There is a freedom to the bicycle that I sometimes overlook, they way it's quiet. No roar, just the wind in your ears. And on memorial day biking to the state border was a signal, as I would peak hills and then open up a valley below, there are no valleys in mineapolis, no thoughts of the past, of the massive landscape, about how my bike would be able to be used back the, never that feeling in a car, never that open air freedom. That thought turning to the past, more just a thumping of hands upon the wheel to the radio, it's a different nostalgia a shorter one. No tired legs to tell you that you worked, no slight sunburn to say you were exposed in the word. Biking till your legs cry, pushing them like a stubborn child into the bathwater.
Red Ochre is some sort of wonderful rock sprinkled upon the dead of long ago, stoned to death, pot overdose, rocky mountain high colorado.