Jingle Blahs

No. Just no.

Christmas depression
isn’t just an expression.
All the damn cheer
drives me to drink beer.

The torture started in October.
Christmas decorations lurk.
Plastic Santas smirk
behind Halloween skeleton dogs.

The autumn slaughter of pine trees had already begun.
Happily green; growing, unaware of their impeding death.
Their fate to be displayed in an ugly mall.
Only to be dumped once holiday fun
was done.

Christmas carols make me want to heave.
Jingle Bells
ring in holiday hell.
A White Christmas. . .
I’m dreaming
of never hearing it again.
Deck the Halls. . .
I avoid the malls.

I dread
to go to parties
and pretend to be hearty.
When I secretly
long to go home
and crawl into bed
Crowds are too loud.
Nothing of interest is said

The yard lights are pretty.
But not for myself.
Thanksgiving is way too soon
to see the giant blow-up elf.
It makes me swoon
with its moronity.

So Christmas,
please leave.
And with you take
dreadful New Year’s Eve.

Heart of Arizona Bike Ride

Yarnell Hill

This ride starts in Congress, Arizona. The website describes the location as “37 miles Southwest of Nowhere, AZ; 39 miles Southeast of Nothing, AZ; 89 miles East of Somewhere, AZ and 69 miles Beyond Hope, AZ.” They would be right. I have never had occasion to visit Congress, AZ. I doubt most people have. It’s an old ghost mining town that now has retirees and is a bedroom community–meaning no one works there or couldn’t even if they wanted to. The location is remote; northwest of Wickenburg and off the main highway to Las Vegas.

The climate is also in between desert and woodlands, and is a sparse, arid grassland. The landscape is one that I pass on the highway on the way to somewhere else and admire the valleys plunging through the mountains.

When I considered this ride, I briefly thought of riding the 104 mile version with 6,000 feet of climbing. Then I thought about training long miles in the summer heat and wisely reconsidered. The forty-four mile route has 3,100 feet of climbing, which seemed plausible, though probably a little painful. Bullshifters, the bike club that ran this ride, has sag stops throughout and lunch afterwards. Food is a bonus of an organized ride and is the whole point of participating.

The starting point in Congress is the Sierra Vista Motel. It claims to be the smallest motel in Arizona, because it only has four rooms. Somehow, I was expecting a larger structure. It had a wooden fence in front, with a garden patio behind it, but not much area to park. A few riders were milling about, but nobody was lined up for the start, so I just began the ride after signing in.

Fish Rock

The empty road briefly descended, then the ascent began. I saw the mountain in front of me in the distance. It’s named Yarnell Hill, but I failed to see the “hill” aspect. This sucker was tall. I wondered if the road went through a pass or up the whole thing. I passed a rock painted as a green fish on the side of the highway. This place was just weird. I felt out of breath already.

The wind blew the opposite direction that I was headed. The route headed sharply upward and wound around the side of the mountain. Wind and a climb. I thought that this might get ugly. I noted my time as I passed the mile markers–ten minutes. I was going a blazing six miles per hour. Technically, I could run that fast, but not on this incline. Hopefully, the whole twenty-two miles to the turn around isn’t like this.

The view from the road was stunning, with miles of the desert plain visible 1000-1500 feet below. A small white grid was Congress, with mountains south of the town. I stopped to take photos.

Oddly, I was passing people, including one person wearing a tri kit from a triathlon club known for its speedy members. Take that, Mr. Hot Stuff! Not that I cared how fast I was going. This was a ride, not a race, which suited me fine. I had no delusions that I was going to ride forty-four miles with 3,100 feet of climbing in any thing other than a snail’s pace. 

Some bigger bike events in Phoenix and Tucson are races, which is a turn off. Some don’t allow tri bikes, which is offensive because the organizers assume that the people riding them can’t do it without crashing. If I crash, it’s a driver’s fault or the road’s. They also assume slow riders are inexperienced or out of shape. I have worked hard for a long time to go nowhere fast.

This event was laid back, so far. I didn’t run into the century and 125 mile people the whole ride. Presumably, they were serious about what they were doing, or just crazy. The first seven miles were difficult for me. I couldn’t imagine 104 or more.

Just when I thought the turn around was hours more to get to, I reached Yarnell and the road flattened out. I saw police cars and orange cones and thought all this wasn’t for the ride, because they probably didn’t know about it or care. Then, in the middle of the road was an antique car show. No one stopped me as I rode through. People were mindlessly walking across the road as if they didn’t see me, so I slowed down. More weirdness, that I hadn’t expected.

