An Ode An
Elegy A Curse Upon A Few Choice Words For A letter to the
Crosswinds
Dear Crosswinds,
You
suck.
Well,
no, you don’t suck. You blow. And right now, you are blowing into my face as I
am losing my protective shield (aka my opponent, who was giving me an awfully
good draft) as they move to the back of the pack and I am left alone to face
you head-on. Actually, “head-on” is not the appropriate term here. I will use the
term “left-side-of-my –body-on”, because if you were coming directly at me, I
would be feeling slow, but I would not be leaning into you, which, if I did not
made this clear before, blows. I would also like to point out that I do not see
how it is fair that everyone behind
me gets to take it easy while I have
to struggle for dear life against you, feeling the acidic burn building up in
my calves and fearing that my quads may pop off at the next pedal stroke. It simply is not fair, and you know it.
Oh.
Now you are blowing almost perpendicular to me. Fantastic. The universe does
not smile upon me today.
Crosswinds,
you are like a box of chocolates…No, I feel like that has been used somewhere
before. How about: you are like a bag of
jellybeans. 99% of the time, the beans
in the bag are, like the situation between you and me, horrendous. They do not
work for my taste buds, much like you are not working for my poor legs right
now. But, in that rare 1% case, there exists the delectable cherry jellybean
which is analogous to when you, Crosswinds, turn into the sweet, sweet tailwind
(we can argue about the validity of my bean choice later). I am starving for that jellybean/tailwind
right now, along with a delicate side of clear skies, as your friend Rain has
decided to join us right now.
I
see that you are upping your ante by blowing even harder as we proceed up this hill, you cruel heartless monster.
Fine. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Here
is what I propose: You will blow really
really really really hard when my opponents are up front, letting me catch
their drafts and sail along like a happy little toy boat. When I come up front,
however, you let up and my calves and quads are saved from the sensation of
pedaling though frozen molasses. Or, better yet, you position yourself where
you give me and only me a tailwind,
letting me break away gloriously from the pack while they all try desperately
to catch up to my spectacular attack (the fools). The only question is, what will it cost? My
bank account? My computer? My car? My first unborn child? My soul? Name it, and
you shall have it.
While
my bank account is not much of an offering, my computer has photos of Beyoncé
in Iphoto, therefore making it a priceless item. No one can pass up Beyoncé.
Not even you, Crosswinds.
Sincerely,
A
Whitman Cyclist
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