Too hot to ride my buh-buh-bicycle.
The thought struck me, today, that I haven't ridden a bicycle in . . . well, I don't know how long.
Five years; six? Long enough to call it a bicycle instead of b-i-k-e.
I want to feel that girly, boyish rush of wind again, but it's a hundred-and-ten degrees outside, parched as hell, and when you're coming over the crest of Ygnacio between Walnut Creek and Concord, overlooking the entrenched city below, its image distorted by heatwaves, you can just about imagine all these yellow, sand-dune-like hills as they were two hundred years ago: virgin dry grasses and prickly shrubs, and stout trees squatting in the run-off veins. The valleys, collecting sparse deluge, darkened just below a noticible green, filleted by streams, carrying every flock-call from wall to wall. Mount Diablo, just an inch shorter, still thrusting it's granite core through the Pacific crust, before any Anglo's had misinterpreted it's ludicrous, Spanish-given name. Before the cattle and their fly-covered shit, before the garden supply stores up in Rancho Parisio. No lots, no plots, no beaten paths, no encampments. No encroaching uptown, no elevating downtown, no town at all. No postman's, no outposts, no outhouses. No nintendo.
Makes me feel good I wasn't born then. Shitbag of a place. We tempered it good and plenty. Current Mood: stoic