on tourines, taking leeks, and tomato boredom

Not wanting to spin myself or my ever gliding words (spokes as it were) into the twists and turns of my favourite sporting event, I regard each day in July as a stage in a strange unfinished journey. I believe, more fully than desired, that the flight we have chosen, whether alone or in the presence of a "stronger team", remains within us no matter how far we try (or perhaps sometimes it happens without trying) to deviate from the intended course.

It is easy to think (feel) when one is still touring in their youth (unbeknowst as a teen per se or even in the mid_twenties echelon) that the destined end is a lot like pissing from the saddle of moving cyclone: it seems it doesn't matter where the content or spray goes... I never fully mastered this e-motion, this onion crying lack of focus, nor that of other ingredients in soup or false flats. And yet, I have not quite obtained a higher resonance for scouring the road or market for that right combination of spices, be they a riveted green, or that dry nonsensical tongue-in-cheek variety. I speak though, without hindrance, without a loss of motivation or respite. The feeling that I develop (and maybe other age-grouper chowders do too?), is of a compromise being that inches between those spaces that avoid the incessant potholes: a pot-pourri tourine without any constituent love. Sometimes, beneath the seemingly broken core, one is able to inspire...

Alas, I was once told the hills "are alive" with twists of perfection... and today the ride was right. An asparagus of wind... (urine odors notwithstanding), I was spearheaded along the concessions, all curved nose, helmet, and relaxed arms of me. I took the hill on the Cote De La Dalle, a clove of garlic and splash of curry tossed into the terrain, I flowed like broth towards Tiny Beaches Road. Sauteed leeks beefened me. Today the sun was gold and heated itself like moist enviable silk. I dreamt of onion skins... tomatoes dicing the flat falseness of giving up. The wind was hotter still. Driven like a windmill through a stainless steel hand-mixer... I boiled, yet the boiling pace of reason bubbled my metallic grill. I was cleansed of all negativity, and there was no "ending", no point in the distance where I felt the race would be done, where the last stir would stand like a signpost on the side of the road. There was no ladle resting on the ride's abiding rim.

"Any day with the bike, or a soup bowl, is worth savoring." -- a friend named Sylvia