Consciousness is the act of making connections.
Get out of the way. Lord is she obese. Glass, glass. Burning legs and the tire pressure is low, but it’s a smooth ride. And there’s that smell, same place every time. My chains creak slightly. I’m then audible only because of the machinery I’m attached to, bent around me as we use each other. Sidewalk familiarity through foreign human fields pocked with landmark individuals, like that big hasidic jew, and that chick with her dog. She wears pink sweatpants that say “Pink” on the ass and I have the same flashes of hatred every time. Sometimes my dick slides off the side of the seat, ridiculously, and I have to move it back up. Does everyone do that? In fighting, our dicks stay in a container that’s kick resident. The technology has come a long way and its comfortable. Glass. Dip down and take the curve, let the machine go, hold it loosely, like a horse. Let it move beneath you but stay attached. Stand if you have to. Sun bearing down and the smell of SPF 50 on my head, neck and cheeks. The frame bends a little if I pedal hard uphill. Sometimes I push as hard as I can, hoping that the whole bike will snap in half because of me. Growing up we rode everywhere. Three bikes, in order: Schwinn, with red frame and yellow banana seat, Diamondback “freestyle” with turquoise frame and handlebar brake, and finally a Giant Sedona mountain bike. In matching order: hand me down, Christmas, and lawn mowing money. The house was on the top of a very high hill called Pine Ridge. On the Schwinn, it was dismount and face defeat, a brutal walk up, the suddenly useless piece of machinery making the journey even harder. On the Diamondback, when my legs were slightly longer, I could ride up by taking a giant zig zag path. By the time I was Giant Sedona aged, I could ride up all the way straight. Straight up, motherfucker! The first time I made it was a good day, though there was never an audience, way out there in the woods. All feats were measured privately, in lonely competition, without record of trial or result. This tree climbed, and onto the next, higher, riskier. Those muscles still exist, I can feel them waking up sometimes if I push enough on the hills. You ever keep going uphill in a high gear, just to see if you can make your legs stop working? It’s great. Because you can’t reach that point. Your legs will always keep working. Try it out. Don’t be a pussy. Your brain will have problems, but your legs will keep going. So trust them. They’ve got you and they always have, from your first steps. Fuck, glass, damn it. Sweat. The hasidic Jew walks quickly down at this time every morning, curls bouncing, tassels swinging, fat pants sweating through. I expect him and all such people to smell like pachouli and BO, but have never found out if that’s the case.
Grease on my calf as usual. Made it in time.
