Inner

Warmth in the turns and warmer on the straights, the tires sing over the dirt and hum on the asphalt, finished for the day I tumble thru the race in my head, the result matters less than the disappointment of it. Hours later I'm figuring out what it was I lack and the answer is nothing, I gave it what I had, beyond that I'm just not capable. I cannot take the pedals back, without them I'd be screwed, instead I have my own modest goals, all in, every one.

Pushing thru the days hiding the disappointments,

Aging gracefully, or so I think.

Without a healthy outlet I fade,

Waiting for the bumper with my name.

The solitude of riding dirt roads for miles and miles is with out fail the best thing I can think of to clear my head. At this point I need other things beyond my music to limit the din.
MTB requires too much focus but 60 miles on dirt roads with the CX bike is quieting.
The brain finally shuts the fuck up and allows a subtle calm,
a peace not found as easily in the more populated aspects of life.
Trees, changing leaves, big elk being chased by hunters all slip through my bubble as I roll down the roads, inside a cocoon of my own creation.

Mechanical form

Sometimes emotional availability is on par with accumulation of things. A lack of satisfaction is maybe what drives the successful but also the journey isn't always the goal. What if you constantly pick up and go to the next place, mentally or geographically? What about the enjoyment of what's there. I'm shutting out more and more things, less attention paid to the newest and nicest two wheel oriented bits and more to the experience of using what I have. I used to lust after the fanciest things for the bike, ignoring that the bike is simple in nature, missing the point of the process, efficiency in it's mechanical form.

Chopping wood to prepare for the next set of barriers,
Pushing through the too late breakfast, not enough coffeets.
One in the books, the next coming up, thick and fast.

I'm outside all the time seeing the season fade and blend into the next and all the while reaching for what I'm not sure is there, not sure if it's mine but the only certainty is that I get there. No convoluted metaphor here; just the simple task of doing something for a lifetime. At least the next fraction of my own time here. My only saving grace is the therapy I get, self analyzed, self diagnosed and self medicated. "Well, Mr. Faia, it seems your levels are low today, I think 90 minutes at threshold will have you right as rain in the morning." If only it were that simple. Hitting the anaerobic lottery, winning one race.

I wish I had started chip away at all of it years ago, I can't figure out exactly when it began but since then it's all been better. With a few tools and a not too daunting pile I've found a pleasant stasis. Whatever it was that started the movement has kept me rolling thru all of my stuff. I've cut away and cut down, found light where I thought there wasn't. Now I went from an already small stack to a mini lump. Smaller is better, less stuff has helped immensely.

Walking home from a late evening party and seeing the sky light up with lightning backlighting the mountains 40 miles away is better than fireworks, almost as good as singletrack and not nearly as good as barriers at speed. Empty streets are like crowded trails, anathema to what seems right. Maybe if I were a city person I could see the beauty in it but instead it makes me uneasy, unaware of the subtlety that makes cities appealing, I'm clear to a point but beyond that I'm only as good as my next step, cup, pedal stroke. Lost is the default setting, confused with what it is I need outside my own walls, whether real or imagined I glide with all the friction of 40 years of wear and tear.