|Blogs > Dowd3 > Tales from the Crew|
Here I am telling folks I write stories and my mind goes blank when the moment of truth stares me in the face. I do have stories that I'm working on and hope to publish someday, but somehow living life is becoming more important to me than roaming the fields of my imagination.
And yes I'm well aware that blogging is not getting out there and mixing it up with other people, but some outlets must be examined as they come along.
So what's on the agenda today? Memories.
I used to ride motorcycles, but I've been without one for about four years now. The one I had fell apart on me, but that doesn't mean I wanted the ride to end. In the past few weeks I would have done a great deal to go riding. The weather has been just gorgeous. Hell, with the price of gas being what it is, 50+ mpg sounds downright idiotic to ignore.
Meanwhile I sit and remember what I loved riding for. Cool summer nights after days of triple digit weather under the soft, white glow of stars and moon. Hot, dusty days fixed on a horizon fifteen miles away with nothing but the shimmer of heat off the pavement in any direction. Blazing around traffic free and alive while others sat and sulked in their air conditioned cars. Getting soaked in a surprise downpour that all but power washed me off the bike (let me tell you that rain stings like the burning embers of grinder dust at close range.) And as a guilty pleasure, the kick in ass my bike could manage. While we never found out for sure just how fast it was, I could beat all comers (at least all I faced) in the quarter mile. (Admittedly I never faced down another bike, but I did beat an eleven second car. Did I mention I lived way out in the stix?)
While there were discomforts and frustrations along the way, there was a texture to running that I find nowhere else.
Running. Most of my life has demanded me to stand and deliver instead of running. I'll admit much of the decisions I've faced are very silly to run from (here's your kid: what do you do with her?) but the freedom of an open run to some unknown place still draws me. So while I could, I did run, but I made the mistake of looking back. And now I'm here.
So when did you run? Why did you run? And did you manage to leave it behind?