I'm pretty sure this phase of life is like hitting the famous "Wall" 20 miles into a marathon. No more signs, no more warm hugs from God, no more "nothing but future" worldview. People leave, your heart gets broken. And if you thought a broken heart was unbearable when you were younger, just wait till it happens later.

Choices you made a quarter century ago come home to roost, important people start dying around you, and there aren't any shortcuts. This is where you gotta show what you're made of, all by yourself.

And so, muthas, that's what I'm doing. I've seen enough of what I'm made to know this much: it damn sure ain't gingerbread.

last summer was better than this summer i tell you what and it wasn't just cuz of the weather neither. there's lots of other reasons this summer sucked more.

so many reasons....

but there's one way that this summer was way better than last summer and since i want to keep this post positive i'm gonna talk about that one better thing and that one better thing is that i got to ride a LOT faster this summer because i didn't spend allllll summer bein' polite an WAITIN' ON A GIRL what only ever rode fast ONE TIME.

and that time was when she was gettin' chased by a mosquito.

i'm not even lyin'.

anyway. so i'm in better shape this summer. in most ways. PHYSICALLY.

is what i'm sayin'.

stupid girls.

It's a bright day, almost bleached-bright. He walks through the empty city with the infinite notes of Brian Eno's "The Pearl" drifting through the fields of his mind. At an intersection without traffic, he waits for the light.

He sees the walk sign, but somehow its meaning (or its state) is unclear. This world is concrete and glass, sterile like a hockney painting, devoid of color except that which he finds in a small urban planter at his feet; a pebbled square, brimming with glinting, dewy ryegrass...uncut, abundant and free, straining its confines like spiky punk hair; a cool green swatch of life amidst endless monochrome inanimacy.

Seduced, he looks more closely and finds a matte-black pearl there - as dewy as the grass - sparkling in an emerald cradle of blades. The silvery blackness of the small sphere only enhances the brilliance of the sunplay upon it.

She is there too, elemental. She lifts his soul like an autumn breeze. He watches through tears as it becomes a leaf swirling inside her, rising a moment, then drifting to rest in the peaceful green square.

A sign flashes. It says WALK.

His eyes open into the sunlight of a new day. He covers them with his arm, hoping to recapture the dream. But the beauty he drank there evaporates under the burning sadness of a thousand stars, until only his tears remain.

This is how he moves on.

So I rode back to the place where I found that just-pre-fledgling falcon a while ago, hoping I wouldn't smell a dead animal. When I arrived, the unmistakable scent of decay put something of a damper on those hopes. Now it may *not* have been the poor falcon doing the stinking. But it was never possible to deny that the bird could have (literally) suffered such a fate. Clearly the Universe -- or The Great Mystery, or God, or Random Chance or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or The Enormous Whatever -- felt it appropriate to twist the knife in me. You know...for effect. Or random chance. Whatever. Sure, it could  have been some other animal funking up the joint. But so what? Whatever  died right where I left that falcon, you can bet some degree of suffering was involved. And in all likelihood it was prolonged and quite probably -- certainly to my mind -- unnecessary.

The above is merely an anecdotal example. We all know the world is utterly replete with stories like this -- and far, far worse.

At this point young believers and lifetime deniers invariably toss in some platitude about "It is not for us to know..." To which I say DUH. But facts, at the end of the day, are still facts. And cruelty is no less cruel.

Speaking of facts and cruelty...the fact is, I find it less and less possible to deny that The Great Mystery is not only indifferent; it is also cruel in ways even a dysfunctional alcoholic father would find appalling.

So The Great Question is, Can we right this obvious wrong? As a struggling life-form in kindred spirit with all other struggling life-forms, I believe the answer is yes. And that's good, because life and struggle really ought to have meaning beyond...let's say consumerist materialism.

Evidently The Great Mystery is more twisted than a mangrove root. So let's not rely on prayer. Let's fix things ourselves with the tools we have. And let's do it the way any battered but reasonably enlightened child would; by taking stock and doing a better job than ol' pawpaw is doing, passed out on the sofa.

Considering the ineptitude of the role model we've got, this really shouldn't be a task too far.

And it's not: If you value Love and Compassion, don't get on your knees and look to the sky. If you value Love and Compassion, make it Yourself.

I'm at the bike shop yesterday morning. Got my trike outside, visible through an open door in the back. I notice a kid outside looking it over. He's about 18 -- the age I was when I did my first long tour. "Wow that's a coOOol ride," he ooohs...and I'm like "yah thanks I like it too," and so then he starts tellin' me how he's gettin' ready to ride down to Missouri by himself. Got family down there, gonna go see 'em again. And yeah, at this point my ears definitely prick up...

Later I find the kid's been going through hell's own difficult time, his best friend recently murdered and who knows what else. So he's decided to just get on a bike and go. Vision quest. Pilgrimage. Pressing the reset button. Hell I know 'em all.

And I'm looking over his bike now, and man this boy is in love with the machine, I can feel it. He's long on enthusiasm, and that'll get him far...but short on experience and certainly not well-financed, so I kinda want to make sure he has the basics down.

