Out of Reach

Bubble wrapped mind, safe but cut off,

this feeling, like I'm embracing

somebody while wearing thick gloves,

like overprotected sex,

this head full of static,

strange motion-stillness,

too many voices, an ocean of them,

indistinct and fleeting, a wave's

roar when I want the articulate,

modulated drops--

there's something between where

my mind is and where

I want it to be--

searching for the bottom

of a murky river--

I'm kept out of the water

by someone or something,

away from the free-swimming ideas--

things just out of reach, like whatever

it was that you returned to the room

to get--

it's like that, even now, with these words

pulled out like slivers, slowly, offering

some relief, but ending there,

an absence, a negative space.

Carpenter's Questions

The house settles, man levels--

That quixotic quest to

make the little bubble sit

between the lines, to

get whatever's in my hands

to play nice with gravity.

It looks level—is it?

Everything settles--

Can I?

What Is Hidden

If you think about it

it's the things that happen

out of sight, hidden away

that cause the most damage,

feeding on something so

silently—

The tree rotted from the

inside out, silently, while

its crown swayed with

the song of the wind

through so many idyllic days

while we enjoyed its shade.

What else is going on

inside us, hidden away

in our bones, flesh,

hearts and souls?

Hold it off, keep those

opportunists at bay—

hard feelings and anger's

temperings and tightenings,

little closures, passages shut down.

What is hidden can be 

open and free, as

wide as a secret stream

wild and dark underground.

Ask to be full of life, root to crown,

as limber as young trees,

and a spirit and soul clear as

crystalline ice on an alpine peak.

The Silver Maple

The silver maple out back, in the neighbors' yard, is coming down. Its limbs hollowed out by water and squirrels, it's too weak to stand, and a strong storm's hand on its filigreed leaves may be too much. The tree is benevolent and welcoming on this mild summer day. A hurricane or its remnants could put us, snug in our wood frame houses, at serious risk.

No tree falling in the forest, this, but a noisy, mechanized affair, as men scale up and rappel down from its leafy crown, taking apart piece by piece over seventy years of nature's quiet, steady work. This tree was a sapling when neighbor Frank—patron of the block--was born. He grew up with that tree. To grow up: humans doing as trees do. The tree's life is ending, his is continuing, into his own late autumn, in the new sun on the house's light green siding this afternoon.

This tree defines our yards: the way the Caseys' deck curves around it, the shade it has provided, filtered sun flicking even now on my page, a harp for the breeze in this quiet afternoon, a rustle, a soft sound like the feel of grass, ambient, a sound placing you in a comfortable, safe spot. Shade plants have done well in our yards, but that will change.

“If you take the time, you can count the rings,” Frank says to someone, inside, while holding a substantial log. “That's the rot, starting.” Inside, unseen. Isn't that like most things—cancer, clots, a hardening of the heart, a desiccated spirit, cut off by some small cellular-level insurrection?

How can I not think about birth, life, death, the inevitable transformation of our very matter into energy, into something else? It's all here, in a tree's scale and calendar.

I ask the tree man if they'll put aside some logs for me, for my first fall and winter with a fireplace. He offers to cut it to fit. I go inside and quickly measure the opening in my fireplace, and return with the number, twenty-four inches. Frank's wife hovers in her doorway, hearing this exchange. I worry that my inquiry seems disrespectful, but firewood surely is a better outcome than being fed into a chipper and flung into the back of a truck. I'll remember the silver maple on a cold, dark day, maybe near the solstice, when a spark catches and a fire blazes, throwing light and heat into the living room. We should all hope for such alchemy, us, humans, born of stars, energy and matter, and back again, in cycles we will always remain ignorant of, clocks moving at different tempos.

The smoke will rise, the scent of home and hearth, the fire will burn, the ashes will be heaped behind the garage, maybe mixed back into the yard's soil, for whatever grows from this ground in the future. Another neighbor and I talk about where to place our Japanese maple saplings, young trees with spindly, bendy trunks and awkward branches. They will be somebody's shade, someday.

Quiet

When my body grows quiet

and the chatter in my mind subsides,

talked out, like a storm's angry wind

losing its concentration and dispersing

to the corners of the sky--

Friction, that's how we get through life,

whether it's the ground underfoot, the hum of the wheels

or the wind's song in the ears,

gravity's pull on us all, flesh and bone aging

while somewhere the soul is polished,

brought to brightness from this force,

if we're lucky, maybe enough

to reflect, gleaming, burnished, polished,

ground down until shapes emerge, these

prisoners in a crucible we carry all the time.

When the mind quiets and the body speaks,

stories of forbearance, the foundation of this self,

the pilings below the pier, the house's foundation,

stresses of shifting earth, the settling that slows

but never ends, moving the level a fraction off plumb--

Is there ever any true stillness?

This restless flesh, this twitching thing, seen only now

by this quiet, still soul.

...at the edges of things...

Shapes, words, feelings

coming to me at the edges of things,

faint transmissions growing

stronger like the breath that says

ah-hah, little discoveries

in a quiet space, eyes closed

as colors filter through,

iridescence moving in from the

upper right of my consciousness,

tuning the body, cords of muscles

and sinew and fascia and tendon

stretched and loosened sympathetically

as if I'm an instrument ready to be plucked

or touched, the energy around me the player.

The edges of things, little horizons,

distant peaks that emerge in relief

as my mind quiets behind eyes closed,

trusting, as my body adjusts, this balance,

this vision without sight...

Race Report: 2013 NCC Tour of the Hilltowns

I drove out from under threatening clouds portending the first rain in eight days, but they cleared by the time I got off the Mass Pike, and we had a sunny, warm day for racing.

