burn.

Recently, there has been much on my mind.
I've been itching for a real ride, but due to my schedule lately (work, office, laying around doing jack shit) I haven't been able to make it out at night.

To make up for this lack of activity I decided that I should use the errands that I needed to run as an excuse to get a good use out of Lucille. So with this decided, I packed my bag full of old clothes, to sell to a local resale store about 7 or so miles away from my place.

I threw my bag on my back, mounted Lucille and set out.
Leaving my place I could feel the burn in my legs already. I had skipped breakfast and was already set on making good time on my run to the second hand store, so I decided to continue on rather than head back home and grab anything to eat.

There was so much on my mind that I realized I had hardly been paying attention to the world around me. I had been passing through traffic, without a care. I had been mentally exhausted before the ride even began.

With my body burning and my mind running, my riding was becoming more and more shitty. I had to refocus. I decided that I had to focus on one thing, and that was riding my bike. I pushed the thoughts out of my mind and let the burn in my legs take over my brain.

I felt the road. The bumps. The dips.
I felt Lucille. Her handlebars on my palms. The way her tires gripped the road as we took hard turns.
I felt my body. Burning. Sweaty. Hot. Tired.

I felt a weight lift off of me.
My lungs opened.
My pace quickened.
My legs spun round and round, my chest heaved in sync.

The burn left.

After the resale store I decided I would swing by the Bike Collective and find a new seat post for Lucille.
The store minions had only take a few of my items so I was still stuck with a pack full of clothes.
Which I decided to welcome, as it would only add to the exertion I would have to put forth to continue on my ride.
The ride to collective was smooth. 21st South is lovely.

As I headed home I reflected on my ride.
In the beginning I had almost regretted even leaving the house.
Malnourished and tired, I had pushed my body (albeit, this was no Tour de France but you get what I'm saying) and was now on my way home, tasks accomplished.

After getting home, I put Lucille away and made my way to my room. I sat on my bed and assessed myself. (With a ham sandwich and Squirt to help me hash it all out)
I felt as though I had been crying. You know the feeling; tired, fried, both mentally and physically exhausted, yet I had not shed a single tear.

When things aren't clear, I ride.
It gives me my time away from everyone, even myself.
All the feelings, thoughts, ideas, bullshit are left in my midst.
Cycling gives me an outlet, not only a way to burn the fat off my body but also from my soul.

You're probably getting a bit tired of my bike related rantings, but sometimes I need to write to remind myself.

Sometimes I need to remind myself that no matter what, even though it might take a little while, the burn will always fade and I will always push through.

(none)

I wanted to write, I really did.

Lucille and I were having such a fantastic night, then a mood struck me.

I cut our ride short, much to her chagrin.

Your cranks were popping and your rear rim were ticking.

Are you hurt, girl?

That would make two of us.

I took these photos with the intention of writing a story along with them. You get no story.

But please still enjoy my pictures.

3A

3A?

How are you?

I miss you.

The times we had.

I spent the winter with you. And you taught me a lot. About myself.

How many nights did we spend with the lights off and the music on?

How many hours did I lay with you in the dark, realizing so many things?

When I moved in, the landlord told me the spots on the ceiling were from people smoking heroin in the kitchen. And in all honesty I thought that was pretty cool.

Not that people were smoking heroin, but that you had the scars to prove it.

The floor was still covered in dust, painter’s tape all around the ceiling.

Your shitty/awesome black and pink 80s-era tile in the bathroom was a major selling point.

The first night I spent with you, I was scared.

The old building that you find yourself in creaked and settled, and it scared the fuck out of me.

Your radiators would breathe and hiss, I learned to love it. We would scare everyone that came over. You would spit and creak and I would pretend to not even notice.

They would ask “Dude, do you fucking hear that?!”

“Hear what?”

“All the weird fucking noises your place is making?!’

“Nahhhhhhh.”

You harbored my inspirations, body and mind when I began to write.

With you, I was able to hide away from everything for a bit and focus my interests and energy into something I had wanted for a very long time.

You saw me stress out and let myself be upset.

You saw me lavish in success when I was finished with a piece.

I won’t even begin to talk about all the different forms of myself that I exposed to you.

Introverted to outgoing.

Happy to sad.

Pathetic to strong.

Lost to found.

Found to lost.

I didn’t hold back with you.

My friend made a joke about “heroin demons”, but it lingered in the back of my mind. You were scary, okay?!

How many times did I lay in bed at night, head altered swearing I could feel something watching me? How many times did I expect one of these “demons” to show itself while I lay silently?

You had no demons, only the ones I brought with myself.

And you helped me get rid of some of them.

You showed me a little bit of myself.

A little bit of who I was.

A little bit of who I want to be.

A little bit of what I want.

A little bit about other people, the way they work, my feelings towards them.

A little bit about the world.

3A?

I cherish our time together.

I miss you.

I love you.