"All the bearings ok?" I ask, "You check the bottom bracket there?"

Yep. "I took it all apart and greased everything up and put it all back together!" he beams.

Yeah. That's love. And he's in it.

"What about saddlebags? You got any panniers for this big ride of yours?"

"Well I was thinkin' maybe I'd put a box up here on the rack, or a milk crate or somethin'..."

And I'm thinkin' to myself "Missouri on a milk crate?" but I don't say anything, instead I look over at my trike. On my trike I've got two bulletproof blue panniers. I think hey, why not...

"Tell you what. I bought these in 1979 when I was about your age. You need bags? Have mine."

Kid protests, "Dude you can't do that...*I* can't do that. These things are like..." he walks over and looks at the aging, laden nylon pouches...touches them gently, almost reverently. "...these things are special, man...they got sentimental...memories and stuff, you know?"

He looks up at me, and by now I'm thinkin' the kid may have a point about the dear old saddlebags I'm rushing to hand off...

Sure, these days they're reduced to carrying commuter stuff I need for work: Lunch. Books. Bits and pieces. Odds and ends. The whatnot. That's what they're doing now. But when I bought them more than thirty years ago with a gleam in my eye, I bought them for a very specific reason; to get me up the East Coast on the first long-distance tour of my then-young life.

After that tour they kinda stuck around, as things do. And so they've been my trusty sidekick ever since. Outlived three bikes...got me up the coast in '80. And then Rhode Island. And Seattle. And England and Canada and the big Western States Tour -- Montana, Idaho, Utah, Arizona. A couple years ago, I introduced them to the trike and rode 'em out to Fargo. More than once, my life literally depended on what was inside these humble blue bags -- and by extension, the humble blue bags themselves.

Scrolling back through all the changes took me deeper than I expected; all the adventures, the sadness and joy...who I was with in '86...my plans in '94...

Standing outside in the sun with this young man, thinking of the adventure on which he was about to embark - and all mine that came before - suddenly had my entire adult life flowing over me. I was almost surprised when the tears came, but I shouldn't have been.

Sentimental value? Yeah. The kid had a point.

So I went inside and bought him a pair of brand new saddlebags. Boy did he like that.

Godspeed, kid. Best you start out fresh anyway. May you ride as many miles, love as many beguiling women, and fall asleep counting as many stars as I have. This is your time. Go and do all this and do more while you breathe.

He's leaving Tomorrow. Let's all wish him Godspeed.

 ***

Here's to Adventure and Love. Because without them...WTF, right?

with your Bruce Cockburn and your Tim Horton and your fancy, nuanced take on the universe...always makin' this American think two times.

I guess what I'm sayin' is...well...I love you, Canada.

SO GO AHEAD AND MAKE ME ALL EMOTIONAL WITH A SONG LIKE THIS.

...we still got Tim Horton beat.

@underused @nimbusthedragon @kaiori

then I read this:
(note: i'm not soliciting comparisons or compliments. i'm just saying i wish tim seibles were my boyfren.)

Slow Dance
by Tim Seibles

Some days I can go nearly an hour
without thinking of the taste
of your mouth. Right now, I’m at school
watching teenagers fidget through a test.
Outside, the sky is smoky and streets are wet
and two grackles step lightly in yellow grass.

Two weeks ago in Atlantic City
I stood on the boardwalk
and looked out across the water -
the railing was cool, broken shells
dappled the beach – I had been
playing the slot machines
and lost all but a dollar. I
tried to picture you in Paris,
learning the sound of your new country
where, at that moment, it was already night.

I thought maybe you’d be out
walking with the street lights
glossing your lips, with your eyes
deep as this field of water.
Maybe someone was looking at you
as you paused under the awning
of a bakery where the smell
of newly risen bread buttered the air.

I remember those suede boots
you wore to the party last December,
your clipped hair, your long arms
like the necks of swans. I remember
how seeing the shape of your mouth
that first time, I kept staring
until my blood turned to rain.

Some things take root
in the brain and just don’t
let go. We went to
a movie once – I think
it was “The Dead” – and
near the end a woman
told a story about a boy
who used to sing: how, at 17,
she loved him, how that
same year he died. She
remembered late one night
looking out to the garden
and he was there calling her
with only the slow sound
in his eyes.

Missing someone is like hearing
a name sung quietly from somewhere
behind you. Even after you know
no one is there, you keep looking back
until on a silver afternoon like this
you find yourself breathing just enough
to make a small dent in the air.

Just now a student, an ivory-colored girl
whose nose crinkles when she laughs, asked me
if she could “go to the bathroom,”
and suddenly I knew I was old enough
to never ask that question again.