Some background: This was a what-the-heck race, one I'd never done, never even rode the course. I only gave a cursory look to the route profile, noting the one big climb. I hadn't planned on doing much road racing this month, as riding time was reduced by my recent move, but I found myself riding well this week, after some time off. Worth noting. I was on the wait list, then got in when the club added another field—35 and over, thank you very much.

After a long, detailed and informative talk from the promoter, we were off for a six-mile neutral start, during which I had to dig deeper than expected a couple of times to keep position. The group was strong! I was consistently in third to tenth position in a field of thirty, and my pre-race jitters passed. I closed gaps, covered early attacks, and generally felt like a competent racer.

We did a long, twisty, scary descent on a rough road. How do you make chip-and-seal pavement worse? Frost heaves and bad patches, of course. I tried my best to follow the lines of the three NCC riders, whom I figured knew the road well. I also left some space in front of me.

We passed a few dropped riders from the field ahead, then swung around for the Hawley Road climb—the one that looked like a big gash in the middle of the course profile, and it got challenging pretty quickly. I foolishly said “nice riding with you guys.” Never, ever broadcast any weakness, perceived or real, I said to myself later. Even my own ears shouldn't hear that. I decided to go all in on the climb, give it everything I had, then concern myself with what's next after the summit, based on some pretty good advice from strong-man Bob of the Tuesday crew. Still, the pack climbed away from me. I wasn't spit right out, but rather digested slowly. I'm not sure which is worse. Speaking of digestion, I'd over-eaten in the first 20 miles, and I was paying on the climb. The road kept coming, each curve revealing another sinew of pavement reaching upward, littered with widely spaced riders. My digestive distress persisted, and I didn't desire any of the food or drinks I'd brought along. I might as well have fueled with Four Loko and Marlboros, I chuckled, based on the way I was riding and feeling.

The follow car crept up behind me like a reaper, then held off when I found some extra power. It didn't last, however.

Over the top, it got lonely. I began to wonder about these Massachusetts riders—does EPO occur naturally, like fluoride, in the water rolling down these Berkshire streams? These boys can climb! Hairy legs and absence of team kits do not indicate a lack of ability, and I briefly felt like a poseur. That didn't last as I had more practical concerns. I began working with another rider who had flatted. Knowing the power of my spoken words, I said to him—but more for me--”I'll give it what I have.” Soon we were cruising in the high 20s, both of us taking efficient pulls. We picked up another rider and got a strong rotation, just as the men's masters and women's 1/2/3 field passed. I shouted out some encouragement to the Keltic and Farm Team riders in the small leading group. What can I say? I'm a fan blessed with a great view.

I got snapped off the back after a bit, and again rode alone. I'd never completely recovered from the Hawley Road climb, but I still thought I'd made the right choice to go all in. My climbing and recovery aren't where I'd like them to be, but I coached myself to continue on, figuring I'd build endurance and persistence--plus get back to my car under my own power. I didn't quite hate riding or racing at that moment.

The race finishes with a climb of two miles back up Route 9 to Windsor. Some more small groups passed, and I passed a few solo riders. My speed was way down, and the headwind was picking up. It's times like these that test a rider's mind. I did my usual mental tricks or fuzzy math: “I can ride X miles pretty much anytime, anywhere.” I reeled in a couple riders on the climb, one of whom was a guy I worked with earlier. I passed him right at one kilometer to go. The mind gets a boost, which translates to the body in some strange alchemy that probably will never be measured. That was the longest kilometer of the day—much longer than they look on TV, by the way. I finished just a hair over three hours, which had been my target. In our field of 30, I ended up 18th out of 26 finishers. Not great, but no bike or major physical problems, no DFL. I used every gearing possible on my bike, from low to high.

Why do I do it? Why pay money and pin on a number, all the while knowing you're saying yes to pain? Well, it's not pain anymore. It's just how I feel on a bike. The power of words again. Of course, there's always the anticipation of the next race, in this case next Saturday's Hunter Mountain Classic, 78 miles with three major climbs. There's also the common explanation of the sense of accomplishment, which I agree with, but it goes deeper than that. It's soul medication, self-administered via the pharmacy of the body. I took Route 20 home, and enjoyed the sun over the Berkshires, looking richer than all of the over-saturated photos on Instagram. Every song my iPod shuffled sounded amazing, and I heard the music with an uncommon depth. I drew deep, steady breaths that seemed to reach my fingers and toes. I felt at peace.

Thanks to the Northampton Cycling Club, marshals, volunteers, police and EMS for an excellent day in the sun.

Ride data here, on Strava     

Official results here

Northampton Cycling Club

Haiku

If I could turn down
the static in my head, what
sweet song would I hear?

The Rider Up The Road

Tomorrow is a speeding rider up the road.

My slight gain, a slip back--I can't reel him in,

hovering, rocking, shimmering in the cold.

No number, no race, nothing clear to win.

What may I see around the beckoning curve?

No matter my speed, I will face it alone.

Will it steel me, spur me, or unhinge my nerve?

Feeling much, only seeing what is shown.

We all ride, trapped in our bubbles of time.

Yet in any moment, who can say “it's mine”?

I will be that rider, as I was the one behind.

You and I are alike, not in time but in kind.

Chasing that next fleeting rider up the road

into another evening's quickly fading glow.

Haiku

Two rivers of speech
flow to a silent pool where
all is understood.

Two about breathing

Silence, then wind comes

off the river, like the breath

of eons of words.

Let my anger come

and go, quickly and cleanly,

as a breath: in, out.