Well, the title of this post tells it all-- we arrived in Seattle a month and 4 hours ago, and, frankly, I've been trying to remind (okay, convince) myself that it happened, at all.
And that's hard to do.
Sure, I can feel the physical difference; my legs feel stronger than they ever have, and when I've played tennis or gone for shorter bike rides (i.e. 30-35 mi.) I recognize that my stamina is greatly improved since May.
But another part of me feels like it was a fleeting dream, an insurmountable, ridiculous flight of fancy that came and went like so much else in life. My duffel bag's still sitting on the floor of my room, half-packed; my Thermarest's still snugged into one side, and my Camelbak has a stack of B&B business cards that I didn't get around to handing out. Bike jerseys and spandex are scattered about my floor. But these relics have no visceral connection to the summer that we all shared-- their presence is arbitrary, unrelated. I know it happened, and I'm so grateful that it happened, but I could very well have heard about the trip from a friend. Even when I see a picture of my face grinning idiotically out at me from the top of Teton Pass, it seems like the face of a stranger.
I think that's what was at the crux of my last post-- I want something to hold on to, a reminder that will stick with me. I need another way to remember the trip. And I don't know what that might be.
Lately, when people ask me about my summer I say that it was "fantastic." And each time I'm more deeply aware of the word's root:
Fantasy.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
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