Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Some people, I'm sure, dream of steamy supermodel sex, or flying, or winning the high school football game or some shit. I usually dream hard, weird dreams. And sometimes, I dream about drinking.
I woke up this morning, convinced that the night prior, I had gone out with some friends, and in a smoky, yellow-lit bar with over-stuffed burgundy leather booths, casually tossed my sobriety aside for a glass of scotch. I woke dizzy, sweating, panicked and sad.
My friends are all either sober, or are the kind of friend that would, coldly, and without hesitation, punch me straight in the face if I ordered a scotch at a bar (these are the kind of friends we should all be lucky enough to have). Additionally, I almost never go anywhere near bars, ever. But still, this dream scared me: The causal easy way in which I let go of everything I've worked so hard for -- worked almost two years for.
Some dreams stick with me for a while, my brain working for a few hours to distinguish reality from dreamscape. This nightmare stuck with me through my afternoon ride, an hour hard on the 'cross bike. Pushing, pulling, sweating, tear-assing over ruts and sand, and mud, and dark haunting thoughts.
I rode into and out of my LT, rode until my legs burned, and I could only hear my heartbeat and my labored breathing over the whine of new-ish tires on hard-pack. I rode until I smiled, then I rode more, then I rode home.
I am thankful for reminders, and for dirt roads, and for my bike.