Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Hard Time Killin' Floor Blues

If I ever get off this killin' floor,
I'll never get down this low no more 

-Skip James: Hard Time Killin' Floor Blues



At least I make receiving an ass kicking look good.



Halfway through this ridiculous race.  Something is wrong with the front forks.  The bike is trying to fucking kill me.  My legs are giving out, my head is starting to swim.  I want to puke, but I'll never get my helmet off in time.  Five minutes after the thing started I remember thinking, "this is not any fun".  The very next thought was "then it's time to hang it up, get the hell out of dodge, leave the wicked bitch of racing behind".  As we age, we dream less and old dreams die.  Thoughts of giving this one the Kevorkian treatment flood an addled brain.

I've spent the last hour trying to get out of that headspace while my body collapses into itself.  Briefly the thought flashes of ditching the bike in the woods and walking until I fall off the face of this smouldering planet.  But I'm not wearing any underwear beneath these padded Lycra biker shorts, so that's out.  Continue languishing around in an embarrassing 12th place, wondering where it all went wrong.  The pity party ends in a moment when it dawns that I am alone in the woods.  There are others ahead.  And behind.  But no one right here, right now.  Except me.  There is nothing else.   

There is no quit.

There is only death, or finish.

Fuck it.  Twist the goddamn throttle.

Hang on.   


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