Ode to Moraline

A man goes to Argentina

He says:

"These hands will bleed when I get there.
I will bleed when I don't want to, when I'm tired.
I will leave this blood in desolate areas,
and sometimes on the soft body of a woman.
I will leave this blood on my tools,
and maybe all my tools won't make it.
Maybe I won't make it.

My friends have been attacked by pussy and structure.
They have fallen deep in wombs and
they're lost or trapped or hiding, I
can't tell which.

We lose good men to crevasses
in the mucous
and blood where NUUUUR-TURE and MYUUUU-SICK
take breathing to its most shallow.

'Doctor--he's not breathing!
Don't let him die.'

The women continue knitting.

I hear screams as I true these wheels.
My own soul."

harder riding

There have been many critics who have decried lack of consistency and frequency: "Maximin. What gives?" Ah, California was delightful, as always. I went to the North.

6/25/10 10:11 a.m. Eureka, California
Icing my left knee in bed. Some harder riding out of the saddle in big chainring towards the end.

The Project

Written September 2010:

"Maximin, Maximin! Are you there? If you are, what about the project?"

Ah, yes, the project. Go to Bulgaria, live in a hija, and write down things. Indeed. I wasn't stupid at the time, so even though quite a few years have passed, it still sounds like a good idea. Yes, such a project. You see, Moraline thinks Europe is boring. Ah, but has he tried Eastern Europe? Well he may say so, but he has only experienced Central Europe. Ah, he might file a semantic restraining order, but I say there's a distinction. Bulgaria was far more wild west than the rest of Europe, and was especially so in 1998. I find it has many things in common with the place he seeks, Central and South America. I may have beat Moraline to it, as I think now. I may have already been there.

But this still doesn't mean that Moraline is living and I am dying. Because Moraline is living and I am dying, even as I may, if my hamstring doesn't snap, break 1:20 in the half marathon. Yes, how can a man die in such health? A man can die when his soul cannot breathe anymore. I have no air left, very little. I am a dead man despite the fact I can, with ease, run one mile in 5 minutes. A man my age. I am not a happy man. I say I sing happiness, but it is short lived. A project makes a happiness last. This is what Moraline has, and a man cannot kill or rob him of it. He is immortal now.

I have never been more happy than I have been in realizing these things. Men live and die. There is much empty space in the lives of many men, but there is plutonium density in the lives of others. Are there few of these men? It depends on the language game. The few men who have lived so many lives, amount to many men. But there are few men who can do this, so there aren't many of them.

"Maximin, are you a fake?"

No, actually, I'm not. I have some notes I have not shared yet:

Barcelona.
Girona
Banyuls de Mer
P

The forest

I made it out of the forest, nearly 4 hours of riding. I would ride Evans later, and each time I wanted to shift to a later gear, I would tell myself, "remember Northern California," and this is what I remembered. Never have I ridden such a difficult road (in recent memory, and the idea of "recent memory" can be discussed, but why bother--according to Moraline, I'm all about wine, women, and song, so what's the fucking point of thinking about anything too deeply). Each time the road would 'end,' a new ascent would be revealed. Each time a new ascent would be revealed, I would promise my legs and neck and back that "this would be the last, just over this climb, then the trees will give way to the flattest road in Northern California." Eventually, I knew I was in a maze, trapped for my sins, the way I was wasting my life. It was as if Moraline had created a death-tree-maze and propped up signs to goad me along the way: "Lovely cycling here, please continue. For nice cycling, keep riding this way."

When I had given up all hope of my ever leaving the forest, the forest cleared, and I reached Leggett, one of many world famous drive through tree attractions in the area. Leggett had a few buildings, one of them a service station.

To Garberville

Something forgotten in Mendocino

I made friends with two ladies in the first bar (Patterson's Pub) in Mendocino. One had recovered from surgery and had made a trip to town to fight cabin fever. She had a massage therapy gig in town. We spoke energetically, and the cold attention I received from two barkeeps quickly transformed itself into intense, friendly attention. I had an excellent angus burger and salad and two Old Rasputin Beers and then an IPA. Old Rasputin beer is 9% alcohol by volume. I believe I was offered a massage--after 10 the next day, come on by. On the house? I did not wake until 10 the next morning. The next woman was 50-something and a widow. We hit it off great, and she had what I had. We congratulated each other on our respective journeys. She had great energy and courage, but Moraline would probably hate her as he hates all women.

I went to the second of two bars in Mendocino, Dick's Place. I have a t-shirt from Dick's Place concerning Pinto Buck, and if you catch me on a good day you shall see that I am wearing this t-shirt. I am proud of this t-shirt because it was not clearly displayed for sale at the bar. You have to ask for it special. I carried the shirt with me in my saddle bag on my bicycle and it made it with me back home. I'm not wearing the shirt now, but I would smile and look down at the emblems and messages on the shirt and feel complete were I wearing the shirt as I write this.

I continued to drink at the bar, heavy Northern Californian beer. I spoke to kids who were homeless and happy and one kid offered his coat to his dog to sleep on beside him at the bar. It was touching to feel such generosity. These folks had a common look--the men had beards and long hair, some dreadlocks, and the girls did their best to look like the guys, but had not beards. The severity of the overcast mist and isolation of the redwoods was evidenced in each homeless person's eye socket. One homeless kid was initially good natured at my advance on his old lady, and then grew uneasy. I backed off. Earlier he had confided his lining up of a job somewhere. I can't say what's in store for the kid, but he treats his dog well.

I put on the t-shirt and ordered another beer, given to me free this time. A short-haired blonde entered the bar and sat next to me. We engaged in conversation and our faces drew closer. She would drive to LA in the morning for an opening, she said. Suddenly, she had to go. She apologized for her having a boyfriend waiting for her back in her room. We kissed each other's lips instead. As she left the bar, the men sighed. "We were all rooting for you, and we thought you were there."

I wasn't saddened or dissuaded by the matter. I had many miles to ride, and a new, smart t-shirt. Greater agonies would await.

Onward number two

Suddenly the rider notices he is above the trees. Earlier he road along the shore.





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After the hills and windy flats along the ocean, accompanied by the sun, I rode inland on Route 1 as it headed to its eventual intersection with Route 101. There, you find the Redwoods, and brutal, brutal climbing, some of the slowest and most painful climbing of my life. 5-6 miles per hour, neck and ass pain. Dark, isolated Redwood forests that induce insanity and despair. I continued to climb and did not stop climbing.

Onward