object of desire

Some girls get that jumpy feeling in their chest when they spot a great handbag or a fine skein of wool just begging to be knit.

I. love. bikes.

They don't have to be fancy or all tricked out. They do have to be rugged. Mountain-like. Ready for rough roads -- none of those skinny treadless tires for me, please.

I get that slow burn feeling of desire when I spot one of these -- well-loved, well-used. Take me to bed, baby -- this is all I need.

My life works better when there's a bike ride waiting for me somewhere in the periphery. Solitary more often than not: I don't like to chat. I like to ride. For most of my life riding was synonymous with altitude: the canyons around Boulder were great for those steep stand-up-and-walk-those-pedals grades. Seattle too.

Chicagoland not so much.

This place is about wide open prairies and far horizons and days when you ride for hours without tiring a bit. Except for your rump which wears sore much more quickly when you're not standing up for those grades.

It's 2 below this morning -- it's been hovering in the subzeros for some time -- there are no long rides in my imminent future. Not until Spring.

So for now I row on an erg that I picked up when I moved to the flatlands, already hungry for that other object of desire in my new land-locked home -- the shell lifted high and then lowered into the drink, the sympathy of oars sculling across the water in synch.

But soon there will Spring. And road. And miles to go before I sleep.


This lovely creature lives in Antigua, Guatemala. Just as this was shot she was perched in an old ruined convent.