Sometimes, when I'm riding my bike, I get the feeling that the Death is right behind me. An image comes into my mind of the Grim Reaper, robes billowing and scythe lashed to his back, on the rivet chasing me.
I imagine that Death rides the same bike I do on any given day. He suffers from the same worn drive train issues. He has one brake hood that is (naggingly, and forgotten as soon as the ride ends so never addressed) millimeters higher than the other. His cleats are worn out, and one of his soles has been partially melted by a campfire-this affects his pedaling. He seldom remembers to stretch, though this is much less a concern for him than it is for me. Death flats when I flat.
How fast can I recover from issues x, y or z and get back on it? Fast enough so far.
In my imagination, Death is always behind me. When I actually think about it, I realize it is truer to think of Death as being in front of me: waiting next to an off-camber high speed turn, hiding behind a fallen Monterey Pine in a previously clear section of familiar trail, standing beside a slippery root under the canopy of Redwoods.
When I really think about it, Death has probably just gotten into his Cadillac Escalade and is barreling down the road adjusting his stereo and texting while eating.
3 comments:
death has also been known to drive pickups, bread delivery trucks, and brown suv's. he's not always cloaked and takes on other forms as he pleases. he's a malicious son of a bitch too; knowing full well what he's doing. one of these days i'll end up dragging him out of the vehicle for a beating after a failed attempt and get in more trouble myself than if he killed me in the first place. i'll still kick him in the nuts for all of us though.
Death rides a baby blue '74 Carlsbad Masi Gran Criterium. She's a blonde, blue-eyed woman, who can ride that beast dirt, street and road. She is behind you. And gaining every mile. She WILL nip you at the line. She is sucking my rear wheel. Close.
Death drives a white Prius that smugly runs all stop signs. I'm hoping fxdwhl gets to Him before He gets to me: He'll still come, but I'll laugh at his bruised face and fat lip. Death hates it when you laugh at His face.
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