Laying afield can adequately pass some time, though adventure is addictive. Best to break out, lest you be poisoned by the straw beneath your head. Grab a bike! Time passes slower, the faster your ride.
Of late, Richmond bared its weedy skin and tattooed a “hangman’s knot” down south. All to give UCI a global taste of the Richmond mud via a twisted lollipop we call “Poop Loop”. A short looping trail in a part of town solely fit for dogs.
Standing in opposition to Rockett’s re-gentrified concrete, the variegation that a river-cut channel makes is tangible. The mind reads an invisible sign: “Here be monsters”. Seemingly a forgotten place, even if fleshy air mixers visit daily. Their visits barely break the reeds. This jungle stage illuminates little. Only the matted dirt, bated ancestral hopes that haunt an historic slave trail, and the stinking crosscut heads, planted cig butts, and bobbled bobbers left by fishermen exercising their carefree, the only place allowed.
Thousands of years ago, when man still wore dinner’s bag to protect, the persons here likely considered this sandy bottom land not worthy of refinement, and unfolding followed suit. Its littered with brick chips, bursted rubber bladders, and catastrophically creased steel; the place feels only temporarily inhabitable, and un-redeemably wild.
Rough edges are inherited from a relationship to the river, split into a fray that deeply weaves with the tree brush. The wet lies just feet below knobbed tires. Drunk on a potion of upstream elixirs, it has it’s way with everything here. If not enough stuff, this rejected mound has a symbolic crown. The local patrony deposited its wastewater filter here with scapeled precision. A last cleansing wipe through the used fluid before sharing it with Virginia’s sandy bays. Untamed forest park, the accepting sponge of life’s exhaust.
Its a thundered drizzle that drips upon the day’s participants. Every time the pedals stop, a bathrobe of southern vapor surrounds, only penetrable by spotted mosquitoes who work diligently to lighten the load. Crimson consumers in concert, their microscopic straws drink an itch upon the skin. Motivated to simulate a windy day, gearing up the spokes to “20”, a rapid rush through the foliage, better watch the angles! The stinging nettle will penalize you bloody points on your knees. Much worse than a minute in the box.
Gravel, then pasture, a single mud stripe paints the path to the unboarded midway of this carnival. Manual feats of excitement await the goers of mud. Leaps and hills, twists and jagged geometry are sure to impress, through the choreographed mess.
Excited delight transforms as the drain train pulls into the station. Known as the collector, it steals the strength of the shins and shoulders, leaving nothing but sweat as it’s calling card. Corners now rounded, re-trailing a return upon past’s opposite direction. Home bound becomes the mind’s portrait. Passing lovers who are enchanted, and a seated toker reading the daily current passing by. Tires speed along goose shit laden dirt .F#%$! we think humans are inconsiderate… Don’t look back just throw it in the wash and wish for the cleansing powers of salted hypochlorite.
Mud turns to gravel, and traveled ground tilts the scales toward history. Back at the start for reflecting upon, and getting gone.
Guilty of it, no question can reasonably be raised. The bike is 10 ply coated in the scene of the crime. Charged, mingling in the moment, susceptible to it.
No apologies offered, living a sentence of life. Loving it.
