This week's gonna be dry fun. 
Schedule's off. Luck was 2 miles and half an hour. How many city blocks is that in the tough Midwest? 
Maybe things do happen for a reason. 

That's over a thousand pages you'll have to finish in three days. If you ever get to doing it. 
People know what they've been hearing from you. Ten miles is only five back and forth. It's nothing. 
You used to race the cross-country. There was that time you got home, bleeding after twenty. 

Riding in the dark, drunk and dizzy from blood loss. A freak wind picked you up and smashed you on the gravel. 
Some girl's parked car in a suburban driveway. Cold, worn-out, battered. Your spirit was the breath of God. 

You contemplate riding all the way to the megaplex tomorrow. 
Just to prove to yourself that you haven't really died yet. 
 

BIKE TRIP IN UTAH TURNS TRAGIC
By Maura Kelly

In the blackness of a canyon he reached only after hours of climbing barefoot over 
jagged, slippery rocks, Jeff Firak should have been able to see the lights of Moab, Utah.

The 13-year-old from Woodstock had lost touch with the rest of the riders in his group last Tuesday, during a bike trip along the 14-mile Porcupine Rim Trail, a former uranium mining area in southeast Utah. It was his first time on one of the rides that his father, Thomas, organizes each year for a college cycling club.

Sometimes belated compassion turns into poison. What you don't know will kill you. Take as many tools as you want. You're useless without the intrinsic.

Four movies two freebies for a measly fiver. 
Twice in a week the books you always wanted. 
The bike was a Trek hybrid with Japanese imports. 
You never think these things through. 

It was a Monday that I saw it in the shed. 
I had quit smoking a month earlier, but I still went out the back sometimes for the peace and quiet. 
Plus you scare the living shit outta the pigeons who nap there if you slip out the door fast enough. 
The first time ever that an item of possible interest found its way under my very nose. 

I stayed away from the devil's ministrations, the devil's gentle prodding, away from bad joss. 
I've been keeping good time on a wu-jen that proves the watched-pot-never-boils adage. 
I used to believe in wishes but at some point at the sink or swim juncture you just learn the power of prayer. 
I've written letters of introduction 

that turned into introspection 
                              that turned into articles 
                                                       that turned into webpages. 

And after the upload was over with none the smarter none of this really matters. 

For every time that some zombie in a pre-owned Lexus honked at you to get the fuck off the road. 
For every time that the doorman in some high-rise wouldn't let you off without some kinda hassle. 
Every time that a soccermom with 2.5 kids gives you a pained look for having a gelseat and both tires 
with you on some sort of contraption. A paramilitary inspired c|punk wet dream slash Batman utility webbing. 
You give em the best dog-eating grin you can muster and tip off at the next term and check all your job tags. 

You give em the best dog-eating grin you can muster.

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