Salt Flats

The Bonneville Salt Flats are punctuation to Utah's mountainous landscape. God hit a hard return here, leaving nothing but blank space between paragraphs. It has so much nowhere and has such a vastness of empty, that the negative space itself begins to hold substance. It's justified as a destination.

We drove out there last weekend, to watch the sunset, see the stars and have what Camilla deemed "a post-apocalyptic picnic." Because the apocalypse would surely leave a landscape as desolate and otherworldly as this one. 

The longer I've lived in Utah, the more I've fallen in love with it. The diversity of landscapes never ceases to astonish me. Within a 200 mile radius of my front door there is red rock, salt flats, the dense forests and lakes of the high Uintas, there are hot springs, and sand dunes and peaks still dusted in snow.

It took us about two hours to get this place, splitting gas costs $9 each. We got to feel the strange coarse texture of salt under bare feet, and star-gazed under of one of the widest skies I've ever seen. I begin thinking back on what I allocate my time to. Two hours of netflix happens easily, two hours through the course of the day on my phone, two hours spent deciding what to wear for a date, two hours procrastinating going on a run.... Days spent in reoccurring patterns, so that tomorrow and today are so much the same that they easily become indistinguishable as yesterdays.

I took a pause there on the flats, took some space of mind. As dark settled, my friend Kyle reminded us that all the planets in the solar system lined up radius to radius still wouldn't bridge the gap from the Earth to the Moon. I'm humbled by that, and humbled at how inconsequential the size of this  plain of salt is in comparison to that distance. I'm humbled by how lengthy a single day can seem, and at the same time humbled by the brevity of a life.

Vandal

Nestled in the folds of the mountains,

I walk through a place reclaimed.

I am taken in by the sweeping curves of crude oil tanks,

and dilapidated walls of industry before me -

Riveting and soul-swelling as the snowy peaks that rise up behind them.

Graffiti is scrawled on every surface.

There are layers of images,

Paint on top of paint -

Thick extrusions from a concrete surface.

I can imagine the pilgrimage to this place.

A procession of figures,

carrying aluminum cans like sacrifices at the altar.

The crisp clear air filled with the reek of aerosol.

This place has a sense of sacredness, an ache of reverence.

If the human mind was tangible,

A place that could be wandered through,

it would be like this.

Our hopes, concerns, and experiences

imprinted and overlaid on walls that are crumbling down.

The relentless mind-chatter of the quotidian,

scrawled over our greatest insights,

obscuring them from remembrance.

A cartoon bear with his mouth wide open,

exclaiming “Set out and konquer!”

Why do you bike?

I remember just a few months ago, when running was like a this balloon that had inflated inside my head, leaving room for nothing else. I just started my career as a distance runner on the track team. I loved running and I found I was good at it too. I two relays in my first varsity meet. My balloon was popped though after about a month when I hurt my hip badly and couldn't run competitively the rest of my season.

It drove me insane when it happened. At first and all I could think of was how much I wanted to just run and run and run for miles and miles and hours and hours. But something equally amazing grew out of that misfortune. Even flowers can grow from where just dirt used to be.

It was during those weeks of injury that I began to bike like no other, trying to replace my runners high with even more miles of cycling. To be honest, biking never has replaced for me what running gives. A run ends in this weary drained feeling, like all those busy thoughts in my head have been pounded out, leaving only dizzy contentment. A bike ride never leaves me that way.

If running was like a balloon in my head ever inflating, biking was like roots shooting out. I still remember the first time I rode to church and crossed the bridge over the river. It was like a door opening to a whole new world. All these remote places that we would drive to, like kick-boxing, the art store and church were accessible. And there was something more tangible about the journey on my bicycle where I could feel the miles beneath me and inside of my limbs.

The further I go and the more I explore on my bike the greater the feeling grows. I feel like I am part of the landscape; I belong in the painting. And the roads, telephone lines and Ohio countryside belong in me, inside my thighs. I have lived over those miles and felt them by the power of my lungs and legs. Each time I go further or discover a new route I feel myself and those miles inside of me grow.

Last Sunday someone asked me why I biked to church. I didn't know how to say all of it then. And just like the miles, the reasons keep on growing.

The short answer is simply because I enjoy it.