Bike

THE GHOST OF CASEY KASEM

It was a hard pill to swallow, but there it was: The music playing in my head sucked more than the fuzzy EDM noise wheezing out of the tinny speaker wedged in the backpack of the guy who just passed me near the top of the climb up Woodcutter’s.

I thought I was cooking along pretty well. My pulse thudded in my ears and set a good beat for my breathing, and for the first time in a long spring my legs felt like something slightly more animated than two dead stumps of wood. So it was

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