I should write about it, but I have another 65 photos to edit.

But what got me here to write is the recognition of what's felt weird/troubling/bothersome lately.

A level of creep of sadness almost? Couldn't figure it out for a while. But between the few extra CX races and changes at the old picture factory, I kind of might have figured it out.

I'm just more and more isolated and alone. And I don't like it. Sure, sure I'm very much okay alone and do fine by myself, I mean I can survive and deal. But I miss those few people that were dependable and regular in my day to day interactions.

One thing talking with Robot about Sunday, the missing element for me at CX, she did point out that even on a team it is still an individual sport but I spent so long in a team that it was all the other stuff outside of racing that was good. Sure, I pretty much know most everyone in the race by now, and sure, I'm 30 pounds heavier than I was when I was fast, I'm slow, and that is maybe part of it. But not much of it. Mike F's words, the whole if you do it know you and you have to do it kind of thing (Pure Sweet Hell intro/voice over) are true and even being slow and sucky I find there are things i'm not terrible at a race and do enjoy it. I have no nerves about racing, no one is counting on me doing well. I guess in someways it has become so selfish or purely for me, that I can't let anyone else down and I've been letting myself down for so long I don't have any expectations, hell I go in expecting I'm going to fail at it and am surprised I'm not last or something along those lines. Make sense? 

Work? A bunch of shifting has happened, labs with people I would hang out with have moved down city, and general usage is down and while I'm still busy with meetings and help and keeping things working and trouble shooting and everything, it is very different. Something has changed and I'm more isolated than ever. Funny coming from the guy who's whole fucking career has been in a basement with no windows and more microscopes than people. The only time I see anyone is if they need something from me, aka help. 

Have been listening to some great books, really good ones, fiction though. Someone brought up Edward Abbey and so I went to the library and poked around once I saw a few of his peak works already checked out and saw the David Gessner book; "All the Wild That Remains" and it is a balance or interplay between Abbey and Wallace Stegner. 

And of course there's a lot that is reminding me of my Dad. He was a huge Abbey fan. I don't think he started me in on the books but we both felt strongly about them and the ideas and the places and the philosophy in Desert Solitare and The Monkeywrench Gang. When Abbey's last book was published, I think I maybe I was in college or there abouts, but IIRC it was published posthumously and I remember my dad not wanting to read it yet. Because when he read that then there would be no more of his writings to read.

I don't know if he actually ever read it. 

And Gessner was talking about Abbey's handwriting, having read the journals. Talked about his cursive script.

And that made me think about my dad's handwriting. His mother made sure her children's handwriting was perfect, that their cursive script was absolutely flawless and perfect. And his was. We would exchange letters in high school and college quite a bit, would get them now and then in grad school and beyond. Pages on lined, often yellow paper. 

Over the years though and towards the end, the letters slowly stopped, email taking their place but cards and what not would always feature his meticulous handwriting. 

But it started slipping, the handwriting. Partly due to the neuropathy and lack of feeling in his hands but also the hidden and progressive onslaught of his Atypical Parkinson's. To the point where it was even more illegible than my worst handwriting. Indistingishable loops. 

This was all in my head this morning. I was listening. Paused the book at a noisy part and never hit play again. Just thought about all this.

And then, I realized, we never found any journals. I don't ever remember him writing much other than letters to people, and I didn't see that happening. His idle time was making stuff, baskets, decorative gourds, working in the garden, fishing or hunting or preparing for both or either. Or driving.

It is no accident that he wound up in Abbey's country. In a town that Abbey would have been happy in now if he was looking for a place. Moab? Fuck that touristy bullshit. It was everything he hated. Arches? Yeah no.

I'd love to have seen Arches or the great sand dunes the way Abbey did, was able to. 

I wonder if my dad did keep a journal what it would be like. I can guess, and I'm sure lots of it would be awkward and difficult to read, but probably nothing surprising.

It has been just over three years. I don't know that I've fully processed my grief. So many unanswered questions. So many opportunities that my version of ASD and his just meant we spent soooo much time in quiet company. From when i was just a kid, hours of fishing until we caught our limit. He would explain what I needed to know to fish, how to bait the hook and why and that's about it. Learned behavior... or something.

Life is tough.

Life right now is about to get harder for so many people. Both for those who are prepared for it to get worse but also for those who are expecting it to get better but are likely in for a horrible shock. I hope I'm wrong and it doesn't get worse for anyone. 

But I do wish the messages about the planet, about the resources, about exploitation of it all, would reach the masses. But those who read get it. Too many people only listen to podcasts and watch you tube and those, like the mistakes I made a long time ago, are worse than poorly sourced well written blogs based on bias and false information.  

I should leave, should go home early. i still have too many photos to edit. But when can I do it? I get home, sit for a few minutes, then start cooking. Sit down to eat. Then what? Pretty soon it is time for bed and time to start it all over again.

And maybe that's just part of getting old. Being more alone or isolated. Maybe it is for me. I don't know. I guess I'm okay with it but I'm not sure I like this trend.

But I should start wrapping stuff up and going home soon. Too late to ride home in the light though. More darkness. 

AND I FORGOT TO CHARGE THE DAMN LIGHTS!

shit - fingers crossed they get me home.

Amor Fati Motherfuckers

Heddwch
G

Oh and loincloth update: I have NOT worn gloves or a warm jacket on the commute this season yet. Means No gloves, nothing more than a light rainproof or thin second layer on tope, no ear covering, nothing more than thin Wrangler ATG pants. And while it is a bit of a Loincloth thing, it is more a demonstration of how fucked the weather is and how warm it has been.

And maybe I'll write about bike racing... maybe