When I look back across my life,
I always see the schoolyard -
monkey-bars, gray asphalt, and one huge tree -
where I played the summer days into rags.
I didn’t love anybody yet, except maybe
my parents who I loved mainly when they
left me alone. I used to have wet dreams
about a girl named Diane. She was a little
older than me. I wanted to kiss her so bad
that just walking past her house
I would trip over nothing but the chance
that she’d be on the porch. Sometimes
she’d wear these cut-off jeans, and
a scar shaped like an acorn shone
above her knee. In some dreams I would
barely touch it, then explode. Once

in real life, at a party on Sharpnack Street
I asked her to dance a slow one with me.
The Delfonics were singing I’ll never
hear the bells and, scared nearly blind,
I pulled her into the sleepy rhythm
where my body tried to explain.
But half-a-minute deep into the song
she broke my nervous grip and walked away -
she could tell I didn’t know
what to do with my feet. I wonder
where she is now, and all those people
who saw me standing there
with the music filling my hands.

Woman, I miss you, and some afternoons
it’s all right. I think of that lemon drink
you used to make and the stories -
about your grandmother, about the bees
that covered your house in Africa, the nights
of gunfire, and the massing of giant frogs
in the rain. I think about the first time
I put my arm around your shoulder. I think
of couscous and white tuna, that one lamp
blinking on and off by itself, and those plums
that would brood for days on the kitchen counter.

I remember holding you against the sink,
with the sun soaking the window, the soft call
of your hips, and the intricate flickers
of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth,
like a Saturday. I remember your
long thighs, how they
opened on the sofa, and the pulse
of your cry when you came, and
sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air.

I think about these students
in class this afternoon, itching
through this hour, their bodies new
to puberty, their brains streaked
with grammar – probably none of them
in love, how they listen to my voice
and believe my steady, adult face,
how they wish the school day would
hurry past, so they could start
spending their free time again, how
none of them really understands
what the clock is always teaching
about the way things disappear.

***

Seems to me the zeitgeist of a decade never quite coalesces until about the fifth year of that decade, when the medium, as they say, finally becomes one with the message. Back in 1985, as I sat in a darkened theater watching the following scene from the newly-released movie "To Live and Die in L.A.", featuring the perfectly synchronized ultra-produced beats of Wang Chung scoring a young Willem Dafoe cranking out twenties by the bucketful and speeding away in a Ferrari Testarossa, I was like "Ok, I think we have arrived." (It's a bit of an aside to note that counterfeiting is capitalism in both its purest and most depraved form - but what the heck, I'm doing it anyway.)

The 80s wasn't my favorite decade, but it certainly left a mark. For anyone that wants to know what that mark felt like on some level, or anyone who'd like a refresher smack in the face...I can't think of a finer slice for the job. And thanks to the miracle of modern-day intertube, I can now share it with you.

how's that for the medium becoming the message?

got 50 miles in today. it was pretty warm...but! the real news is this! i ran across a young falcon on the trail, squawking away...just a few days shy of flight (most flight feathers in, just a hint of down left - in the cutest of places). maybe he (or she) fell out of the nest. i was on the trike, low to the ground, and as soon as i stopped he hopped over and jumped right up onto my lap. thought my fingers were food...kept snapping at them. kept eyeing my eyeballs, too (mmm...tasty eyeballs). totally fearless. it was beautiful. actually more than that, it was magical. there were two other folks there - they called the raptor center and sent them a picture...it was identified as a merlin falcon! they advised us to get him off the trail (duh) and that his parents would more than likely hear his EEEPs and get him back into line. one can only hope...

cuz i think we were bonding pretty quickly.

the other folks at the scene had a camera and sent me a few shots of the little hotshot. i thought they had one of him in my lap, but if so they haven't sent it yet. if they do you can bet i'll post it!

this guy was totally not taking any crap

"parents. now. WHAT IS THE HOLD UP PEOPLE"

i hope he makes it...go little one!

It was sunny and cool yesterday and I rode a limestone trail way out onto the prairie...stopped to eat lunch under a small but dignified lone tree near a cattail marsh. Crushed limestone is noisy stuff, but as I slowed to tuck myself under the tree, the incessant prattle of my rolling tires diminished too.

Suddenly I was stopped. It seemed the universe followed suit, and my ears soon began to adapt to the new stopped world...turned out it wasn't really stopped at all - just differently moving. It was a world filled with quiet, ornate sights and sounds. The gentle rustling of wind through reeds. Shivering leaves above stirring the shade below. After a minute or two a curious oriole stopped by to flit and chirp in the branches, regarding my intrusion with sideways glances and replying to my attempts at birdsong with mocking admonition. Somewhat less aware of me, I presume, a fugue of crickets seemed to weave everything into the space between each thready chirp. And of course the inevitable bullfrog, cantankerously punctuating the equilibrium at what seemed the most random of intervals.

Under green leaf and blue sky I ate, and drank and rested for a bit.  Almost absently, I noticed the tree's weathered trunk just a few feet away. It was covered with patches of happy-looking yellow lichen. I wondered.

"What would it be like," I asked myself, and maybe the Universe, "...if instead of being the noisy passerby stopping for a moment to eat and run, if instead I lived Right Here? How would it be to be a true resident of this place...day in and day out, enveloped in this sonic tapestry...summer cyclists passing, perhaps even sitting for a spell to eat, then absolutely leaving - never to stop here again. To know the silent cold of winter and the warm hug of spring. Right Here."

For a moment I held this thought, but there were miles to go.

The crickets kept on weaving.