Mixed Sweat

I’ve seen, at twenty miles per hour, a seasonal America, present ten years ago and never noticed. It is a landscape I wish to keep, set in a timeless future farm about to rest with chores done. The pole barn clanks as the steel retracts after a day’s worth of expansion. Cool grasses and warm, smooth pavement box in the acreage on a windless evening. Quiet country traffic seldom meddles in the stillness of sunset at our backs. A woman stands in the garden and watches the carbon create itself into greens, reds and leafy foliage. She smells the fresh vegetables developing amongst fertilizer.

Farther down the road we pass smells of decaying animals in the ditch and taste the mixed sweat from cycling caps caked with salt, dripping down onto our faces. Granules of dirt accumulate as a result of drafting the tire of the rider. It is old salt. Old us.

The sweat pours off before the winter solstice passes in a stuffy room. Beads of perspiration form on water bottles and foreheads while watching re-runs of Jeopardy on the trainer. We prepare for springtime and tights and long sleeves.

The light changes with the seasons and direction. Observe the way the light hits the grasses and sunset defines the natural greens and reds in the photo. This light is omnipresent on these evening bike rides, casting tall shadows on all parts of the state. In our faces as we ride briskly West past the beige St. Louis Park water tower. Shadows diminish the intimidating climb up Ramsey Hill. For some reason it doesn’t seem so bad in the setting light on strong lungs.

We callously flaunt our seasoned legs and cadence overtaking other riders, tendons strengthened by miles of America, a case study in self-improvement. Smiling as we ride for the pain, past those struggling on their high-powered, branded lifestyle.