Weed means nothing to me, but oh thank God, how it fuels the passions of distortion in others. The heavy riffs, the puff, the inhale, the singe of the fuel, the cloud from the composer’s lips creates a new soundtrack for my next interval. The shorter my interval the more intense and heavier the chords need to be, with my quest for motivation, mayhem is the only thing that pushes me to my full commitment. Denser, more wha-wha, a blitz of drums, please. My need steps across the line and I have to get more from the music. I pull out all the stops, and go to that small island of Japan, to visit BORIS, one of its crazy giants of sound, shimano’s nemesis, the loudest, distorted propelling mayhem.
I dreamed last night that I was tied to the rock and the birds came.
When I was rinding my bike to where I was going to do my workout, I saw the birds again. They did not mock me or laugh, they ate, ignoring me. I got to work, and the music did its job, and now I am a bit faster, a bit tougher, and moving a step forward in being prepared for my cross racing this year.
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