Sula Peace

I must admit, I held quite a bit of anger this morning, for various reasons, and accompanying that anger was his partner in crime, frustration; two individuals whom I care not to associate with very often. Although, to be perfectly honest they are part of one's natural capacity as a human being, and so at times show their unsightly selves. Perhaps we need to feel them so long as we return from their world, just as we must feel the entire spectrum of human emotions in order to learn and progress.

Hoping to digress from their dark realm, I was fortunate to have time enough to grab Sula, plop some ice cubes into a plastic water bottle, sock my camera (I put it in a sock for sweat-protective purposes while riding), and head out towards Skyline. From where I live it takes about a half hour of pedaling saltwater from the body in order to reach the summit of Skyline Drive--and then you are in the woods; the sweet, emerald-lime, un-trafficked haven of the woods. With a Skyline ascent, followed by entrance into rock-spattered trail, I felt those two unnerving creatures of my morning's brooding begin to melt. In the film reel of my mind, it was an uninhibited visualization of negative energy, along with a steady flow of salty water and heavy breaths, in simple exodus from my body. The unwanted aggression and frustration congealed and melted off my back--sheer osmotic catharsis from the pedaling of one's bicycle. I could see it inside my mind's reel and feel it inside the running projector of my body. Sula and I were now headed along the orange trail, respiring the rained-on earth, finding ourselves in the company of old friends--inner-peace, solitude, appreciation, and acceptance.

Animal Mania Montages

While out at Skyline this past Tuesday afternoon, I happened across the world's stillest toad. For all I know he could still be there, in the spot among rocks and dried leaves where I left him, posing for the next journeyman to cross his path.





Write later. Tired now. Blue today we rode.

The Birth of Sula

She was born earlier than expected. The projected date had been marked in my little black book as June 6th, but she arrived just prior, and I am all the more thankful for it. Sula is her name; it's Nordic in origin, and from what I gather it means "sun." I will note that Toni Morrison's character, Sula Peace, played an integral role in my coming to choose the moniker. Her arrival can be marked as a momentous day in history, and I feel confident her and Frank will get along nicely. Sula and Frank, here's to you.

Sula has the hot pink grips and Frank has the hot orange paint-job. They rock my world.

Alpaca Harvesting Farm Ride

Today my friend Ken and I ventured out into the rolling greenery of Kinnelon, Mountain Lakes, Denville, Montville, Towaco, Rockaway, and Alpaca-land. Who would have known, except K-Hova (Ken), that there would be an Alpaca Harvesting Farm on the country-road corner of some rural-Jersey village? The fence was wood painted white, and as we approached a flock of chocolate, vanilla, and cinnamon hued creatures eagerly made their way over to us with their elongated necks and freshly shaved torsos. With their Ostrich-like compositions, massive eyes, and fur-laden bodies, I felt as though Chewbaca and Han Solo would be around the next corner. The opportunists we are, we took some tourist shots, chatted it up with the chain-donning crew (they each had plastic bling chains around their necks with name tags, Katie and Tiffany were the most sociable), and then parted ways.

Pint-Sized Stoop Dweller

We have had many a surprise encounter, the Munks and I (yes, plural, there are two of them).


Plotting on the stoop.

Cruising among the chairs out back.


Frozen on the stoop, yet again.

La Matadora y El Toro

I may not have had more than one gear to grind in this past Sunday’s race at Lewis Morris; but I certainly had a real nifty bell to ring in lieu. Initial pre-race meditations were akin to those of a Spanish Matador contending the searing glare of an unyielding bull; it came down to the gear and me, alone in the ring, and I was dressed in red. Nevertheless, I had chosen to be there, to be alone with the bull, and it was all or nothing. Upon entering the first lap, though, I would come into a total body feeling—mind, soul, flesh—of connectedness and unity with the bike, the earth, and the race itself. Standing up on the first climb to muster past a few shift-happy racers, I touched into the essence of a mono-geared ride—you can only go one speed. At first I felt apologetic, letting others know that I was not trying to blast them, but that I simply could not go any slower, something seldom encountered on my geared bike.

The first two laps consisted of a three-dot paceline; with myself in the rear, proceeded by Ellen White, and then Jess McGinn. White and I were running the same gearing, so I mixed her experience with my own knowledge of self in order to keep both heart rate and legs in check for the remaining two laps. When White got out of the saddle, I got out of the saddle; when she sat, I sat; when she snot-rocketed, I dodged and sent out one of my own. With McGinn setting a single-speed-esque pace, the three of us were in synch, thus allowing for a focus on the churning wheel in front and an absorption of the beauty of momentum. The bike-body unification made itself known right away, and with each off-camber turn and every exposed root, I felt the bike as an extension of my own movements. Sweeping turns, little leaps, and rhythmic ascents were the foundation in my house of rapture. Before long, the bull and the fighter were looking less like enemies, and more like two individuals working hard together at their newly formed marriage.

With this two-wheeled device as an extension of my energies and my determination, when fatigue found me in the fourth lap, so it also found the bike; and although the speed was still single, it eventually grew to be one of a slightly slower cadence. By now White was neither seen nor heard, and I was intent on keeping McGinn within focus for as long as possible. With lap four, the bull and the fighter were near their end, neither looking to any longer draw blood from the other. Now they were one, at last content in their common struggle, continuing to the very end. Approaching the graveled finish line, the bull and the fighter knew they were stronger; they knew they had learned from one another, from those around them, and they were thankful. Rather than taking one another’s life, they had embraced, and at the end they were at a new beginning, ready to enjoy the moment and rebuild for the next to come.