Writing has been hard lately. Perhaps this is because life has been hard lately. Writing is a highly embodied process for me, and at the moment being connected to my body is a difficult thing. There’s lots of helpless emotions brewing and processing, sometimes bursting from my body in unexpected and sometimes embarrassing ways. I’m fairly certain my attempt to keep these explosions under control is part of what has made my writing so stilted and paltry lately.

At the same time, another strange change has occurred that I only recently became aware of. In the past, when I was upset, I ran. I found that I couldn’t cry and run at the same time, which brought a sense of clarity and control. Though I would never necessarily work out my problems on the run, I would often feel better at the end with endorphins and exhaustion coursing through my veins.

Lately this failsafe method of body-mind-emotion confluence hasn’t been working so well. In fact, running has elicited more breakdowns that it has helped in recent days.

What has helped is riding the smooth trails of the mountains on my bike. Concentrating on the curves and lines of a just-right technical trail make me exist in the moment with a new confidence that leave me feeling solid. The burning of biking is different than running, but more in line with my bodily needs at the moment.

I’ve yet to determine what this means for my writing. But like biking, I hope that practicing in this new writing-body will also produce comfort.



Sickness has settled into my body, specifically into the top of my neck, nose, and throat. I can barely have a conversation without exhaustion, let alone contemplate a real mountain bike ride. With my balance off as it is, I’d be lucky to make it down even the mildest downhill today. At least that’s how I feel.

So I rode to the Performing Arts Center. And watched a brilliant dress rehersal for a comedic symphonic concert tonight. The seat massaged my neck if I slouched and gently rotated my head. Heaven.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Around town

1 mile


My body said enough. Six days of riding, one night of drinking, and two hours of sleep puts me in rather unpleasant altered states of consciousness. I’m not quite sure how I managed to ride up Slate River Road to Rick’s house to watch the Tour de France at 7 a.m., but somehow I managed. And got back without crashing horrendously, despite my body’s protests and severe unbalance. A “real” ride will have to wait.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Slate River Road to Rick’s House

4 miles