She’s a bitch. In a screeching swipe of her scrawny arms the temperature drops and the clouds roll. An upcurl of her dribbly, pock-marked nose drains legs and attitudes. Brakes squack. She shows up unpredictably and unwanted. Hated. Last weekend in the coulees of Wisconsin there she was, in a spectacular tunnel of orange, creeping behind the trees.
Tip this road up just a bit’ll make the burn a little more intense. What...she expects her legs to have snap when she’s been pilfering away these short fall days back at WORK?! We’ll see how long those skinny old sticks of hers can take it without a granny ring....
She lured me, lulled me with a couple rollers and a screaming downhill on a low-traffic road. I bit. I let my guard down, let loose, tucked and flew. She knows descents are my weakness. Such a sucker. At the bottom around the sweeping curve the upgrind began -- a twisting, nasty climb with short inclines that leveled just before each turn and afterward rose up like a wall. Over and over, on the most scenic section of road that day.
A month ago I’d have danced past her, hollered back about the stunning show of colors and the nice little bump in the road, wondered aloud if we’d eventually hit real hills. This time I gritted my teeth in acceptance of my obvious inadequacies. She beat me.
- Tired Old Bag