I don't mind riding in the humid summer heat of Philadelphia.  I just try to measure my effort.  As if nursing my old AMC Gremlin along, windows down, hot air smashing in.  Watch the temperature gauge, and hoping and trying to keep it out of the red.  That once it is too hot, you'r done, for a long bit. Happy Birthday today to Marcel Duchamp, and to his ability to make me wonder.  I imagined he had a love of cycling, and knew a bit about suffering out on a ride in the sun.  The table on our porch, on it I have waiting, to greet my return, from my summer ride, a cooler of ice cold seltzer, a towel, and by it a chair.  Just to sit.  And let the cooking finish.
I've seen a couple of new riders out there, hammering along, I mean at a real good clip, 225+ watts, railing at maybe 23mph, for a long bit, 10+'s miles, and on flat pedals, an old bike.  I can't wait till the end of their effort, to almost give my applause, as I pull up along aside them, and they all seem to turn to me and have a smile, I say "man you were a crushing it!" and we both roll on.

I wish that this could be memographed, or piratedly xeroxed at kinkos, after hours, cut up and pasted in a zine, then probably it'd have some kind of creedence, and mean something more, and positive enough.

I wish that every person in Montgomery Co. went to a bike shop and bought a bike.  and That when I went to George's on Monday nights to drink beers with him, Anthony, Erin, and whatever other guest invited to the outdoor back porch.  That Anthony and George's eyeballs would be bugged out, and I'd see dirt so deep down in the skin of their hands it can't be washed off.  That the little common touch spots, the top of a pant pocket, or center of the t-shirt where they'd wipe the stress and sweat off, is black of old bike oil.  From selling and fixing bikes busy all day Monday at the bike shop.

Just a bit more.
There is something to falling asleep with a fan on high, and it's hot, that I like.

Cheers friend, enjoy the summer heat.

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