150 words about 40 miles at Sumatanga
With the right turn, the last turn before the finish, cross wind turns to our nose, asphalt to chip seal, and the road cants up, the turned up corner of a vicious grin, and the road disintegrates beneath our wheels, chips pinging and plunking our down tubes as if dried black beans spun from a topless blender. The faded postcard-sized flag on the mailbox confirms the wind’s direction and strength, and the growing growling gap to the wheel ahead, confirms the cost of my distraction, of describing suffering instead of circumscribing it, of writing before riding. The farmer, touching a greasy spot on his straw hat with a greasy finger, grinning wanly, overall straps straining, points up the road. I grin, considering the meaning of cant, look down at the road, a slow blur like a tight flock against a gray sky.