Gone Fishin'


I'm not actively blogging here anymore. But if you got here because you were searching for something about bikes, you might want to check out my latest project, Vermont Goldsprints. In summer of 2014, I bought a used goldsprints racing setup and have made it a mission to get more bikes in more people's faces by putting on fun races in unexpected places. Come join me!


More Passings

More Passings

Bright sun finds me circling restless parkinglot: a bicycle bound in, waiting and an argument, wrenching and cold. A return to home, promise, I'll write. I'll find. Then down the road again, sun and sunset and dark. Shifting in my seat. That's what it's all been, since consciousness. Sleep in crisp sheets, morning, salt and burning driftwood, a walking conversation and then restless again, explosive until away. An old Smithsonian reads the photographic habits of Ginsberg, Corso, "Orlovsky held the camera." Last anthology, Cosmic Greetings, still on my nightstand, lines from hum Bomb crossed out from the night we got booed off stage, tried to tell them something. Why so restless? Why not happy to provide home, good food, knowable tomorrows to those surrounding?

On the bicycle again at dawn. Capecod rolls away, first the road then the path- still morning fog, more driftwood salt/smoke. To Marconi. To the end of everything, another place where signals were once cast.  There's no stairs to the beach, the storms were too good this winter. The showers'r closed, too. Another empty, silent parkinglot and then away again.  Back with people.

Clack! is the sound thick plastic sunglasses echo when they hit the tile at the National Seashore bathroom floor, another tourist swings the door, and the sound is consciousness-raising, these words begin to assemble. Last week a snapping turtle on the side of the road at morning, aiming to cross the rush hour lanes looked up at me with black eyes, what can I do? The hum of cars that donoteverstop is the roar of all cold and uncaring in the world today. Down to the sea and the cold clarity is there, the energy, the ions, whatever. A seal watches. In the town where I work, Orlovsky dies, just a hundred feet from my workaday ride.

Same spot as the snapper but Tuesday morning, a bullfrog in a rush hour rainstorm, looking up, aimed across the lanes. What can I do, I'm late. Downshift and pedal, hope. Dress nice, move paper, be restless. Dream, but don't let it be just that. Shape something else real besides the tomorrow that is evident and the one after that.  

Wednesday there's a little blood and grease where the frog was.