The sound of a kid's scooter careening along the long, planked sidewalks of Dawson sounds like distant thunder or a cargo plane echoing off the mountains. I hope I evoke a similarly grand sound as I pedal along.
* * *
I wish my friends – the ones would appreciate the rambling, collapsing bars and their denizens but mostly the landscape (ie hairy-ass downhill rides) – were here to see this place and share in the giddiness of not flying over the bars on trails were you are never not braking.
There is, however, good reason that Chris McCandless is my favourite literary character and failed hero. The truth is I don't need my friends; don't really feel the absence of my attempts at building a community back home. I am happy to ride alone and not share the fear, the cackles of joy as I don't hurtle ass over teakettle down a trail definitely not meant for bikes (or even for hikes).
I am happy to sit by myself all day long, to write and paint (and ride) and think about myself on what constitutes the edge of my known world. I am here to strike it rich and just like the early days of the gold rush, this is something best done alone.
Thankfully my friends already know this about me.
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