The Next Kilometer  The next kilometer is a son of a bitch. It
is always in my head when it ought not be. It’s that
embarrassing thing that happened when I was a teen. It’s that
thing my friend said before he died. It’s the persistent worry
that I will run out of money before I run out of time. It runs
over and over and over, a pedal stroke, a free wheel, an
absurdity.  The next kilometer is at least two kilometers long.
It’s twice as steep as it was last time I was there, and I will
surely blow up as soon as I get to it. There are monsters around
every bend. There are potholes. The next kilometer is
impossible, theoretical physics, antimatter, a unicorn.  This
kilometer is hard enough. It deserves more of my attention.
Honestly. I’m pedaling squares here. I’m slumped over like a
drunk at closing time. How am I supposed to breathe like this?
I’m going to crush these goddamned handlebars too. Loosen up,
jackass. You’re burning watts with that death grip. Yes. Yes.
This kilometer deserves much more attention.