My domicile overrun with 'tween females in period dress, I sought my solace in the woods surrounding Lake Higgins late this afternoon. It was, symphonic. Aside from my late-night keyboard sessions, nothing clears my head like a little singletrack. Hunched over the handlebars in nothing less than a trance, I rocket across root-laden ravines and hiccupping hillocks - my eyes unfocused as I hammer along on instinct and inertia. Late day shadows conspire with freshly fallen leaves to hide stumps and rocks that would surely topple me were I to stop and think about them. But I don't. I don't think about anything as I approach the level of euphoria some folk loiter on street corners to score.
But a most disturbing thing happened on the way to nirvana. Eerily billowing shapes danced on the periphery; white shapes sticking in the corners of my eye. I ignored it at first, chalking it up to my cyclists' high ... that or some residual brain mirage leftover from one too many late nights spent in the Emerald City. But it stopped just short of hallucination. Instead I was left with a nagging sense of incongruency as roots, wheel and sweat filled my vision. Standing in the saddle, I pumped the pedals and hurtled over the next rise - startling fox and fowl with my sudden appearance. Overhead, a squirrel rolled her eyes at my forty year old physique, before scampering down over a half-chewed skeleton swaying in the breeze.
Skeleton. Half-chewed. In the breeze. The image floated there in my brain-pan for a minute before the implication drifted down to ankle-level. When it did, I picked up even more speed, putting on a display of ass and elbows not seen in these parts since those nudist hippies staged a most unsightly triathalon. Now, I ain't skeered easily. Lackadaisical by nature, I'm quite adept at ignoring politicians, producers and even the paranormal. But something about severed heads and other body parts deep in the woods really stripped my gears and I shot through the forest deep in the grip of a Blair Witch flashback. Only after punching through said foliage did I dare stop and look behind me - at which point I saw the sign advertising the haunted trail starting at dusk...
By the way, does fecal matter wash out of Lycra?