Getting there. Is a process. A game of millimeters. Futzing for ten days. Closer. Until another millimeter gets in my head. I’m rolling now. Some thirteen hours in the book. There is no book. Things feel right. No lines to cross. Yet.
A new bicycle is like that pair of shoes you bought. And shlepped home. They’re so damn smooth and glossy. You take the sole and rub it along your cheeks. Don’t you? I do. Then you put them on. But on the carpet only.
The first step makes it real. Like leaving the driveway and turning left. Some small scratches. Maybe drop the chain on that carbon crank. I don’t. But you have. And the first time you roll over the gravel and hear that rock to paint sound.
All This By Hand