[TFTTT by contributor Syhalla Bales]
To the south, where the lake meets the tail end of the Oquirrhs, the smooth
waving underbelly of the storm is broken by a swirling, rippling mass. This is
what the underside of the surface of the water looks like just after someone
has cannonballed into a placid pool. The curious scientist in my head begs to
stay and stare at such amazing reactions between air and water, but my primal
sisters clamor again: FLY!
So after a moment I let gravity carry me down the far side of the overpass, and let my mind turn to my day. I mutter curses to myself against large, impersonal companies as I pedal through the suburb. I pass houses and apartments, wistfully wishing these could be home. I take a more direct route than usual today, and once I've left the suburb, head straight up Redwood toward North Temple. My legs spin and spin and spin, and each time I'm tempted to downshift and relax, a flash of lightning catches the corner of my eye. The storm continues to bear down on me, the slow, steady turtle to my frantic circular hopping.
I tap through song after song on my iPod, finding some ironic counterpoints and some epic accompaniments to my predicament. At one point the rhythm of my tires over the joints in the concrete match the rhythm of the music in my ears and I pedal a little harder to stay in time. Another flash as I cut the corner through the parking lot of the KFC, curve into the gas station, and wind through the lids to its underground chambers. Through the trees looking east the sun has left all but the highest peaks looming over the East Bench. It has become a battle merely to see how close to home I can get before the wall of water hits. I know I won't make it all the way.
Halfway to the Gateway, I end up riding next to a skinny grizzled man with a burnt-out cigarette hanging from his mouth. I can only half hear our conversation as the nonsense syllables of the Loco Roco soundtrack tickle my other ear. His bike is just back from the shop he says. It runs smooth he says. It's a little small he says. I can't confirm the rest, but the bike is indeed too small for him. A block from the Gateway, over the tracks, but not into downtown proper, we part ways, abruptly. We almost don't have time to shout goodbye. As I pass under the arch at the midpoint of our little slice of California, the wind hits.
I stop to help some very nice ladies catch and salvage the rapidly escaping cascades of beaded jewelry they’ve displayed for sale across folding tables. It's the sort of stuff you see at every arts and crafts fair from here to doomsday. It's all handmade, and indistinguishable from every other handmade beaded bangle made in the last thirty years. I wonder how any of these people make any money. The gaggle of ladies gabble and cluck like chickens, unsure of which item to shove into the box first. They all agree that none of them saw this coming, and I wonder what the hell they were thinking: I've been fleeing this storm for the last half hour, and you could see it coming long before then. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder about attention and awareness. I become aware that the thought is ironic.
My inner Eve connects to conscious thought once again as the geese get things under control. It's almost here, and I can only outrun it for so much longer. I hop back into the saddle, and restrain the adrenaline driving me to run the slow-moving sheep over. I clear the mall and start the gentle uphill climb to State. The wind fights me the whole way, and begins to turn nippy. Crossing 3rd West, I feel the first hint of wetness. Crossing 2nd West, it's impossible to miss; here comes the rain. Crossing West Temple, the drops get fat and COLD! They find the tiny gap at the top of my sunglasses, and I remove them. Crossing Main Street, the sky opens and the deluge begins. I make it halfway to State when I realize that pedaling is futile. I have to downshift just to keep from going backward. I make it to the overhang outside the Starbucks, and I just try to catch my breath.
I wish I could show you what I saw, how I felt during that
ride home. There's just no way to replicate in words the ominous impending
nature of the clouds rolling in over the lake as I pulled on my gloves and
unlocked my bike. There's no way to make you feel the primal instincts
clamoring in my brain to FLEE while watching the thunderheads roll in. I wish I
had a camera to show you the amazing sight.
From out near the airport you can see for miles in almost all directions. The view stretches south all the way to the Point of the Mountain when the haze is gone. And the suburbs crawl away north until they, too, are lost in the drift of our human patina. To the east, the range crawls in close, and I can see the layers of ages as machines break down the rock for filler material. To the west, lightning flashes. Here. There. Here again.
From out near the airport you can see for miles in almost all directions. The view stretches south all the way to the Point of the Mountain when the haze is gone. And the suburbs crawl away north until they, too, are lost in the drift of our human patina. To the east, the range crawls in close, and I can see the layers of ages as machines break down the rock for filler material. To the west, lightning flashes. Here. There. Here again.
A bank of darkness with fingers reaching out for me looms
over the lake, drawing up water to dump on the city. As I start spinning my
wheels for home, a drive deep down cries RUN! HIDE! At the top of the overpass,
I pause for a moment to survey the view with no obstructions. In one direction
sun glints off distant windows and snow still clinging to the higher peaks
surrounding the city; in the other is the most amazing thunderhead I've ever
seen.
It’s deep pewter grey with streaks of yellow-white where two banks of air are slamming into each other. It is tectonic movement echoed in suspended water. One bank swoops up, flying over the reaching fingers of the falling colder air. The tendrils look like the foam at the top of the crest of a wave, and I realize with near certainty that I will be soaked to the bone by the time I get home. There is no possibility in my mind of outrunning this storm. I blow on the dying embers of the hope that the storm will wend its way north, but my ancient ancestral mothers whisper to my instincts: I am wrong.
