You focus on something, you look towards it, you hit it. It’s a straight-forward concept and a trap that catches a lot of new riders out. You see an animal, an oil slick or a stopped car, you look towards it and your head shifts to face it directly. Your shoulders move in turn as do your arms which hold the bars. Unless you catch yourself and look back to the road, before you know it you’ve steered straight into the very obstacle you wanted to avoid.
The idea of borrowing money has always grated against my mind like fingernails grate across a blackboard. I’ve paid for cars, furniture, holidays, motorcycles, all with cash in hand. The idea of being obliged to hold a job down, to be routine, to be chained to a wheel as a result of my own impatience or greed is something I spent many years going to great lengths to avoid. But as if I had never tried at all, here I am at the bottom of a great pit of debt to which I am confined until I have slowly, slowly worked my way out through the menial humdrum of the suburban cycle.
Now I am in no need of pity or sympathy, I wouldn’t even go so far as to give either to myself. It’s just the suffocating irony of the situation, that I, for all of my efforts and desires have ended up in precisely the kind of rut I wanted to avoid. It’s worthy of a morbid chuckle if anything is.
However a small ray of hope in the vast darkness that is my life is that in about eleven days time I hope to be given a golden ticket to start using my right arm again as normal. Most profoundly that means that I can ride again, which is something that has been sorely missing from me these last three months, leaving a gaping black hole somewhere in my chest for the thing that makes my heart beat aloud and floods my veins with life like nothing else. A part of me is missing, and I long for it entirely. There is an outside chance that the doctors will advise me that things are not so rosy and that there is worse to come, but I live in eternal hope (it is hard to get by without it some days).
There is yet another reload this weekend (sometimes it feels like they never end), and although I’ll be of little use without the capacity to life heavy items or partake of other such two-armed grunt work, I will get to spend some time with a bunch of weirdos that I tend to call my friends.
Between now and then however I will work at getting another haircut. The hair has refused to go down without a fight and as such has grown at an atrocious rate since my shave a mere month ago. It shall bow before the power of the almighty clippers once more, lest it break completely out of control. Such things must be done, as with this unbound growth I am starting to look like some kind of hippie.