Tuesday, July 5, 2016

How to get killed on the Green River

Feeling independent, to celebrate the Fourth of July, I rode down the Green River trail, rode up the Interurban.
But I got turned around in tukwila, crossed paths with Wes. Despite the fact that I was wearing a holey t shirt and cut offs, and we were both in a public place, wes said he thought I was a security guard going to tell him to kick rocks, his words. He looked like a hipster, he looked like a cyclist. He looked pretty buff. He asked if I knew where he could find the Hostess shop. He said he was hungry. He lives in an apartment with Ricky by the tukwila park n'ride. Sounds like he and ricky had some argument, maybe an argument about bizarre behavior that was getting on Rickey's nerves, I don't know, but Wes hit the road. He said he heard you could buy a lot of baked goods at the Hostess outlet shop for little money. He thought maybe the shop would discard some baked goods, and maybe he would find a pile a whole bunch of stuff to eat to his hearts content. He said he found some tortillas. 
'You ate tortillas you found? Are you really hungry?'
He offered me some Valium.
'I'm cool with that'
I gave him my sandwich. It was peanut butter on daves killer bread.
'It's kind of dirtbag, but I got something else, if you want'
Wes was holding some Crystal.
'I'm cool with that'
He's going to need that Valium.

I got lost after wes and I parted ways, had to back track about six miles. 
There is an uneasiness in the southland, an undercurrent of something unsaid. And if it were said, it would at first sound like a gross exaggeration. Next it would sound like terror itself had breached the gate.  This is Gary Ridgeway's stomping ground. This is the gritty, industrial suburbs of that gleeming capital of Aryan America. There is growth, development, there is the raging growth of the vines and the sticker bushes. This is where the immigrants live who serve the wealthy. This is where trumps voters live. This isn't the first Donald trump graffiti I have seen. He doesn't need a campaign, he doesn't need to spend money on advertising, he has a rodent army roving the green river valley once the sun goes down, scrawling his name. When I think of a trump presidency, I imagine the hyper violent world of mid-80s Detective Comics comic books. A bleak, fearful, mutant hellscape. I suppose that's also what some of trump's supporters imagine as well.
Just before turning around the wind shifted. Altogether I might have had 15 minutes of tail wind.
The interurban is straight and flat and boring. It is a bicycle freeway, and was virtually empty. After seeing the trump graffiti, after Wes the hungry tweaker cyclist, I got a little spooked. A path surrounded by vines and trees, and interesting looking birds darting from the branches, and timid rabbits lunging for the brush as I roll by. Maybe I felt like I was being watched.
These graf writers aren't that great, but they really wanted these pieces to burn, so they left the car markings visible. Clever.
This was in Kent. I raced against the clock, and the stiff headwind, no breaks, to catch the 7:55 ferry. Made it with three minutes to spare. 55 miles total, almost exactly. I was so hungry. I hope the sandwich helped Wes. And I hope the Valium helped too.

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