It’s deep pewter grey with streaks of yellow-white where two banks of air are slamming into each other. It is tectonic movement echoed in suspended water. One bank swoops up, flying over the reaching fingers of the falling colder air. The tendrils look like the foam at the top of the crest of a wave, and I realize with near certainty that I will be soaked to the bone by the time I get home. There is no possibility in my mind of outrunning this storm. I blow on the dying embers of the hope that the storm will wend its way north, but my ancient ancestral mothers whisper to my instincts: I am wrong.
So after a moment I let gravity carry me down the far side of the overpass, and let my mind turn to my day. I mutter curses to myself against large, impersonal companies as I pedal through the suburb. I pass houses and apartments, wistfully wishing these could be home. I take a more direct route than usual today, and once I've left the suburb, head straight up Redwood toward North Temple. My legs spin and spin and spin, and each time I'm tempted to downshift and relax, a flash of lightning catches the corner of my eye. The storm continues to bear down on me, the slow, steady turtle to my frantic circular hopping.
I tap through song after song on my iPod, finding some ironic counterpoints and some epic accompaniments to my predicament. At one point the rhythm of my tires over the joints in the concrete match the rhythm of the music in my ears and I pedal a little harder to stay in time. Another flash as I cut the corner through the parking lot of the KFC, curve into the gas station, and wind through the lids to its underground chambers. Through the trees looking east the sun has left all but the highest peaks looming over the East Bench. It has become a battle merely to see how close to home I can get before the wall of water hits. I know I won't make it all the way.
Halfway to the Gateway, I end up riding next to a skinny grizzled man with a burnt-out cigarette hanging from his mouth. I can only half hear our conversation as the nonsense syllables of the Loco Roco soundtrack tickle my other ear. His bike is just back from the shop he says. It runs smooth he says. It's a little small he says. I can't confirm the rest, but the bike is indeed too small for him. A block from the Gateway, over the tracks, but not into downtown proper, we part ways, abruptly. We almost don't have time to shout goodbye. As I pass under the arch at the midpoint of our little slice of California, the wind hits.
I stop to help some very nice ladies catch and salvage the rapidly escaping cascades of beaded jewelry they’ve displayed for sale across folding tables. It's the sort of stuff you see at every arts and crafts fair from here to doomsday. It's all handmade, and indistinguishable from every other handmade beaded bangle made in the last thirty years. I wonder how any of these people make any money. The gaggle of ladies gabble and cluck like chickens, unsure of which item to shove into the box first. They all agree that none of them saw this coming, and I wonder what the hell they were thinking: I've been fleeing this storm for the last half hour, and you could see it coming long before then. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder about attention and awareness. I become aware that the thought is ironic.
My inner Eve connects to conscious thought once again as the geese get things under control. It's almost here, and I can only outrun it for so much longer. I hop back into the saddle, and restrain the adrenaline driving me to run the slow-moving sheep over. I clear the mall and start the gentle uphill climb to State. The wind fights me the whole way, and begins to turn nippy. Crossing 3rd West, I feel the first hint of wetness. Crossing 2nd West, it's impossible to miss; here comes the rain. Crossing West Temple, the drops get fat and COLD! They find the tiny gap at the top of my sunglasses, and I remove them. Crossing Main Street, the sky opens and the deluge begins. I make it halfway to State when I realize that pedaling is futile. I have to downshift just to keep from going backward. I make it to the overhang outside the Starbucks, and I just try to catch my breath.
I. am. soaked.
The rain shows no sign of relenting, so I duck into the warm, dry Starbucks for a small hot cocoa with a shot of hazelnut flavoring. They're closing soon, but the baristas are nice. A poor grizzled man is working every angle he can to stay inside. The guy behind the counter: polite but persistent. I finish my drink, pull on my soaking gloves and brace myself to go back out into the rain. At least it has let up enough that I can see more than ten feet up the sidewalk.
The first puddle I ride through soaks both shoes, and I give up trying to avoid them. There is no longer any part of me dry enough to concern myself with. Now I am simply hanging on long enough to get home. I just hope I don't chafe too much before I get there. Heading south is fine, but each block east is a fight against the wind. I head as far east as I must, and then settle into the last few blocks of my ride. Two thirds of the way past the park I remember that I have a salad in the fridge and ice cream in the freezer. My day gets a little bit better. I'm still soaking wet, and a little chilly, and annoyed that I'm going through all of this for my stupid job, but at least now Ben and Jerry are singing me home.
The rain shows no sign of relenting, so I duck into the warm, dry Starbucks for a small hot cocoa with a shot of hazelnut flavoring. They're closing soon, but the baristas are nice. A poor grizzled man is working every angle he can to stay inside. The guy behind the counter: polite but persistent. I finish my drink, pull on my soaking gloves and brace myself to go back out into the rain. At least it has let up enough that I can see more than ten feet up the sidewalk.
The first puddle I ride through soaks both shoes, and I give up trying to avoid them. There is no longer any part of me dry enough to concern myself with. Now I am simply hanging on long enough to get home. I just hope I don't chafe too much before I get there. Heading south is fine, but each block east is a fight against the wind. I head as far east as I must, and then settle into the last few blocks of my ride. Two thirds of the way past the park I remember that I have a salad in the fridge and ice cream in the freezer. My day gets a little bit better. I'm still soaking wet, and a little chilly, and annoyed that I'm going through all of this for my stupid job, but at least now Ben and Jerry are singing me home.
LOVE!
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