falling dove.

Day 53 | Two-Wheelin’ on DRY Pavement | Down 21 Big Ones | A Shout-Out to Marilyn Monroe

Sisters are doing it for themselves. Despite him. 

I’m determined to cut that 16.5-mile bike ride.

And it’s going along swell.

Until I hit the halfway mark [Wayland].

[queue Vincent Price laughter]

Here’s where ya bonked, fatty.

I talk at him out loud: Go’way, downer.

The cars rush by.

Three miles later [Sudbury].

Here’s where you sat your ass in the shade. Fatty. DPW, classy choice.

Over my shoulder: Yup, and tell it goodbye.

Birds tweet.

Four miles later [Saxonville].

Ho-shit! [His pitchfork is lodged between my eyelid and brow and he’s laughing on his ass, holding his fat belly like some prize] Here’s the sidewalk where you rode in retard-gear.

Retard-gear. Thank God for it. No matter what it’s called. I bite down hard on the valve to my CamelBak. You’re an effin’ asshole.

His feet are straight up, air-pedaling. He farts long and hard. Teases, re-tard, re-tard, re-tard.

I spit out the valve. You know, why be the raw deal all the time?

He’s snapped to his feet and sticking the damn fork in the place that makes him crazy-happy. The aqueous humor of my right eye.

Boink! Boink! Boink!

We’re a half-mile from home, nothing’s gonna stop me now, and I slip into one of my big gears for more resistance. What the fuck’s wrong with you.

The deed is done. No bonking.

He’s glib, still boinking my eye and sticking his forefinger of the other hand into his belly button. The asshole can multi-task. I want you to destroy you.

For God sakes, why?

He withdraws the fork, screws his head 360-degrees then does a backflip, says, it’s my nature. [fart]

Your lousy nature has had me drinkin’, eating and stinkin’ thinkin’ for the greater part of 5 years.

His lips recede; his teeth are putrid with stink. And I’m lovin’ it.

Yeah? Well, just watch me. I’m climbing out this mess. 

[August 5, 1962: Rest in peace, Norma Jean. You’re life-size images hang in our bedroom and hallway, and my favorite portrait of you from The Misfits is near my bedside.]

November 1961 with The Misfit’s co-star Clark Gable.

hold the course.

Day 51 | Drier Than a Popcorn Fart | I’ll Have My Garden Salad Dressed Naked

Beautiful. Great. Nice.

A lady in a Prius (really, I want to avoid stereotyping here, but I’m wagering she learned how to drive in some other country), takes a right when I’m about to cross the intersection. It’s blatant.

Bonked on the 16-mile ride.

Who can miss a 52-year-old porker on a bike wearing a neon yellow top that can be seen from outer space?

As she makes the turn, I yell, Beautiful. Great. Nice. Pleasantville isn’t the place for me to whip out my handy arsenal of Rosie Perez expletives. Especially in this case. A soccer mom is pulling up to the intersection in a minivan. She sees the whole thing and toggles her window down. You alright?

Humiliation is galaxies away from describing how I would have felt if I had yelled motherf*****r at her ladyship driving the Prius.

[Mohammed, a fat white girl called me a motherf*****r today]

I tell the soccer mom, I’m okay, part of the territory.

I’m saying it now: thanks, lady.

It doesn’t occur to me a mile later, like, maybe, I could have thanked her.

Or waved.

Or something.

Three O’s in a row: Offenses taken to cyclists’ rights are gratuitous.

Whenever a driver like the Prius pulls a fast one, I say, this is where I live, this where I ride. They can’t hear me, it’s for my own self-entertainment, or the old lady walking on the sidewalk who later tells Old Albert an odd tidbit of the passing day.

A fat lady on a bike said ‘there is where I live, this is where I ride’ near the Pleasantville Mall.

Today’s endeavor.

Last Sunday: Triumph Day at Larz Anderson in Brookline, MA with sweet, “lame” Sabrina. “Girls love to drive Tr6’s too.”

The dog’s been lame so I end up leaving around 11:00 for the 16.5-mile ride. It’s a ride I haven’t done before and at the halfway mark I encounter a steep incline with little shoulder. Cars zoom past at 60 M.P.H.

Who knew?

It’s fine and good, it’s the challenge of the road that busts the cellulite and makes me recite this is where I live, this where I ride, but I find not even a quarter of the way up the hill, I’ve got nothing left.

Like, one moment I’m burning premium-unleaded and the next, the bits of sediment at the bottom of my tank are clogging my fuel line.

Breakfast didn’t cut it. I ate up a bunch of time feeling guilty about the dog, not getting her 3-4 mile walk in, and by the time I headed out on the road the two hard-cooked eggs were a faint memory.

And who rides 16 miles without carbs in their digestive track, treading as close to the sun as that lady’s Prius had crossed my path?

Not a very smart person/cyclist.

Fat person/cyclist.

On the HMR Diet Program thing.

Well-hydrated, rubber-legged and possessing a funky heartbeat (thump, delay-thump, thump), I walk the bike home a good part of 8 miles, sitting my big butt down in the shade at times, coasting down the hills. This is someone, my person, who I don’t typically allow to stop on rides, no matter the duration, except at red lights.

I was dying.

But there’s an upside to dying.

It’s three hours since I arrived home and the euphoria in recovery [consuming a match-size entree of beans and potatoes and abundant swallow from the front yard’s hydrant] feels like I just drank the 6-ounce painkiller.

I like it.