Yarnell is the site of a fire that killed 19 fire fighters. I saw little evidence of this, other than some sign medallions and a museum, but I didn’t know what the town looked like before. A sign on a side road said “No access to incident site.” The rugged terrain looked like it would be a bad place for a fire, with the open grassy plains and stunted trees. It was sad to think about.

I moved quickly through the tiny town and finally picked up speed, past vast ranch land. The trees were taller, though sparse. The descent meant I had to climb it on the way back, but it was a nice break.

Reaching the sag station was a relief. A cheerful volunteer asked me if I wanted soup, hot chocolate or a root beer float. My befuddled mind was dazed at the range of choice, so I opted for soup. The float might have been better, but I wasn’t very hungry from the exertion and it was a bit chilly with the wind once I stopped. Most people seemed tired and not in a hurry to move.  

I dragged myself out of the aid station. Going back required climbing the hill that I had descended. I took some pictures of the cottonwood trees that I saw. I was now really tired. I wasn’t hungry, but ate anyway to keep my energy up. It was warmer by this time. 

I passed through Yarnell again with the auto show still going on. I noticed a life-sized metal elephant on the roadside. A white elephant was also painted on a rocky hill. This town has a thing for these animals. Finally, I  hit the descent of the Yarnell Hill. I kept feathering my brakes because of the steepness and curves. I saw an overlook and stopped and took some pictures. The severity of the descent eased off as I got closer to town. When I was finished, I ate a grilled hamburger

The ride from Nowhere, Arizona to Nothing, Arizona had been fun. I appreciated the quirkiness of the small, rural towns. They were much more “western” than Scottsdale, which claims to be the most western, but bulldozes any evidence of character in the name of development. 

Maybe next year I will go to Beyond Hope.

Rockhopper Xterra Race Report

Three kinds of people sign up for an Xterra triathlon–the fast, the clueless and slow people like me. Fast people power through the terrain like it doesn’t exist. I have never figured out how they do this, but I suspect that their fancy bikes help. The clueless have no idea what they are in for, but soon find out that they made a bad decision. An Xterra can quickly become overwhelming, and require a lot of physical effort and skill. I wonder what a person doing a triathlon for the first time would think of his experience. Maybe “never again?” Slow people like me struggle to climb the hills and often fail, resulting in more of a walk/bike or a walk/run. I do these events anyway, despite my incompetence, because I like the challenge.

These races  are mostly populated by younger, male participants. The mean age for this race was 35-39. Only twenty-five percent were female. For some reason older females shy away. I was the only one above age of 53 and I felt like an oddball. Maybe they fear injury, that they aren’t strong enough or maybe they are just smart. I am an outlier. I have been riding badly in multisport mountain bike races for years. I am slower, more cautious and less skilled than most. If a section scares me, I don’t ride it. Bodily injury isn’t worth it.

Mountain biking is more mentally engaging than road biking, which can be excruciatingly boring. I  have to constantly look where I am going and pick the best line through obstacles to avoid smashing into rocks, running into cactus and running off the trail. Climbing up slopes requires leg strength, finesse and sudden bursts of leg turnover to avoid falling over when pedaling. Even arm muscles get a workout. It can be physically exhausting in a short amount of time.

Still, it’s fun when it isn’t terrifying. I prefer the trail hazards of horses, other people and sometimes snakes, to cars killing me or stoplights. The tires usually don’t flat because they are so rugged. The scenery is better. Most snakes leave me alone.

Papago Park isn’t my favorite place to ride. The trails are rocky, rutted from storm damage and poorly marked. I am spoiled by the smoother, engineered ones in North Scottsdale, McDowell Mountain Park and even the Phoenix Mountain Preserve. Papago Park is difficult to ride and even harder to figure out where to go in the spaghetti maze of random routes.

I stupidly signed up for the Rockhopper Xterra, anyway. Another “I couldn’t think of anything better to do” event. I hadn’t done this event since 2008, so maybe it would be an easier experience than in the past. It wasn’t.

The race had a 10 a.m. cut off for the bike. I was concerned about it, because my normal glacial pace on the swim and a mountain bike, I would be close to that time. I usually don’t have this issue, but maybe the race organizer had someplace better to be or they didn’t want to have to transport people who had keeled over in the rough terrain. Theoretically, October starts to cool down even in Phoenix, but the month had stubbornly clung to “hot” and “more hot.”

