the traces linger

day two. oatmeal and tea in the morning. my tea steeping system is absolutely perfect this year. last summer, on the ride to mexico, i would simply submerge the loose tea in the water and drink, which worked but was far from optimal. the leaves would mush up against my lips, making the drinking experience less enjoyable, as i was constantly spitting the leaves from my mouth. restless sleep at the end of night one. what the hell am i afraid of out there in the woods? perhaps it is simply the product of a healthy imagination, but fear seems to creep in quite easily; as though i have left the door ajar. this is an aspect of my personality? that has bothered me for some time now. i recall last summer a night alone at Mt. Lassen feeling terrified in my tent, thoughts of bears and weirdos, and spiders and mortality on the mind. good lord. nature. oh how our cement world destroys us in so many ways. i should be afraid of San Francisco, not the inverness ridge, miles from "civilization."

so we have breakfast #2 in point reyes station where we sit and write, then ride on. i am forced to shit at a gas station before leaving town, which is a less than great experience. i despise shitting in public {as i imagine many do} for several reasons. first, so many public washrooms are filthy, yesterday being an absolutely perfect example. i spent several minutes "cleaning up" before i could in good conscience rest my ass on the seat, which even then was covered in paper towels. the floor was so filthy, that i was concerned about my shorts touching it. then {as is often the case} the door handle is 'jiggled' several times and i holler out "nope...occupied." as the minutes tick by, i become mildly obsessed with the fact that the people outside waiting, are now certain of the fact that i am shitting, and i then begin to feel remorse for the fact that it will smell awful by the time they enter. this is simply not relaxing. no sir. which is essentially the second problem: the overall lack of privacy. in my old house {how strange to type that} the bathroom upstairs had "shutter doors" which provided visual privacy, but might as well have been a thin sheet of paper for the auditory and psychological privacy provided. i felt like i was sitting at the kitchen table for all intensive purposes. i cannot count the number of times i sat up there running the faucet, fake-coughing, rustling magazine paper, flushing prematurely, etc., so that the housemates might think i was just in there doing something else. why oh why oh why do i do this? what is it about us that makes us afraid of such things? is it our cultures' obsession with privacy and cleanliness? hmmmm. reminds me of the time i had to take a crap in spain while a painter stood a foot away from me painting the ceiling. goddamn. i suppose i overcame it a bit while wandering through europe, but the traces linger.

we then ride on. up through the hills into petaluma. farmhouses and cattle on the roadside. a red barn, faded by the sun, with tattered blue fabric hanging from its sides, catching the wind and mixing in with the sky. old oak trees, littered with lichen and moss, falling like ghosts from its arms. many, many, many, cars, some that honk and others throwing out a supportive and friendly wave. great big salads at whole foods, and a stop at REI where we pick up a few things we've concluded we need after two days. a shower and a bed for the night. a bed which i did not take for granted. heavy slumber. mild sunbrun and tired legs. a sore butt from my riding with a different saddle yesterday, in hopes of alleviating the numbness of my penis. and today, work on the house. we announce today the winner of the marmot letter writing contest. hooray, hooray. congradulations leslie tate, we send out the biggest of love. you can read the letter here,and we will post it on the site just as soon as we overcome a few technical difficulties. onward. day three begins with no bike. coitus interruptus.

Posted by jeff pitcher at June 3, 2004 10:40 AM

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