After waking up sober yesterday with James Brown and the sun shining, i rode to work and enjoyed the feeling of cold wind up my shorts …
I did, out loud.
Who are we to judge where pleasure comes from? The simple pleasures, like a cold wind up your shorts on a near-autumn day, are often the most inexplicably enjoyable. I will remember this, next time someone asks me why i’m so committed to going around commando.
Later that morning i made a wisecrack to a stranger about footpath traffic jams, surprising myself mostly—when i’m on top i’m a chatty guy, and i love making strangers smile on the street with unsolicited running commentary of our ongoings. It was an i’m-back moment.
Before work I bought a tub with wheels and a lid, to upgrade my composting system—lugging soggy boxes and never disposing of them wasn’t working. I collect scraps from the cafe where i work as a cook, and turn them into rich soil. Turning a steaming pile of compost on a mid-winter morning is a deeply satisfying thing for me, and harnessing the process of decomposition to create living soil is a rich living metaphor, like a lotus growing in the mud.
After work i moved some things to my new place with a lovely man friend i’ve made here. We got a little boozey and shared some green, inspiring conversation ensued and i was wired, so on the way home i rode around awhile, found the trials park in the centre of town and played. I nearly broke my ribs there last year, so i’m wary of the jumps, but i got my endo on and practised manualling, riding on the back wheel with the front wheel in the air. It was a pleasant reminder (for a cyclist whose primary riding is commuter style) of why i love to ride, why it’s such a valuable resource for me in times of depression and anxiety. Getting that balance right and feeling the machine move along smoothly underneath you while you carefully apply pressure to pedals and brakes … getting the balance right on a flowing piece of singletrack and feeling the machine bouncing along beneath you while you careully pick through rockpools and swooping gravel bends … it forces you to focus, and on the singletrack it forces you to breath … which is meditation right there. I feel like a chump sometimes, riding around on a mountain bike in a pair of cheap Globes i found … like an adolescent, perhaps because i’ve forgotten what is now a good time to remember from what’s his name … Wells, H G Wells …
Later i burped the back wheel trying to bunnyhop a curb, and inflicted a pinch flat the likes of which i have never seen, two big splits about an inch-long each. Having grown complacent from not getting a lot of flats lately (thank you goo, and marshmallow tyres), i wasn’t carrying a spare tube. So i patched that shit and got the tube to hold air, which felt like manifesting a minor miracle with my hands, right before one of the patches blew a seal and i walked home, yep … waiting for two patches to stick gave me enough time to sneak in a bit of roadside meditation that went down a treat, and i walked home exhausted and happy, until morosity got the better of me and by the time i got to bed i was stuck in a loop of making up highly unpleasant potential conversations with people i either don’t like or who i presume don’t like me.
This is my mind, from celebrating wind on my balls in the morning to imagining all the shit i’d like to say to some of the ‘arseholes’ i’ve met lately in the evening. It was a big day, but shit, sometimes i flip between these two extremes within moments on a dull day. A big part of the reason i’m getting help to deal with some of these old patterns is i’m tired, oh so tired … when counsellors ask me if i ever feel suicidal, i say no because i don’t, not really, but i can sort of sympathise with the idea more these days, as an expression of some unbearable existential tiredness.
So i’m getting back on the horse—the horse that pulls the wagon? Literally, as in i’m going for another night ride with my housemate, and, ya know, figuratively.