Getting up to go back.
It’s almost clear, not quite worth all of the time, effort and blood but it’s not my accounting that matters, not a line item that’ll pencil out into any coherent justifiable number. It’s just what completes, quiets and sedates the head enough to function another 167 hours, that one hour makes every other challenge, argument (oops, debate) worth the mishigas.
Instead, outside of that hour nothing fits, it would all pile up and leave a heap in its place. Without it less than 1% is wasted, too much to lose, too little to not miss. That hour means the world, a holiday I work the rest of the hours in the week to take.
This was in the middle of the road, just kind of left there after breakfast. All the meat and offal gone. Not sure who left it but clearly they were finished with him.
I find it violent and beautiful: You’ve got to suffer in a bike race. And as soon as you think you’ve suffered as much as you can, you end up suffering a little more. And you look around, and there’s someone who hurts even worse — and they’re doing better than you. It’s very humbling. You’re out…