Tuesday, July 30, 2019

The Skin I Was In 

The pool of Picton that saved my soul after over a 100 km of hot weather riding.

I lay in the warmth of my room reading a magazine with the hum of the air conditioning buzzing on. Idly I scratched my legs while I read. When the swoon of sleep began its descent I tossed the magazine aside then noticed the detritus of my scratching. The navy blue sheets were covered with tiny white flakes almost as if someone had dusted them with flour. In the din of the dark room it was almost like a constellation of northern Ontario stars. Also it was sort of gross and not a little sad. In less than two weeks I was already shedding the sun-browned skin that was my proof of an early summer adventure. I was shedding the version of myself that had known the sun sitting on my right shoulder as I rode east. I was losing that part of myself that recognized the croak of a bullfrog in a roadside creek, catalogued the dead (turtles, snakes, squirrels and baby birds), knew the distances between towns, knew the time to get there but didn’t care, knew the smell of mockorange and lilac blossoms so sweet they were like candy, and knew that fresh cold tap water was better than any Chardonnay or local beer money could buy.
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