The Physical Me
I'm an athlete in a gangly uncoordinated, non-physically disciplined, non-competitive sort of way. Unchanneled strength combined with an Amazonian stature, wildly erratic hair and breasts, and long muscular legs make me attractive and repulsive at the same time. On a tennis court, I'm fine, as long as I don't move. The minute you lob the ball you better duck. There's no telling, I'll either swing and miss or I'll rocket the thing at light speed past your cranium and lodge it permanently in the chain link fence. I'm usually good for two sets then I pass out from the heat coming off the pavement and dehydration. I operate best best at temperatures between 40-70 and should come with a warning label stating as much. If you make me exert myself at temps over 80, have paramedics standing by.
Team sports like basketball are right out. It's best to keep me from any sport that involves objects which become projectiles and equipment which has blunt trauma potential, like golf. Never been near a golf course. Also don't put me in the water, I sink. Don't put me on the water, the boat will capsize and you'll sink with me, irrational fear, I know. Large bodies of water should just leave me alone and be part of the view out the window where they belong. You can catch me a thunderstorm anytime, it's not like I melt in water. I love riding my bike in a good thunderstorm.
I'm at my best on a bicycle and firmly believe the rest of the world should join me. From the moment my father put me in that seat on the back of his bike and mangled my leg in the unprotected spokes, long before any sort of child protection consumer advocacy helmet insisting fun spoiling litigating lentiginous (yes, I mean lentiginous) LAWYERS involved themselves, well, I was exhilarated. I have ridden my bike back and forth across the country, upside down and sideways and around the perimeter, mind you, not physically, but in spirit. Mostly I've ridden back and forth across Michigan about 20 times (Michigander), around lake Tahoe and back and forth between Columbus, Ohio and Portsmouth, Ohio about 20 times (TOSRV).
Riding my bike is meditation, my Karamel Sutra, yes, the Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra. Who can resist the chunks of chocolate that is the pavement, the river of caramel up the center is the flavor of the air in May after a rain when the wind blows lightly at your back, creamy vanilla sky clouds melt down your throat in a sugary high that is cosmic and mystical. The biggest high is the self propulsion, the freedom the powerful strength in the thigh and calf muscles, the air parting, panting pausing and pushing you forward. That same sweet air courses though your lungs, driving oxygen to the blood, feeding the brain that honey high. It is flying without leaving the ground.
I'm an athlete in a gangly uncoordinated, non-physically disciplined, non-competitive sort of way. Unchanneled strength combined with an Amazonian stature, wildly erratic hair and breasts, and long muscular legs make me attractive and repulsive at the same time. On a tennis court, I'm fine, as long as I don't move. The minute you lob the ball you better duck. There's no telling, I'll either swing and miss or I'll rocket the thing at light speed past your cranium and lodge it permanently in the chain link fence. I'm usually good for two sets then I pass out from the heat coming off the pavement and dehydration. I operate best best at temperatures between 40-70 and should come with a warning label stating as much. If you make me exert myself at temps over 80, have paramedics standing by.
Team sports like basketball are right out. It's best to keep me from any sport that involves objects which become projectiles and equipment which has blunt trauma potential, like golf. Never been near a golf course. Also don't put me in the water, I sink. Don't put me on the water, the boat will capsize and you'll sink with me, irrational fear, I know. Large bodies of water should just leave me alone and be part of the view out the window where they belong. You can catch me a thunderstorm anytime, it's not like I melt in water. I love riding my bike in a good thunderstorm.
I'm at my best on a bicycle and firmly believe the rest of the world should join me. From the moment my father put me in that seat on the back of his bike and mangled my leg in the unprotected spokes, long before any sort of child protection consumer advocacy helmet insisting fun spoiling litigating lentiginous (yes, I mean lentiginous) LAWYERS involved themselves, well, I was exhilarated. I have ridden my bike back and forth across the country, upside down and sideways and around the perimeter, mind you, not physically, but in spirit. Mostly I've ridden back and forth across Michigan about 20 times (Michigander), around lake Tahoe and back and forth between Columbus, Ohio and Portsmouth, Ohio about 20 times (TOSRV).
Riding my bike is meditation, my Karamel Sutra, yes, the Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra. Who can resist the chunks of chocolate that is the pavement, the river of caramel up the center is the flavor of the air in May after a rain when the wind blows lightly at your back, creamy vanilla sky clouds melt down your throat in a sugary high that is cosmic and mystical. The biggest high is the self propulsion, the freedom the powerful strength in the thigh and calf muscles, the air parting, panting pausing and pushing you forward. That same sweet air courses though your lungs, driving oxygen to the blood, feeding the brain that honey high. It is flying without leaving the ground.
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