Saturday.
"It's a Bittersweet Symphony, this life…"
Ashcroft's voice swoons softly from the clock radio on the desk.
Roll over and extend your arm over, fumbling with the buttons to silence him.
Fuzzy without contacts—can barely make out the numbers.
5:15 AM.
Lift the covers, letting in the cold air filling the room.
The bags are in the corner, unmoved from the night before.
Sleepily pacing the floor, gathering your things, not thinking about anything yet.
Jeans and heavy jacket slip on, the big shiny belt buckle clinks as it locks into place.
The usual routine, contacts, aftershave—the phone and iPod come off the charger, the wallet goes in the pocket.
Stumbling down the stairs through the early morning darkness, nothing stirs.
The tall shadow lurks in the corner by the door; you grab the package as the deadbolts slide open.
The door creaks loudly. Damn thing. Still no sign of life in the house.
Walk with the bags down the concrete, steps whispering quietly, the breath condenses heavily in front of your eyes.
A blinding light flashes in your dreary eyes, the spotlight in front.
Continue down the path to the street.
The industrial streetlight pours down like a diseased rain onto the bags, casting hard shadows on the street.
It's cold, very cold.
Headphones in.
Ashcroft continues, his mournful tone carrying over a beautiful masterpiece of strings.
Stare up into the sky; it stares back with a wicked, infinite blackness.
Few stars pierce the dark against the poisonous orange mass of light bleeding into the heavens.
It's 5:30 AM now.
Waiting to hear the rumble, the sound of freedom, the resonance of escape.
5:35 AM.
5:40.
You can hear it in the distance. It's coming.
Around the corner, the monster roars, the intense light of its eyes penetrates your own.
The deep, throaty tone growls powerfully as the beast stops under the light.
Step out from under the glow, and lift the bags into the back.
Although it's frigid cold, the Jeep has no top. It adds to the experience, to the coming adrenaline buildup.
Lift your foot, grasping the skeleton of the brute as you muscle yourself up the four feet separating the ground from the heat of its belly.
Richard has changed his tune.
"It's just a change in me, something in my liberty…"
An Urban Hymn.
He echoes into the distance, into the past, into the future.
The clutch lets out, the beast rolls away into the icy darkness.
The roads are empty, the lights flicking mechanically from red to green.
Nothing moves, nothing breathes.
The wheels revolve faster, gaining momentum as the mass of metal careens onto the freeway.
More stars are detectable, lighting the dead suburban landscape under the black moonless vastness.
The windmills gyrate involuntarily as you climb the first hill of many for the day, the grass swaying silently in the soft, frosty breeze.
Rolling on, music now hums from the crisp speakers overhead, the thump of the woofer rumbling through the frame.
Searing air from the combustion mixes with the coldness of the open atmosphere, creating a warm vortex behind the single pane of glass.
Crossing the vast spans of valley, the hills appear, with the godly white mountains in the distance.
It is brighter now.
The sky tinted pink, the fiery ball, the first element of life, rises over the distant peaks.
The curve of the planet bends the rays of heat and light, giving it a blood red color.
Blood red.
Down the country road, the cows shuffle around the fields, gazing at the traveling silver thing with mild interest.
The Verve continues: "Gotta love that'll never die…no, no…"
"I'm a Lucky Man…"
Clumps of snow begin to appear on the side of the road.
Clumps of white gold.
Clumps of ecstasy.
Sun's coming up.
The music gains volume.
The adrenaline is building.
Here we go again.
Up to the mountains.
Away from the city, the mass of concrete.
Away from the past.
Away from the future.
Off the grid.
Here we go again.
This is now, this is the present.
This is the reason for living.
Because skiing is a way of life.
Current Mood: Groggy
Listening To: "Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve
