all i do is miss things these days

the heart lunges.

the center of this man, beneath skin and bone, seems to be growing by the hour. the fastest growing thing there is, it moves as ice melts. the wings of a hummingbird. the pulling in of breath. air. there are angels and other eternal flying things, spinning around inside of me. there are no words, no thoughts or metaphors, that can convey this love. there are no hands gentle enough, no fingers with the perfect grasp. it is the missing of her and the longing for her. it is the collection of hours out here, spinning these wheels up these hills, into this wind, past these other peoples' lives. past the houses and dreams, the children in the yards. it is the slow procession of hours, the counting of days, the cars going by so fast, that make me ache ever more. the love that swallows the road, but chokes now and then, as she is still so far away.

i lay in my tent at night with my left hand clutching the right, imagining that it is her i hold. my arms, heavy and light in the same instant, feel confused without her there. a lack of gravity.

so we have pedaled and pedaled. i have been searching for a moment to write my half of the story, but the balance of time has shifted. my heart seems to be pushing my legs, with great force, as i cannot bear this distance from her. i spent the last week {?} celebrating and acknowledging all of the warmth that tumbled in. she and i are so filled with joy. we revel in it, bask in it, bathe in it. it is the most beautiful thing that has ever happened in the world. i believe this. and while i have moments of complete despair, a complete unravelling, the falling apart of thread, i somehow find it in me to keep pedaling. somehow.

but the despair. oh, the despair. the despair comes from the missing, the endlessness of the longing. the feeling of helplessness, that i cannot move to her any faster. oh, but you can jefferson, you can.

i write to you now, from Gunnison, Colorado. and i've a million thoughts, but so little time. the days have been big ones. long ones. we left the desert just after the last bit of writing, and my soul rejoices still at the small towns and the people. the cars going by, some that yell "fuck you," and others that thrust hands to sky with exhaltation. the bike lanes are narrow, and the gravel abundant.

we were in monticello utah, and then dolores, colorado, and then telluride, colorado, and then montrose, and now here. there were three more truck rides for jefferson while mike rode the hills alone. there was more sickness that kept the legs from running. there was food that would not stay in me for more than an hour, and there was a day off in telluride, the most beautiful of places.

but the days all blur and spin into themselves gracelessly. clumsily.
wooden-legedly.

oh, but these wooden legs can ride. today, in mere moments, we will begin the trek up over the highest peak yet. monarch pass, resting in the mountains at 11,400 feet, a gradual 30 mile climb, and then a gain of nearly four thousand feet in ten miles. good god. but then, we coast. yes, my dear readers, today mike schwartz and i will cross the continental divide. we will crest the top of the mountain, and descend for nearly fifty miles, taking us tonight {fingers crossed} to a small town called cotopaxi, where we will break off and head for colorado springs. and then denver. and then nebraska. a world without hills.

in some way, as i think incessantly of keri, the bicycle becomes irrelevant. simply a place where i store my thoughts all day. i currently listen to rafael riquini, and miss my guitars. sometimes, it seems all i do i miss things these days. and that, my friends, is the challenge for jeff pitcher. the moment. how do i live in the moment, when i so long for another moment? how and where do i find the patience to await her arms. how do i live now? these are big questions. as big as mountains, but not as big as love. not even close.

i thank you all so, for your well wishes. i have never been so thrilled and excited about anything in my life. for after all, what else is there really? what else is there?

Posted by jeff pitcher at July 14, 2004 09:15 AM

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