I smack at a fly on my calf and look down at the resulting smear of blood. An angry welt rises between two deep bloody scratches. One of them still cradles the stubborn tip of a thorn. I’m soon distracted by a burning tingle on my arm and seek relief in frenzied slaps and scratches. The back of my neck burns from sweat and sun; my face itches where it’s spotted with dried mud.
Harried by overwhelming corporal sensation, I remount my bike and strike forward with renewed purpose. The wind licks across my cheeks and arms. The spray of cold mud and water from occasional puddles and streams soothes my myriad ills. My muscles ache dully, but pleasantly. My breathe presses out, then in. The legions of gnats have fallen back and my body’s trifling complaints are replaced by the simplicity of labor. Any pause renews the onslaught of gnats and fiery flesh, a sure sign I still lack that toughened exterior so essential to the season. I look forward to growing my summer hide.
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