And Comes A Storm
The Trailer Park Cyclist is hitting a good lick, pedaling strong into a shifting headwind. He is in Shiloh, a ghost town in the purest sense: here there are no houses, no stables, no ghost town saloons. Here there is nothing except the ability of the powerful machine that is the US government to make anything that it no longer needs or that is in its way disappear.
Shiloh is gone.
But what of that? He hits another stroke on the pedals. This wonderful machine beneath his legs is old. This machine beneath his legs is old, and the Trailer Park Cyclist, himself, is old. But not so old that he and his machine cannot stroke and blast through time and space, hitting a good lick through a piece of Florida history. Shiloh!
When it became imperative that we feeble rascals called the human race must shoot forth into space, outer space, we did what we always do: we cleared some land. A lot of land. Confident that Outer Space would be the next real estate boom property we went ahead and leveled Shiloh.
When you are pedaling your ass off in this vast and horrid wilderness that is the Canaveral Preserve there ain't much to see. Palmettos and roadkill make up most of the scenery. There is a lot of Florida heat. Humidity and dust are your onliest friends and you wonder why you came. But then, one stroke of the pedal follows another and you remember why; you remember that where and when mean nothing; it is the stroke of the pedal and your inner world of remembering and searching that brought you here. You are here because this is where you are supposed to be and yes, and yes, but what about Shiloh?
What About Shilo?
Who knows? Listen, mates, a late season storm named Sandy is scratching at the door and me, your old buddy Tim Joe, thought he would live up to his reputation as a Rough Rider and hit a lick Way Out There with a storm coming in. And thus, as ever, I survived and am here to tell the tale. Sadly, this little bluster and blow failed to meet our expectations and sixty miles later I have nothing much to tell about except a new trick I learned. Reverse Flow Track Stand.
Yeah. With a forty mile per hour head wind thirty miles from the Trailer Park you gain character. A lot of character. This is a post season storm and the wind is whipping around like a rabid wolverine and I may need to be put in a Home if I ever GET home...man this sucks...
And still, what about Shiloh?
It's Good Enough For Me
I cannot say. There was an early little school in Shiloh Village. There was an educator there who had once been a slave but somehow magically transformed his fate into that of a teacher of the little white kids who lived in the area. That's pretty cool, wouldn't you say? There is a grave there that I looked at, a pioneer lady who now sleeps alone, because of our efforts to conquer Space. I learned some of these things while being blown backwards on two wheels by a bitch named Sandy who I loved all the same.
She is still here, scratching at the door.
So, yes, my friends, Shiloh still lives, I will see to that. And here am I, rum-fortified and beer-strengthened. This little fake storm scares me not, I already pushed her back harder than she pushed me. These winds come and go and they are meaningless. Here's what about Shiloh:
Shiloh Lives. As do we. Power, my friends...power, life and faith! Shiloh!
Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Preservation Society