Denver being the Mile High City, the search to get a little higher doesn’t so much start here as basecamp. There’s so much stuff to do that sitting indoors and trying to bang out writing seems like a waste, even if I came here to get the writing done. It’s an extremely silly but noticable feeling.
I spoiled myself by buying new tires for the NC700. The old ones weren’t dead, but they were getting on. I put new Pirellis on. The front is old but unworn, and the rear is young. Grip is improved. Now all I need is a spark arrestor, and I’m off to Rampart Range. No excuses, no waiting, no delays. I need some mountain miles on this lowland bike to give it weight.
The last thing on my mind is an incident from last night. It was a dark night, and I was walking home along part of Colfax where there aren’t a lot of streetlights. Most of the businesses were car dealerships, and many of them were dark with large buildings near the sidewalk. On a narrow stretch, an individual walking towards me was going to have to pass quite closely to get by. I couldn’t see his hands, and I say he because of the shaved head. I kept ready.
As the guy approached to pass he said, “Excuse me, sir,” and we went by nearly shoulder to shoulder.
That relatively trivial word, sir, did a huge amount to deescalate the situation. It took me out of alert and into cautious. I don’t think anyone needs to learn that being polite smooths the rough edges off daily interactions, but I know I was reminded of it then. Thanks, sir. I’ll never see you again, but I appreciate the reminder that little things matter.
Books are coming. Bloodharvest is almost done, and I’m still plotting through the unknown woods towards publishing. Bedtime Stories is boiling, and Death Mountain is actually working now. I read in Zelazny’s Threshold that Z himself sometimes put aside books because they just weren’t working. Good to keep in mind. DM is going to be finished, though. It’s going to happen.