We rode on, alive, present for the ride, in the present only, the best present maybe some of us would get this winter, and it didn't matter which riders I had left behind or that I would get dropped on the double bumps Roshe Turquoise before the sprint or that we couldn't see and were among others who could not see or that we had all laughed at such a state without knowing why. We rode on. We blinked our eyes at it all. We took it all in, the ride. And the ride took us all.
The Presentby bill strickland
Where the road ran up and aslant of the broad farm valley that rose to the ridge that we could not see far to the fogged south, the rain had loosed cow and pig shit from the frozen fields and washed it onto the pavement, and the pack pedaled through the muck first smelling it then smelling of it. Maybe twenty of us, twenty two. A few days after the winter solstice, a few before Christmas, more still before Kwanza and after Hanukkah, and of the Babylonians and the birth of the son of the queen of heaven and also the son of Isis and also the ancient birthdate of the moon none of us could really say though in a way all that has ever been lost is always there on a winter's bicycle ride.
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And we rode on and made the turn that starts the hard part of the ride, and the wind came cross then tail then cross then tail and we gave up positioning for advantage in such swirl and rode on flinging spray and pebbles far up into the air behind us now, or with more force into the faces of the others. In any real pack of riders I am never much good on a bike, but I am much better when things are much worse, and today at the worst hill when the strain was highest I laid hold of the line and never let go and left to the widening gap many riders who most often leave me.
After awhile, some of us could not see, and we told each other this and were told back the same. This made us laugh for reasons we could not have said.
often numbers ninety or one hundred or more, and thirty or forty reliably through the worst winters. No one could have predicted such a foul deluge but some who stayed away must have sensed that something must go bad on such an ungodly warm day.
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The effluvia spattered our eyes and coated our bikes and gunked our gears and filled the space between brake pads and rims, and worked into our shoes and soaked our soles and weighted our chamoises, and we rode on across the landscape talking and touching shoulders and sharing bits of food that when chewed would every so often send that sickening shiver through your body yielded when two opposing teeth clamp onto a piece of indissoluble grit.
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Cresting, we went even harder, which seemed cruel and shocking and beautiful, and some more of us dropped off on the descent, which seemed crueler and more shocking and unaccountably beautiful. We looked in the face to be urchins, begrimed and red eyed, or soldiers if war did not really matter and only hurt in this way instead of the real way, and in the movement of our limbs and our stances on the bikes we seemed desperate and debonair at once. Then all thought left me, any hope of knowing how we looked or rode, and I only lived. I was alive and that was all I had to be until the sprint that still felt so far away but was only in a few miles, after which I could go, like everyone else, back to my life.
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