Barrel of Monkeys

I am trying to work up some enthusiasm. I should be happy. The nasty virus that brought me to the brink of tears is gone. Tomorrow is gateway day. I will drive WF to the Central Washington sunshine and race Saturday morning. Yet, for reasons that may or may not be revealed (not because I don’t want to share them but because I don’t completely understand them as yet), I am anxious, nervous and a bit sad. it is Thursday morning at 0605.

There remains the usual check list of things to do. Clean the bikes, create a FOR SALE sign for the Orbea, re-rig the Go-Pro camera mount on LMM (Little Miss Mirthy, my road bike that is now doubling as race rig), patch a couple of rips in my old wetsuit. I am choosing to wear the old one because the DeSoto two-piece, itself now almost twenty years old, is just too hard to strip. That may somewhat explain the anxious issue. WF, Whitey Ford, my ivory custom Ford Transit Connect is ready to go needing only to be packed, loaded and stocked with race gear and camping equipment. ETD is ten, with ETA around fifteen hundred tomorrow. I need to text Stan and update. I haven’t seen my old pal since 1981, thirty-eight years. That may be the nervous part.

I sent an introductory memorandum out yesterday, in proposal form, regarding the proposed purchase of the Methow Valley property and its subsequent use as a ‘base-camp’ for bicycle trips and tours. I thought that it, despite the informal bullet-point formatting, was a clear invitation to join me in a LLC start-up for the bargain price of ten thousand dollars. They only thing I didn’t include was a money-back guarantee. Investing in property is about as low-risk as a limited liability gets, still the quick initial response I was seeking brought crickets in surround-sound silence. This, coupled with our sweet neighborhood dog peacefully transitioning via the vet’s euthanasia needle on Tuesday night, could be the issues behind my melancholy.

I have been here before. I am no stranger to anxiety, uncertainty or sadness. The sadness is the hardest for me. I can almost always brush away fear and doubt by a simple re-set of my current consciousness and attitude. I have had plenty of practice and, truth be known, pretty good at instant recognition and subsequent attitude change. But sadness always seems to want to linger as if seeking some deeper understanding, like a blues riff waiting for the adjacent lyric to adequately demonstrate the power of pain or the value in suffering. It is not penance. It is not self-flagellation or punishment for past regressions. Truthfully the only sins I commit are those of not sinning at more prolific levels. At this point I have zero desire to be either a sinner or a saint.

I simply seek the balance of experience. To demonstrate mastery over the fear and move gracefully into the unknown with an open heart and enthusiastic, joyous exertion that only comes from meaningful adventure and a flowing partnership with the universe at large. I do not believe that is asking too much.

Mistakes will surely be made, turns taken away from the primary direction, and there will be blood. Still, with a firm commitment to the living of life, the taking of risks and with a sense of wonder that the laws of attraction provide, one can, with little prodding, see all this as about as much fun as a barrel of primates.

There, that’s better.