New England Postcard

Unusual for cold not to have come even yet into the second half of December. But I’ve mostly still shrugged and watched the tires on the bikes exhale like I do into the grey browns and mists. Happy to know of friends racing ‘cross, happy for my psyche to drop for a coming bounce.

For a month riding has been wholly slow and just to be outside, an excuse for a long talk like a long walk where the bicycles fade, where we’re made into rolling with our joys and sadnesses, where we don’t pretend that it’s always the peak. The affect sine wave is heartbeat is breath is cadence.


Craig suggests that we turn down John Henry Road, broken and rugged as it is and it’s the one moment where lunge into the cranks to skip tires over the stones, ice shards bobbing in a puddle, around holes and ruts firmer grip on the hoods. Later a bridge is out, we’ll get lost enough to have to follow the afternoon sun and pedaling is always like that, aimed at the bright spot.