Crash-aholic

The acrid smell of burning flesh penetrates the haze and floods my nostrils. The realization of what is taking place seems to take forever. Not until I have cleared the asphalt and the gravel side do I realize I have crashed. My hands float upwards as I am still sliding to my collar bones. There is a giant bulge on my right shoulder but that is luckily a predisposition from an earlier clash with gravity. I cannot control the smile of shock that erupts across my face nor the urge to almost whoop for joy. Have I come out of the gnarliest crash I have ever encountered unscathed? Back to the burning flesh, back to reality. My adrenal glands are merely secreting a whimsical delay for the inevitable pains I will experience. No matter. I am on top of the world. 45 miles per hour, a blowout, a reintroduction to being alive. I haven't felt this alive in months. Pushing the limit always has a regression back to the realities of your human existence at one point or the other. Whether skiing a slope greater than 45 degrees, going so fast on a mountain bike that your eyes are watering through your sunglasses or sliding across warm pavement on a hill in the middle of no where, your sense of self is heightened with every movement and breath. As I care for my wounds I am reduced to infancy in the pains manifested by roadrash. I grit my teeth through the pain and cannot help but think about my next adventure, my next challenge, my next painful experience that will help shape my mind for the right protocol to enact the next time. Maybe some time off the bike and in the mountains will achieve the clarity that I desire with my mind and my saddle sores. Never stop pushing the limits, and never stop moving. Death to stagnation.

~Get out there and ride that thing~