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Neil M. Hanson’s Followers (23)
Neil M. Hanson
Goodreads Author
Born
in Kansas, The United States
Website
Twitter
Genre
Member Since
February 2015
More books by Neil M. Hanson…
Sailing in Maine 2021
The Flint Hills of Kansas feel the most like home to me. They’ve felt that way since I lived there for several years beginning in the early 70’s. On the surface, the Flint Hills are just some pretty hills that mark a transition from the mixed deciduous woodlands of eastern Kansas to the vast steppe of the Great Plains that central and western Kansas are part of. But as I spent good and deep time i
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“A crystal clear Colorado sky opens above us, a blue so deep it makes you dizzy. The occasional bright white wispy cloud dances across the firmament, punctuating the deep blue vault of heaven stretching over this paradise.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“We all wrap ourselves in the mythology we want other people to see us in.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“Ahhhh. The comfort of a familiar routine out in the desert of unfamiliar exploration. Dark chocolate for the soul.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“Ahhhh. The comfort of a familiar routine out in the desert of unfamiliar exploration. Dark chocolate for the soul.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“I’ve put down half a pitcher of water by the time she comes to take my order. She fills another pitcher and sets it in front of me, standing with her pen in her hand, distracted, waiting for me to order. It’s early afternoon and well north of 100 degrees. Perusing the menu, I comment on the heat. “Man, it’s hot out there.”
Setting her order pad down on the counter, crossing her arms, tapping the back of her pen against her lower lip, she looks out the window at my bike leaning there. Her eyes drift to mine with that look women can give men. You know the look, the one that says, “I’m wondering if you’re trying to act dumb, or if you really might be that dumb.” Not necessarily mean, just curious.
I smile sheepishly beneath the pressure of the question behind her look. Every man reading these words knows exactly what I’m talking about here. You get the look, so you know you’ve said or done something really stupid, but you don’t have a clue what it is you’ve done or said that is so outrageously idiotic. Which just makes it worse.
She sees all this wash across my face, and a small smile plays at the corners of her face. Still tapping the pen against her lower lip, she brings her elbows down to rest on the bar, leaning in a little closer to me, as if letting me in on her secret. “Honey, it’s June. It’s the hottest month in the Sonoran Desert.” Pausing, she looks again at my bicycle leaning against her window.
“You’re riding a bicycle across the black asphalt in the hottest desert in the hottest month.”
She pauses there, looking into my eyes, raising one eyebrow, letting me know a question is coming. “What, exactly, did you expect?”
Hmmm. Good point. I might have heard those words whispered to me by the desert itself earlier today.
“Right,” I say, closing the menu and handing it to her, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’ll take the burger.” We smile at each other as she takes the menu.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
Setting her order pad down on the counter, crossing her arms, tapping the back of her pen against her lower lip, she looks out the window at my bike leaning there. Her eyes drift to mine with that look women can give men. You know the look, the one that says, “I’m wondering if you’re trying to act dumb, or if you really might be that dumb.” Not necessarily mean, just curious.
I smile sheepishly beneath the pressure of the question behind her look. Every man reading these words knows exactly what I’m talking about here. You get the look, so you know you’ve said or done something really stupid, but you don’t have a clue what it is you’ve done or said that is so outrageously idiotic. Which just makes it worse.
She sees all this wash across my face, and a small smile plays at the corners of her face. Still tapping the pen against her lower lip, she brings her elbows down to rest on the bar, leaning in a little closer to me, as if letting me in on her secret. “Honey, it’s June. It’s the hottest month in the Sonoran Desert.” Pausing, she looks again at my bicycle leaning against her window.
“You’re riding a bicycle across the black asphalt in the hottest desert in the hottest month.”
She pauses there, looking into my eyes, raising one eyebrow, letting me know a question is coming. “What, exactly, did you expect?”
Hmmm. Good point. I might have heard those words whispered to me by the desert itself earlier today.
“Right,” I say, closing the menu and handing it to her, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’ll take the burger.” We smile at each other as she takes the menu.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“I feel like a racehorse crashing out of the gates, bent on gulping every moment the world has in front of me right now.
Life is good.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
Life is good.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“There’s not much here that tempts me though. I look for folks who appear to be having fun, but can’t find any. Row after row of sad faces hooked up to slot machines like arms connected to IV's, drugs pumping into their minds. Table after table of drained souls looking to leave scraps of happiness and dignity on the green felt of the blackjack table.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
“A tailwind, on the other hand, is one of the most beautiful experiences you can have on a bike. There’s no wind in my ears, so I hear everything around me. The chain purrs sweetly as it pulls the gears under the coaxing of my legs. The soft hiss of my tires on the smooth hard pavement, the sound of little critters scurrying in the desert around me as I pass. Smells aren’t as big a deal out here in the dry desert, but even the smells are more accessible in a tailwind, since I’m moving through air at a slower relative speed, and the smells linger around my face long enough to register and enjoy them.
Relative progress, speed, sights, smells, sounds. It all goes together to create a gestalt for the ride that’s pure sweetness, and I never want it to end.
Hozho.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
Relative progress, speed, sights, smells, sounds. It all goes together to create a gestalt for the ride that’s pure sweetness, and I never want it to end.
Hozho.”
― Pilgrim Wheels: Reflections of a Cyclist Crossing America
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