May 21, 2009
Get me off of this chair and back onto that thrill.I should have been searching for what appears to be a twisty road on the map rather than wondering what kind of discount toilet paper to purchase. I may not have been able to keep up but I fit just fine into that pair of happy pants I rode in. Speaking of pants, to hell with this laundry. Where's the dirt track I could be tearing up? Or, more likely, where's the dirt track that should be tearing into me? I'd take falling on my face four times in one hour over dirty dishes any day. Let's break these goggles in and count the bruises later over a cold couple of beers.
What's an overdue haircut worth compared to the windblown knots after a long day's ride?
I should be blowing black gnarliness out of my nose for the sake of a long dirt day rather than flossing for the future. Give me two blips of the throttle and a baby wheelie through the grass -- I'll give you the grin of a lifetime.
Where's my folded right hand mirror down the road of giddiness? I'll kill you if you hit my kill switch again but, please, do it again. The little shake of the handlebars and the tilt of the lid to physically express pure joy. Where's the in and out of the yellow dotted lines and screaming to be heard at the next stop sign? Did you miss neutral or are you just happy to see me?
I should be jumping over table tops, my legs extended, my music singing in my ears rather than dancing for an audience of one in my living room. I should be living the dream we shared years ago -- where we said we'd be by now -- a moderate house with an oversized garage and a dirt section big enough to remind us why we're here. A grill good enough for the all company we'd keep and a cooler we'd never had to drag inside. An open door with preemptory mud tracked inside, a hot tub in the back to relax worked muscles and a shower drain ready for more.
I should be learning more about rake and pitch and flex and less about higher interest rates and lowered wages.
I should have a pair of ready moto pants hanging on the front porch when I get home from work. I want the smell of race gas to infiltrate my bedroom at night as a remnant of the weekend. Eyes and teeth should be the only clean places on my body and "let me show you the latest scar" from my mini adventure. We should be mocking friends, right about now, for not showing up to the bonfire we had where things got a little crazy and mini bikes were tossed about like candy about the flames. We should be commenting on our brilliance now and remarking about how stupid we were the next day. We should be showing off the photos on our wall -- white leathered/black leathered wedding -- just the way we had planned it and all.
That should be me.
Swiveling on this chair you bought me just doesn't cut it....