My mind races, haunted by thoughts about death, about being un-alive, about graves, heaven, and the fact that my days are ordained, numbered, as are the hairs on my head. A therapist might call the thoughts obsessive. They are definitely intrusive. I wish it wasn't the case, but I think about death a lot, at…
Joy. Ride.
About seventeen months ago, I stood in my garage looking up at my bike. It hung from the ceiling on a hook Ken had installed. His bike was hanging next to mine. A police officer had returned his bike at some point. My memory of the timing is fuzzy. Was it that night, that horrible…
Dirt Road Diary 