The most disgusting thing about riding my bike along the country roads near my house is not the splash in the face that accompanies the semi zooming past on oil soaked asphalt on a misty day. Nope. It's the constant encounters with road kill. Carcass after carcass just splattered in my path. An entire flippin deer that was luckily a few yards away in the ditch (though still close enough for his half open eyes to creep me the fuck out.) To many possums to count and worst of all, flies zooming around someone's kitty. Yick.
Every few days when I decide to escape the chaos of my unstructured life by scooting down the road on my rusted hand-me-down bike, I get to deal with death. I'm torn between mourning the animals' sad demises, and taking a Darwinist approach. Because seriously, if you can't figure out from all the dead bodies lying around that that unnatural line of black rock running through your back yard is a death trap, well, that's some shitty luck, but maybe your genes just aren't up to surviving the modern world.
The not icky part of my biking experience is that every time I huff up the hill that kicks my ass, it kicks my ass a little less. In fact, this last time, it increased my heart rate so little, I was inspired to take a (very short) run after my bike ride.
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