June 12, 2005

Where are the rains we were promised?

I biked towards the end of town at 7 o’clock this morning to marshal KW’s Classic bike race. The morning smelled like rain and the overcast sky was violently blue and ready to burst. I wanted to see bikers struggle against the rain — cold, hard bodies pumping madly towards the finish line.

But the rain never came. Instead, I sat on the same street corner for eight hours and nearly melted in the heat while pointing the way with my red flag and safety vest. Once or twice I even attempted to do a rain dance.

Instead of rain, I got bikers. From where I sat at the bottom of a hill I saw endless waves of testosterone on fast machines rush straight towards me, and then suddenly turn when they reached the bottom. I could smell their collective sweat and feel the enormous tension in their bikes.

A swarm of cyclists produces a soft metallic murmur as it rushes by. The sounds and smells are orgasmic, and the heat makes it all seem surreal. And I took pictures.