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!
Austen sleeps through the violent thunderstorm. Drop a fork on the tile in the kitchen and he's up, let the doorknob return back to latch too quickly and he's up. But a ball of fire that seems centered in the backyard it's so close and there isn't a sound. Maybe he knows about the power of a thunderstorm. The vent the gas people installed on the chimney is a steel drum in the rain, especially if you sit by that chimney in the basement, ear to the stubbed pipe, capped some time in the last century. It used to run to some unknown appliance that took some unknown fuel. Coal? We all have our patched holes, places where we once connected and now forget. Various windows tap and thwack with the driven water, the gutters are overwhelmed now, spilling down the walls of this little house. The yard puddles, the perennial garden with its mulch and compost does not, this lump of early-spring brown patch in front of the house practically basks. The street flows deep now. Most nights we draw the curtains in the bedroom, but tonight my wife has pulled one aside. The north sky goes silver from time to time, then drums.