Race morning, I walked down the boat ramp and cautiously waded into the water. Sharp rocks await the unwary, then it drops off suddenly. My ratty, old sleeveless wetsuit kept me buoyant, so I wasn’t worried about drowning, unlike the last race. The water felt cold on my arms at first.

The horn sounded and everyone took off. No waves were needed because of the small amount of people. Open water swimmers, not doing the bike and run, started behind us. I expected to be lapped by some or all of them. They made the water more crowded. As I rounded the last turn buoy, I was shocked to find swimmers as slow as I was. This was a rare opportunity to draft off of them, which would make my efforts faster and easier. They were in my way, so I used them. The trick was not to run into them, because I couldn’t see past my elbow in the murky green water. An occasional bubble hinted at where they were.  I finished faster than I expected, which was good because I don’t like swimming and was short on time.

Staggering up the ramp, I got my bike gear on and debated going to the port-a-potty, which for once, was in transition. The urge was not that great, so I moved on to the bike course.

The bike course had a flat section that followed a canal, then crossed a bridge onto rocky hell. Right away, I fumbled the climbing and had to walk. I thought: I am not very good at this. The ride did not get much better the next three miles. Some hills I didn’t have enough power to get up. I was still tired from the swim and hadn’t recovered. Some I misjudged the best route and got stuck. Some had rutted, loose soil, and I couldn’t get enough traction to climb. Some sections were just too scary to ride like the sudden steep drop offs with loose, rocky dirt. I had trouble with my bike shoes. Sometimes, they were difficult to clip in when I had to I get back on the bike. Each of the two loops had three mandatory dismounts in addition to the hills I couldn’t ride. I almost tripped on a rock a few times walking the bike through the dark tunnel.

I began to despair of making the cut off, but all I could do is keep going. A portion near the three mile mark was flat, so I went as fast as I could to make up time.

Coming back on the first loop, I crashed on a technical section named “The Steps.” It consisted of evil, steep stone ledges in a wash that scared me. I thought to myself that I could get through this. I got down the ledges, landing hard, but climbing out, I couldn’t pedal hard enough to make it back up the wash and unceremoniously fell over. A volunteer asked me if I was alright. My leg was scraped and my butt hurt, but I was able to get up. I didn’t lose too much blood, just my dignity, since I had landed in the dirt.

I finished the first loop and hoped for a better outcome. It didn’t happen. I didn’t stumble as much and went faster, but I still couldn’t get up some of the steep hills.  The volunteers that had been stationed by the potential crash sites had left before I finished the second loop. I was on my own. My high heart rate was high and it was hot. I fought exhaustion. For some reason, I kept hopscotching the same guy. I  passed him on the climbs, then he  passed me on the flats. Did heI  know how old I was? He was probably 35-40 and not doing much better than I.

 At the finish of the second loop, someone called out that the cut off was in ten minutes. Miraculously, I could go on to the run.

The start of the run was hot–about 85 degrees. I just wanted to survive and make the cut offs. Only the canal portion was shaded. The trails were rocky, bleak and steep. The difficult ascents had to be climbed twice, plus constant up and downs. A young kid flew by me as I hobbled up. I hated his youth. My legs were fried by then. Tripping was a concern because it happens when I am tired, but I avoided falling. I passed an older man, about seventy and I wondered if he was on his first or second loop. At least he tried.  The last mercifully flat 1.3 miles were a lot faster.

Total time for the whole thing was 3:03:59, a little better than I expected. This was one of the hardest races I have done this year. I hadn’t expected much out of it, knowing the difficulty, but I had wanted to finish it.

Most people were leaving as I got done. As I picked up my gear, people told me to get a mug, since I was the only one in my age group. A man who had gotten one gave me his. He was the same one that I had seen on the run and was in the 70+ range. He was miffed that everyone had gone home, the race was packing up and awards had been given out already. I could relate to that. It’s basically most of my race experiences, especially Xterra. I didn’t really care, being wasted. The rest of the world might have finished early, but old, slow people can still do the damn thing too.

Speedo Trauma

I don't want to look, but I have to.

I inhabit a world of lycra. In the triathlon world, lycra doesn't hide much, especially when wet. Speedos are an extreme example of this phenomena, being basically a fancy form of men's briefs. Hence the trauma:






Hey you!
Muscular, tan, slim,
god..
In a Speedo swimsuit--
with that Bulge.

I want to look away, but can’t.
I don’t want to see.
The odd body ornament.
Hanging left.

