Wednesday, August 22, 2012

     You are the worst bicyclist in Flagstaff, Arizona, and so today you take the bus, the Mountain Line, to do what needs to be done.
     What that is, exactly, is the proverbial player-to-be-named later. And so, say a prayer, and have mercy on your quite poor self, relying on your tired feet, rather than your two wobbly wheels.
      The monsoons don't matter. Neither do the looming wars, the red lines drawn in multiple sands, the mosquito plagues, the droughts, the high winds carrying haboobs and other types of Gaia-inspired mayhem. Shoot a rifle into the sky. See if it helps. Maybe a bullet will land on those responsible, or, irresponsible.
      Suck it in soldier. The game is on. It's a Wednesday game. Time is money. Money is time. But you don't have time to take a ... and then you do, at each step along the way, each passage through the mind field, that bit of information you need arrives in mysterious ways. So trust this, professional pedestrian, you walk in grace, the beauty path, and your wobbly bike is just dead weight.
     Lo and behold, there goes the Flagstaff tactical control SWAT team truck. You see them all over the place on TV these days, keeping people quote "calm." Baddass as Baghdad itself, going out, one hopes, for only an early morning stroll. Most of the rest of Mall America is at work by now, except for some suitable employee at the Greyhound station, where four men anxiously wait for someone of authority to arrive, or, not arrive ... Not sure. Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. It's past 9 a.m. already and one guy, dragging a rolling suitcase behind him, is mystified. "Man," he says, "gotta get out of this town."
     Just a bit of flight syndrome since the worm has turned. All birds feel it after the mid-point of August has passed. Can't imagine why anyone would want to leave Flagstaff, the great transition town for the entire motor world of the once-great Route 66 east or west. Could also be one of the great cycling communities, too. But you are the worst cyclist on earth, perhaps. Goes back to childhood, when you crashed your first bike. Then, in high school, a dog chased you and ripped your knickers with it's jaws. But now you are a professional pedestrian. You know your limits: But you also know this, Flagstaff is one damn beautiful place in the 21st century. It's a bike heaven, one even you can manage, given better circumstances, a more stable ground.
     But see, the first monsoon cloud of the day already has risen over the San Francisco Peaks, altitude 10,000-11,000 feet or so ... no time to check today ... and the throne of the Katsinas is gathering a white, puffy, somewhat horizontal cumulus crown ... and brother, there's hell to pay ...
      

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