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.

Cycling - 1 of 2 or so.

Photo: www.duluth-classic.com/images/lakewood.jpg

Yesterday was a very productive day outside, away from the computer and things as there really wasn’t much to do in the job search. I’m waiting for a call for a hospitality industry job soon after a second interview. I did throw my translation skills into the Craigslist ring.

“Our company has a 2 hour long video that needs to be translated from English to Spanish. We have a transcript (word document) that is approximately 17,000 words. We are looking for someone that is fluent in both English and Spanish (reading, writing and speaking) that preferably has a background in the construction/landscaping industry. The video is an instructional video on how to install a paver driveway. The video will also be provided as a reference. If this sounds like something you are capable of doing please send an email with the following info:

Amount of time needed: [30 Hours] Cost: [$750] Resume with translator experience [provided upon request to anyone reading].”

I collected some peat moss for my bonsai trees, did some labor in the shop, staked out some trees, and managed to go out on my bike.

There’s a brief sensation of a heightened awareness as the blood subsides in the back of my throat after I complete the climb up the Strand Road hill. It feels good, atop the hill and saddle I transcend both and am out of body; exertion pumps through me. I feel the burn of the lactic acid in my legs. I smile at oncoming traffic, yes, I am having fun, and gather myself for the next descent.

The problem with riding in Duluth at this time of year: it is always that 5-8 degrees cooler than Minneapolis with the wind blowing; for some reason when I would come home after two months of riding in the Twin Cities during college that temperature change would always throw a second thought into riding … plus breaking from a banker’s work schedule. I find it demotivating to ride 30 miles when you can’t quite break a sweat and when you do, something comes along to ice you back up again.

The job search (what else to write about?) process from a non-traditional approach: I had just finish bombing down Glenwood Street, though with a stiff headwind I was not capable of reaching 45-50 mph as per usual, stick-my-tongue-out-at-oncoming-traffic-because-I’m-having-this-much-fun-type speed.

I get a call from a woman at Mid-West Expansion Group. She laughs out loud at the fact that I was on a bike ride and was still capable of answering the phone on one of the longer descents in Duluth. Breathless, I pull over and have a conversation with her. Job opportunities find me in a natural state. No time for preparation, I’m rolling with it. Afterwards I clip back in. Cold cold cold in Lester Park and I’m finally warmed up again at the top of the Lester River Road. Part of my problem was dehydration, the Two Red Bulls I drank during the day before, to ends unknown, make me so thirsty on this hilly ride.

More writing on job search and cycling as they come to conscious.