The Speedo reveals all.
Every little outline.

I never used to notice
men in tight Speedos,
until my husband ran off
with a masseuse.

I don’t date.
No romance.
I have a crisis of faith--
in myself.

Exposed genitalia
is a distant memory.

I am penis deprived.                                    

 Really Speedo?

But I don’t want to see yours.

I am not attracted to you,
an immature youth.
Pretty, but insubstantial.
I am old.

And yet I look.
There it is.
Repulsive, yet
fascinating.
Intrusive.

Please go and
take your Bulge with you.  
Before I go Blind.

Tempe Tri Race Report

 Photo courtesy of  Bob Pane, One Multisport

I normally go out of my way to avoid the Tempe Tri race, even to the point of leaving the country. It’s hot and not wetsuit legal. The air temperature can climb into the nineties. September may be mild in other parts of the country, but in the desert, it makes a mockery of fall. Fall doesn’t exist here anyway. Summer heat loses its intensity, but still awaits to punish the unwary.

SWIM ANXIETY IN TEMPE TOWN MOAT AND IT’S NOT THE STUFF THAT FLOATS IN IT

To swim in Tempe Town lake even with a wetsuit, is not fun. Things float in it that I don’t want to know about. Not that floating objects could be seen, because the water is so murky, I never even see my hands. Occasionally, a body is found in it. The surface is well below the walls that contain it, like a castle moat filled with  monsters. Massive bridges loom overhead, blocking the sun. Lack of a wetsuit makes it exponentially more unpleasant.

But I wanted to race and was too cheap and lazy to go elsewhere. The swim would be a challenge to take on. It was a mere 750 meters or 810 yards, but that can seem forever with the possibility of death. Even in a nice lake, swimming away from shore without a wetsuit makes me panicky. Physically, I can swim the distance, but mentally is much more difficult. Fear is a strong opponent, resistant to change. The brain gets in a rut, spewing out over and over that I won’t make it to shore.

The moat

Mine tells me I am in danger in deep water, making me tense, then tired, then more fearful. A fish I am not. Convincing my thoughts to go in a positive direction takes some effort. I tried a self-administered aversion therapy by swimming in open water prior to the race with some success. I stayed near the shore, where I felt comfortable, then ventured short distances farther away. I told myself constantly that I would be okay. 

I couldn’t totally avoid fear. Swimming along calmly, I would suddenly encounter a swell or a wind created chop and my composure would break down. My retreat was to swim back to shore or to a rock I could stand on. If shore wasn’t close, I flipped to my back.

The other problem was lack of speed, being much slower than if I had a wetsuit. The buoyancy of a wetsuit lifted my legs, which was less drag. I could go faster when I wasn’t worried about sinking. The combination of uncomfortable and slower was a real curse.

Another worry I had about this race was the anxiety-inducing washing machine effect of moving bodies churning up the water in Tempe Town Lake. But since I was in some of the last waves, the water might be smoother. I already had the baggage of some really bad swims in that lake over the years. But I had somehow gotten through them, cursing and moaning.

Despite the thought of all these unpleasantness, the swim was something to conquer. I hoped to fight the fear in spite of myself. It is frustrating to be controlled by anxiety.

RACE DAY INFERNO OR WHY THE F@#K IS SEPTEMBER STILL SO HOT?

Race day dawned hot in the eighties and “humid”. Nervous and sweaty, I wondered why I was even doing this race. I must be out of my mind.

Waiting around for the start was the worse part. I had nothing to do but dread what might happen. I tried to block out the thoughts of doom and envision calm. 

I jumped in the water when it was my turn and swam to the start line.  I wasn’t quite there when the wave started. So far, I was unafraid. I kept moving and when I felt out of breath, turned on my back. Luckily, there weren’t a lot of people to run into me. People swimming over me is not restful.

I felt thirsty the whole swim. Maybe it was because the water was so hot; about 84 degrees. To drink the green lake water would be deadly, a prescription for illness. I was not having fun. I wasn’t very fast, but my fear was under control. With nothing to rest my feet on, and nothing to stop me from going to the bottom, it was just under the surface, ready to rise again. 

The water was choppy with all the swimmers that preceded me. It didn’t bother me too much, though I wasn’t happy about it. I didn’t sight as much as with a wetsuit to save energy. Lifting my head made my legs sink, which made me tired.  Sinking legs are bad, a precursor to panic.  Panic leads to flailing arms and legs, going nowhere, not getting enough air and more fatigue. I finally reached the first turn buoy. People were hanging onto the kayak, so I got past them in order to rest. Losers. Hanging onto kayaks is to be avoided as it’s an act of desperation.

