Went out in a sudden downpour. Skin drenched, bubbles of ocean rain speckle my arms, my hair, my face. The wind as I rush by doesn’t dry me but makes me chill. The air is still thick and warm, but I am cool as I pedal in my hardest gear, testing new wires. Installation was easy and the bike shop was friendly and we talked about the Chuckanuts and the rain, of all things.
I met a stranger neighbor mid-loop and we talked about the big island loop, and I was told to know where I ought to go. This is the sentiment I feel, again and again.
Oh pacific trapped island people, you huddle close together against the ocean and the cloud-topped mountain peaks. You lie in wet valleys and on simmering soft summer sand. You see the selfish spirits of the world encroaching and you know you have nowhere to go. It’s no wonder you feel closed.
I am not testing your doors, only waiting on your shore. I only want to learn, to love, to see.
I mean you no harm and I bring no weapons in my hands and no guns on my hip. Only this knife to cut wires so I, like you, can run another course. But we run in different ways, and that’s okay.
You are island, I am big land bay.
We share fog and rain but we diverge in the length of the night and day. We run winter in different routes. I have less time and you have less cold.
But we are not so different, drenched in the downpour — as we thought. I bow to you as I pass and I see you smile.