Bolivia postcard

Rattlebuzz hands numb, the tingle in my right ring finger will last through the night, been gasping eightnineten hour days, noon slicing heat and an hour before sunset all my clothes on. Patterns in the earth, copper and cream pyramidal volcanoes all around could be shelter for gods and heroes but for me only gale turbulence only distance only liberating suffocation. Then these under my tires sometimes stutt-stutter closely packed, other times swells that I can glide in and out of. I told the soldiers that we call them washboard roads, like a washboard, and they thought that was funny and apt.

At a certain big ring speed one can stay on the crests but that is hard to sustain so instead when patience wears ragged I churn through sand right at the edge a few centimeters from where it gets soft and impossible. Galloping through these annihilations, present but without strong differentiation. Clouds horizons passes sometimes dizzy, never clearer than then. Winds always winds in the afternoon, absurd mocking me knocking me back, out of the saddle these are the watts I’d put out racing on a stout climb and it’s flat almost downhill here, lose my sense of humor, WhythefuckamIhere?, I can be home 1,100, I spit snarl roar back at the invisible locomotive coming down the canyon at me. Then even that emotion is a tatter. Pedal on.