I preceded to the next one and turned back. I could see the last turn buoy in the distance, through the bridges. The end of the ordeal drew near. So far, no panic with the swim more than halfway done. I was going to live.

I was relieved to reach the last turn buoy, only 100 yards to the exit steps. I was going to make it. Few people were in my way. Undoubtedly, I was probably one of the last people out of the water, a testament to my swimming ability.

Total swim time was more than I thought it would be, and a very slow time for the rest of the world, but I didn’t care. The ordeal was over and wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. 

DIDN’T DROWN, NOW HEAT EXHAUSTION?

I got on the bike and immediately felt hot. Instead of drowning, now I had to worry about heat exhaustion. I wish they had an aid station so that I could throw water on myself. The course was crowded with newbies, but that didn’t faze me. They were a target to pass. Their determination was admirable, with their gym shoes and mountain bikes. The course didn’t have any real hills.  My heart rate started climbing, though, as I rode, due to heat and dehydration. The  Olympic, was much worse, with two tedious loops. Twelve miles was not too taxing, but not as fast as if it had been cooler. 

I felt good starting the 5k run, but the air was a nasty blast furnace. By the second mile, I was ready to be done. The Tempe Town heat bowl cooked the cement path. I didn’t expect a fast time and didn’t get it, being overheated and dehydrated.  Why the hell do they put on this event in September, the month that pretends to be fall, but isn’t? I couldn’t imagine running the 10k. It was brutal.

I look like I feel--wasted. Photo courtesy
Camelback Coaching 

I got done, felt ill and immediately went for any ice I could find to cool off. A volunteer felt sorry for me and scooped some ice to put in my cap. It took a while for me to be hungry.

I STILL HATE SWIMMING WITHOUT A WETSUIT

I accomplished what I set out to do–get through the swim without losing my mind. Fear is still waiting out there in the water, but is a little less persistent. Now instead of saying to myself “I can’t do a non-wetsuit” swim, it will be “I can do a non-wetsuit swim, but I don’t want to.”

Mountain Man Olympic Race Report

This race came at the right time. Two days before, it was 117 degrees in Phoenix. It’s the butt end of summer with a particularly nasty combination of extreme heat and humidity. Flagstaff was a lovely 80 degrees when I drove up from Phoenix. The pine-scented, cool air was a relief after the roasting hell hole I had just came from.

Usually this is a training race, but this year I didn’t have a big event. I had no urge to do any half ironman or ironman triathlons right now. As I wrote in my first blog post of this year, The Thrill is Gone. It’s Still Gone. Not having a big race was a little depressing, but strangely liberating because I don’t have to train long hours. I can do what I want. This was my last olympic of the year. I had to make it count or at least put in a decent effort.

The 7,000-foot altitude and the hills make this race challenging. I have learned over the years to have low expectations. Time goals are useless. The terrain and lack of oxygen humbles everyone. Some more than others, like me. I try to stay positive and to not worry about my mediocre splits.

The swim is the most difficult of all because I can’t pant underwater. The warm water is a murky brown, which doesn’t bother me, but it is rather gross looking, like a soupy mud hole. The shore is rocky and it’s easy to stub a toe or to scrape skin off a foot. The race organizer uses as few buoys as possible, so the last turn requires a sharp eye to see it in the far distance. My eye-sight is bad, so I swim where everyone else seems to be going.

Race morning, I got into the water to warm up. The start was scheduled at 6:34 in the morning, which was awful enough, but my wave suddenly went off ten minutes early. What??
I swam slowly to the first turn buoy. This was the most difficult part since the body was not in the mode yet of swimming without oxygen. Frequent resting and dog-paddling was an inefficient method of locomotion. I reached the turn and set out for the next invisible buoy. Once in a while, I enjoyed myself, but the brief moments passed and I just wanted to get the swim over with. Panic attacks were avoided, but my mood was not happy. After an eternity, I reached the turn and headed back to the finish. This made me feel better, because the ordeal was almost over.

Photo courtesy of Beth Kozura

I ran up the ramp into transition. My bike was easy to find with the empty racks around it. I struggled out of my wetsuit, got into my bike gear and ran off to the porta-potty. I can’t pee in my wetsuit and this race has few porta-potties, so I had to waste time in this manner. Cycling with a full bladder is painful. I finally got onto the bike.

