The darkest part of the night hangs around even though the birds have long risen for the day. Four treeplanters sleep in tents in my little yard. Two in my bed and one (the permanent Maxi resident) just down the hall. Six strong on the stoop they rang the bell over and over until I hopped to it and answered, bewildered. Treeplanters. Visions of the recent woods life came rushing back as shop talk is unavoidable with reunions of this variety. Pizza in threes, OV by the dozen, whiskey by the texan and eight pairs of bare feet on the concrete, we sat and laughed; my kind of picnic.
Before the circus arrived on the stoop, Craig and I pulled in after a great day on the road and a hearty BBQ. Food coma quiet, just the two of us at the Maxi house. We had a hell of a day. One worth writing home about. Before the party cam flew off the ass end of the truck while sailing through an intersection (don't worry, a lovely man on a bicycle scooped it up and rode after us to return it unscathed), before the BBQ dinner, before hustling through Super Store on a hamburger mission, before all that we rode. From morning to night we rode. My god it feels good to rip beside Craig, trying to anticipate his moves while navigating through the flow of traffic.
We make a good pair.
Creme and I woke to a brunch invitation. After guzzling the coffee and tossing the poach waters back where they came from, we hopped on the Maxi and the Magnum and hit the road. Jessica Alba leans forgotten in the dust (I do ride her daily). The moped just trumps every mode of transportation these days. It's too easy to do a running start, hop on in the nick of time, hold on for dear life and ride the hell out of that thing in traffic.
I think there's a woodtick making a home for itself in my skull.
Trains rattle the house but no one wakes.
I wish I was riding.