A new form

The day started beautiful, sunny. The ride was easy. I took O'connor pass to Dingle. The mountains looked misty. As I began the climb, the heavens opened up. The trek became harder and harder as I became more and more soaked. The sheep watched me. The fog rolled in, not over, not under, but in, in everything. The rain is beautiful, cleansing, scary. All is dangerous. I have a stareoff with a sheep. The signs tell me to turn back. All is changing. I feel as if I am passing through clouds, the fog,mist, and rain riding through the air, whipping past the trees like condensation over the wings of an aeroplane. Man is something to be overcome. The wind is very strong. I have to aim my bike towards the left in order to stay in the middle of the road. I am quite high up. The elements can rule me. But something transcends through, surmounting upon all of this. Something prays for downhills. The downhill is even worse. I whisk down for several k's, hands constantly on the breaks. I cannot stop thinking of death, of flying off the ever-twisting edge of the cliff. Then I bask in the pain of the rain as it slashes at my face, in the feeling of the fear itself, in the wet puddles which sploosh up each time i put weight on one of my sogging boots. It all becomes very real. I sail into Dingle, and have trouble locating a hostel. They all appear closed. tired, wet, and freezing i panic. i return to all of the places i've checked. Someone answers the door at the hideout hostel and i burst in, unable to move my limbs more than a few degrees from my shivering body, i more fall, than burst. The lady makes me tea and orders me to strip so she can put my stuff in the dryer. I am saved again. There is a very nice Swiss man in my room and a very cute South African girl in the lounge. After a few hours of my drying off, walking around commando in sports shorts and a chili pepper's shirt (which felt awesome), we go out for a pint and some guiness stew. It's a lot like goulash, delicious and filling. We go to a pub which used to be a leather working place thing and still has all the fittings. All locals, then two pretty girls walk in. I order a whisky for myself and the swiss and resolve to hangout with the girls. Flirtatiously asking about the seats across from them, I plop down to find out they are twins from London. I spend the rest of the night drinking and flirting with the girls *about 25ish, i need to stop saying my age* at various pubs. We leave the leather place and head over to another pub for tradition irish music. There's none, but a few fat drunken irishman sit at the bar jeering. I get a pint of Crean, a very interesting tasting lager with a much lighter, hoppier feel than guiness or murphy's. We talk about lost, hen and stag parties, facebook, the modern need for distraction, favorite places, what it's like to live with siblings. They are quite drunk. The swiss is falling asleep, he hasn't been part of the conversation for some time. I decide it's time to call it a night, what with my last day of biking tomorrow (and it happening with a 90% chance of rain). I hug the girls goodnight with promises of Killarney, and walk off without the feeling of frustration I would often feel. Making strides. Today went from epic, to some mundane flirtation, but through it all it was beautiful and I was conscious. I was present. That is most important to me now. If you've made it through the block of text, be sure to check out the last series of photo's of me at the top of O'connor pass. They are quite silly.