, tall socks, probably reddish or greenish, and well worn biking shoes, sporting his new well shorn look, building calves of steel, yup--some old guy on a bike waving at young girls in BMW's, almost lurid, beyond friendly, nearly demented, yet nearly heroic, out there skirting traffic, riding alone, thinking his own thoughts, plotting some kind of machination against SSO, composing music, reflecting on Emily's sexual frustrations, considering visiting that lake in Germany and the cabin offered by Anonomann, thinking of the deep tranquility and soft rain that will immerse him when he spends a week alongside Lake Quinault, designing a new musical instrument made out of styrofoam and latex, strung with cat gut and ear wax, being anxious while waiting for his new Prius, ordered but not delivered, a phantom car only his on paper, not in his driveway, his driveway that now has room in it for another new addition to the family since he finally sold off the iron relatives that had inhabited it for decades, promising himself that he would get to cutting the grass again this week, and craving a peanut butter coffee and some strong coffee as a cramp appears in his left calf, wondering wher Polalie has gone or if there are cats in Heaven or Bardo or wherever the hell souls and spirit go....yes, goddamn it to hell, that's what I'm talking about.
I found some new Sherman Alexie prose. He wrote a weekly column in the Stranger for a time this summer, and I will post some juicy parts of it; real stream of genius and consciousness stuff.
Glenn
Post a Comment
<< Home