We're not in Louisiana anymore...

[jwatson-cookie.livejournal.com]

[December 20th, Morning, Silk Road]

I would kill for a drink. Eight miles in the snow, and now my socks are nearly soaked all the way through. As I get closer to the town the snow is more and more cleared from the road. Thank god for the small stuff, right? I can feel the full weight of the bike in my shoulders. The snow caked on the tires makes the process of pushing it all the better. Should have filled up when I had the chance, but that old man was charging an arm and a leg for the damn stuff. Thinks he can pull one over on old Joe, huh? The buildings I see coming up in the distance all look oddly closed, but I attribute it to the cold. With a little luck this town will have a drink, and a place to fill up.

I stop for a moment, kicking the loose white powder from the tires. A futile attempt to make it a little easier to keep pushing. I light a smoke before continuing my trudge through the quiet town. Clenching my cigarette with my teeth, and throwing the old pack to the side, I put both hands on the handle bars again. The slight scraping of the rubber on the road is determined to drive me mad as I begin to take in the buildings. Anything to get my mind off of this cold task of mine. I am not really sure where I can stop, but I keep my eyes peeled for another soul in the cold.

The soft crunching under my feet echo in my mind. Each step is a little painful with the water in my boots. I wince a little, and begin to check the chimneys for activity. "Good gawd, I ain't never gonna get dry or warm again." It feels good to speak, cursing the cold. There are bells in the distance, chiming in to counteract my attitude about the whole situation. I argue with myself about my decision to ride north in the winter. All kind of pointless now. I am comforted with something to think about other than how damn cold it is.

Open to Verdi