They just repaved Pilot Knob Avenue, what I had referred to as the Beastly Stretch.
I came home from work to find a brand new black track of thick, smooth and gooey surface. The sight of it was enchanting, I had to tap around on it to make sure it was real.
I develop an intimate connection with the road. It can sing or scream through each skate. From the song of smooth asphalt to the mad morse code of chip seal.
One small regret in the back of my mind was that I never fully enterpreted the angry voice of that old surface.
It’s been an intense two weeks of skating.
Seventy miles and some surprising new blisters and cramps.
The demands of working towards supination had applied some new pressures and friction on my feet so I realigned the frames today.
It’s become a tradition to place an old bike painted white on the side of the road where a cyclist was killed.
“…..He (Ian Hibell) was also welcomed by a Dayak headman in Borneo and African chiefs in the days before every jungle trail had been trodden by backpackers and gap-year students. He estimated that he had used more than 800 cycle repair kits after covering at least 6,000 miles a year for 40 years, the distance from Earth to the Moon.”