You can probably guess what I'm not going to say -- I mean, not with any high probability or anything, but there is some probability. I'm not going to go on and on about how beautiful and/or handsome you are, although we all suspect this is a subject that remains of interest to you, and may continue to do so as long as we agree this is a socially acceptable topic and not yet too awkward. Nor will we discuss your cleverness, stick-to-it-ive-ness, and your popular attitude and demeanor.
No! The subject of you is the mind, where we live today. I am standing in your mind, hand in grotesquely exaggerated hand of your cortical homunculus, staring around in awe at the thoughts that are conveyed from place to place on those imaginary belts as waves of neurotransmitters vibrate strangely on their quest of cats. You have many interesting thoughts. I reach out and take one, and your homunculus checks it out on the tip of its distended tongue. Your first thought: Is this entry going to continue like this? Because this is really weird. But... imagine if the author really did get the canoe trailer rolling, and managed to bike a long ways, like 50 miles...
Why, I am flattered. For the next thought in your wonderful imagination, instead of all the things that are normally there like bus schedules and little people and the boiling point of mercury -- you are imagining me there! "I am shocked," I say, "Shocked. I put this entire blog together to talk about you in particular, and how wonderful you are and special and so on and yada yada yada." The homunculus nods its massive head. "-- but it turns out your special thoughts are just going to be about my canoe trip? Well, then..." I sigh and sit down. I suppose it's time to talk about myself for another 40 pages. Why don't you sit there and imagine with all those special thoughts of yours...
I am riding and I am riding 50 miles today because everything is hunky dory and the wind is in the right direction and even the bike trailer which I made and was specially cursed ahead of time by the angels at creation is actually working. I did not want to stop for anything, not fame or glory, or 30 pounds of potatoes for only $10 or a restroom break or spare inner tubes (oops) or even a banana. I mean, the wind was with me, and I wasn't trying to be rude to the reporter who waved me down but that's kind of a big deal. So I chewed up the last of the amazing haul of apples the Rothkes gave me while answering him with annoyance as he jotted words down in his notebook: [SAFF. CALGARY. ST LOUIS. YOUNG. HEALTHY. SINGLE.] Every tickle of the air as I stood there still was a lost moment of motion --
No, those words of the reporter were not his assessment of me but my assessment of myself, the reasons I gave for the trip. They were as good as any I could give at the time. Five years later, writing this, I still don't know what it was about, but I know it was good, and it's over, and I sometimes sorta want it again, but it wouldn't be the same. Old hat now. I know exactly where my physical limits are. It's important, maybe one has to be fully animal before being fully human. Likely not -- I got no answers here, just a collections of days, stitched together to fill time. Who am I? is a question that matters more to others than yourself: you're just you.
Day 116 ended: Yogi Lee Trail
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