Wednesday, May 26, 2010

"our" memories

There once was a website of which I was a part that asked contributors to associate memories to particular songs. They could be funny or sad or poignant. They closed down their open shop a little while ago and turned into an online magazine, as best I can tell.

In any case, I had a musical memory experience yesterday. I'm not quite sure if it's funny, ironic, or (fill-in-the-blank). Reserve judgment until you hear said story.

Musical knowledge required leans towards the country side of things. Travis Tritt has a song called Drift Off to Dream. I used to think that it was a super sweet song, and for the most part it still is. The first verse, however, clues you into the stereotypical lonesome protagonist, alone with his drink at the bar, hopeful for the love yet-to-be.

That was our song. When I say our, I don't mean our in the current sense. She is a past love, one whom I talk to perhaps once a year. Last time we spoke was over the summer. She'd found out that I was engaged and gracefully congratulated me.

Yesterday, I was driving in my car when Drift Off to Dream came on the radio. I couldn't help but laugh because of my destination: the courthouse. The purpose? To get our marriage license. This our is in the present and future tense.

Though she's in my past and I harbor no residual regret or feelings toward her, our song still tugs at my heartstrings. Emotional memories get stored away in a different part of your brain. They are often illogical, and many of mine in Gainesville forced me to leave. I couldn't take seeing reminders of my past when I was trying to move into the future. Those daily reminders of past-tense our memories were more than I could bear at times. It often left me feeling alone in groups of friends, but unlike the lyrics, never with my drink at the bar.

Since I left, I decided to no longer let my past dictate my present happiness. I found happiness within myself and was able to find love to make it grow. I truly couldn't be happier.

When she and I finally met at the courthouse that afternoon, I told her about the song coming on the radio. She and I shared a laugh as we crossed the street to many more to come.

Friday, May 21, 2010

i survived

It wasn't that bad.


Bike to Work Day had me all up in arms with worry. On past trips out on the W & OD, I have to walk up some stretches because the climb is too long, and I'm just not conditioned for it.

Today was no exception. One stretch got me out of the saddle, as it always does. A more seasoned two-wheeler rolled past me and asked, "Everything alright?"

Most of the other cyclists were certainly regulars at the commuting. They were decked out in their matching cycling shorts & jerseys. I couldn't have looked more like an indie kid. I thought fixies were all the rage; turns out, most hipster kids are just glad that you're out on a bike. Messengers will tag you as a poseur if you don't know what you're doing on a fixie.

But I digress.

I pulled into work, a bit out of breath and mildly sweating. Took me 45 minutes, a far cry from the 20 it takes in a car. On the way home, however, I had none of the agita from sitting at stoplights in bumper to bumper traffic. When I crossed over the Beltway, a smug grin spread across my face. Though I had about 6 miles left, at least I was out of gridlock.

I'll keep an eye on the weather more closely. It can only get easier each time I do it, right? I reckon that's the whole goal of the movement: one less car.

bike to work day

In the spirit of Go Big, or Go Home, I'm disregarding most conventional wisdom regarding training for long rides or new sports and riding my bike to work tomorrow.

It should be an easy ride along the Washington & Old Dominion Trail; however, the last time I attempted to ride my bike to Vienna, I had to be peeled off my bike by the chiropractor. This time around, my back is a year healthier, and I've been on a few bike rides since the spring began.

Eight miles-ish. Giving myself an hour to get there. I think I ought to be able to do it. At least I know what I'm getting myself into. Worst case scenario, I hop the Metro to get home. Of course, that means I'll need to push my bike to the station with my tail between my legs.

Tweets from the stop signs? We'll see.