The bike route was an out and back with hills. Big hills. I had climbed much worse, but usually, I had more air to breath. As I rode out, I was reminded of how slow I was by all the people riding back. I passed a few people, but the road was mostly empty on my side. The route followed the dried up lake and fields of sunflowers. The air was cool, but the sun felt warm. The temperature was pleasant compared to the Phoenix inferno. Mountains were in the distance. My knees hurt, but otherwise I wasn’t tired.

I always had to remind myself while slogging up the hills, that it was harder going out than coming back. My goal was at least to go faster than last year, which was all that could hoped for at this point. I was cautiously optimistic.

Finally, I reached the turn around.  Downhill was a welcome change. A few stragglers were still going out, but most people were ahead of me. The big hill I had crawled up was now a thirty-nine mile per hour descent. This was nerve-wracking, but at least no howling side wind made it worse. Feeling fairly energetic, I reached transition.

 I racked my bike, changed into run gear and ran out. People who had already finished kept out of my way, which was good because I can be rude if my path is blocked. At best, the person will receive a curt “excuse me, coming through”; at worst a push out of my way. I ran out, up a ramp. Usually, this was the spot where I felt the folly of a swim and bike race at altitude. My legs were usually heavy and exhaustion settled in. Today, I wasn’t as tired, but my back and hips hurt. A brief walk helped ease the pain.

Photo courtesy of  WannaTri

A mile and a half down the road was the Hill. The Hill was humbling. It ascended nonstop for a mile and a half. Technically it was only a four percent average grade, but it felt much worse at 7,000 feet of altitude. I slogged up at a blistering fourteen minute per mile pace. Some people could probably walk faster. The views of the lake and the green forest plain below eased the pain.

The turn around was at a dirt path in the woods. For once, my gut was behaving itself. The forest didn’t offer much in the way of a place to privately poop.

Running down the hill was a relief, though tiresome after a certain point because my thighs wanted to take a nap. I was surprised that so many people made encouraging comments. It helped in a painful race like this.

The last mile and a half were the most difficult, mentally. The road was fairly flat, but had a slight uphill incline. The bad physical fatigue by this time made me think dark thoughts; about how bad my run was, how slow my time was going to be or how this ordeal was never going to end. 

This time I decided to be positive and to try to speed up. My slowness might as well be embraced and I should just be in the moment. Surprisingly, I could actually speed up. The crabby thoughts weren’t in my mind; just the ones about how uncomfortable I was.

At the finish line, I felt like I had been hit by a bus, which was strangely satisfying. The humility that this race imposed hadn’t gotten me down. I had finished under four hours and had done better than last year. I was near last, but didn’t care. The Thrill is Gone, but I can still have fun. Just not in an ironman.

I AM SICK OF SUMMER

This is the worst part of summer in the desert. The earth is heated up from baking in the sun for months. The air is dry enough to heat up past 110 degrees, but it's not dry enough to cool off at night. August has that special combination that makes the heat more miserable than at other times in the summer. A week ago the temperature reached 117 degrees. I live in a desert and know it gets hot, but enough is enough.

                      I AM SICK OF SUMMER

Sweat. 

June denial. It’s not so bad. Cool mornings. Deluded reality. Thermometers gleefully bursts past 115 degrees, in a fit of spite. Dragon’s morning breath.

Plants shrivel in the outdoor oven and reach; plaintive arms to the sky. Desperate for relief.

The parched earth sighs.

White, blinding light sears the skin. Dogs pant, their heads droop.

Dripping sweat.

July despair. Heavy, stifling,  never ending suffocation. A.C. runs nonstop and swallows money.

Luscious, fat moisture of bloated cotton puff clouds entice; then vanish.

Gargantuan brown swirls of dust tentacles howl in. Lightning flares. Thunder rumbles. Trees blow over. A tornado of dead leaves. No rain.

Giant bugs stumble; meander aimlessly, confused.

Snakes hide. Lizards flee.

Dripping, sweaty sweat.

August disgust. Dispirited souls. Time stops in purgatory. Life is pointless. Outside tasks are too much effort. Monster heat feeds on human energy.

The sky rumbles and urinates.
The air cools, briefly bearable. Toads emerge from their holes.
A vicious sun re-asserts control.

Less sweat.

September hope. Summer loosens its grip, but still holds on. The glare wanes. Air softens. Summer birds leave, flying off to gentler climes.

Two months more and summer’s gone.

I can’t wait.