|I miss camping
||[Nov. 4th, 2004|05:51 pm]
|||||The tink tumble tink of the dryer||]|
I think I always harp on that in the spring and fall. Right now the fall crispness reminds me of grudgingly getting out of my warm sleeping bag to go make breakfast, usually oatmeal in last nights cup-o-noodle styrofoam cup, followed by hot chocolate in the same mug. Let me tell you, postmodernist chefs have nothing on the flavor mixing there. Anyway, I'm reminded of a specific biking trip up the Bizz Johnson Trail during which it snowed profusely for an hour or so, making the trail quite fun (i.e. slippery) to bike on. That following morning, the campsite was soo cold . . . (HOW COLD WAS IT?!) It was sooo cold that the eggs were hard-boiled. well, hard-frozen. You had to get so close to the fire to try and be warm that your shoes caught fire. The ride that morning further down the trail was a nippy one, especially since I had lent my anti-gravelrash gloves to some poor kid who had already fucked up his hands somehow. Consider the wind chill fostered on unprotected hands in cold weather on bike handlebars. Savor that coldness in your mind.
And that, my friends, is exactly half as cold as my hands are right now.
I'm going for a fucking jog.