There’s a woman married to a cyclist. His dying wish is that she learn to ride. Months pass before she’s at ease on a bike and even then, she falls, she comes dangerously close to death, and the wind is against me—fuck you too, Mother Nature—and this boulder wasn’t here when I hiked this trail last week—fuck you, boulder—and my thighs aren’t there yet—I can only push so much—and I am fighting gravity—I didn’t have a bike when I was a kid—and the pine trees smack me in the face—Go back to the city—and I am dying—my lungs are a vital organ, same as anyone’s—and the clearing isn’t where it was
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