Back from my ride there’s sand in my teeth.
It was that muddy. My bike is plastered in dirty.
I’m a walking ball of grit.
That grit has become mixed up with sweat body oil and bike grease creating a side of grime.
Yeah, it’s not merely the grit that I love.
For me, I’m all about the grit and the grime. I think it’s in my blood. My grandfather drove oil trucks, gravel trucks and logged in the winter. Each of these occupations are beset with girt and grime.
My other grandfather had a taxi stand. He operated one of a very few licensed drinking establishments in our city. He was a free range medic, serving the shell shocked survivors second big ugly war in Europe. There was considerable grit and a great deal of grime that would have likely been in the vicinity of many of his business endeavors.
I love feeling gritty, greasy and grimy. After a day of riding, splashing through puddles and bashing through bogs I come home caked with mud. There are bits of dirt, bushes and small rocks any…
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