2400 neon sign

 

mavic orange

7.7.2002 | Forth

I want to remember the earth carbonated with illegal fireworks. It was crazy and unexpected. We fleeing the country and the war exploding all around us. Our narrow escape, which sets this year apart from last.

And waking up at the 2400, the kind of cheap motel I like. This one recommended by Peter, a tenant with a kindred aesthetic sense. The funny little buildings and their real plastic trees. The neon sign.

We biked around the whole city, which I've wanted to do since last year.

Last year, we were here.

I'm celebrating the first year throughout the second one; I'm celebrating the ease of its existence. There's no cognitive friction (Denyes, 2002), and no emotional friction either. The whole thing is well-oiled, its momentum effortless. The rush is that deepening in the chest when the accelerator gently gives way to propulsion, and you're flying.

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Then a 70-mile training ride with Pam around the lake and Mercer Island. It was not difficult but I was tired at the end. I wouldn't have done that last twenty, but she pushed me and it was fine. On my own I always do the bare minimum. It might be laziness, or economy—why overtrain? Overstudy? Overachieve?

Many of my friends are overachievers. They train, study, plan months in advance. And they are the best at what they do.

But I wait until the last minute to commit to anything: a race, a ride, school. As a result, I don't prepare, but just wing it. And I get by because I'm smart and agile. But I pay for it. Scrambling to get all the shit together at the last minute is stressful and scary through the fog of unpreparedness.

I'll get through next week's ride. But I probably won't get into grad school if I wait until the last minute.

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