The wolf scratches at the wall of my early morning dreams. I have to get up to ease her. She's the flighty one that needs to move. As much as I breath to settle her down she won't hear of it and whines and scratches at my brain. I can't sleep in - the dawn and chill air and promise of surf might ease her bloodlust but on this morning it's blowing easterly so she's restless and antsy, anxious and in pain.
I try to summon her sister. She's more easeful, confident and calm. She's strong and persistent and runs alongside us as we go up the track.
I have to wait with them both at the top of the hill for Jamie to catch up. With the ebike I'm faster of course. I try the Ganesha mantra every time my brain tries a new alarm trick. This week has been hard. Despite my best intentions I've been feeding the jitter wolf. I pull out all the tricks. Name what I see, the texture of the grips iny hand, the chill wind on my face. Om gam ganapatye Namaha. Breath in, outttttt. The wolf wants to eat my skin, to turn me inside out.
We stop at the top of the long climb and share a protein bar. Jamie adjusts my seat and gives me some gloves against the cold. The wolf sits and waits. The strong wolf πΊ is fed by Jamie's encouragement and enthusiasm and by my mantras. It is insanely hard to turn your wolf thoughts away from themselves. They are cage trapped, hungry, wearing a path at the edge.
The strong wolf, the capable, worry free one is limping but she's doing it. The other one snaps at her and she winces but keeps going. Remember, she says, the doctor who said I should reconsider cycling at 'my age'? The anxious wolf is reprimanded and pulls back as we hit 50 km an hour down the hill. My real hands stay on the handlebars and my imaginary ones stretch out wide to the road.
On the home stretch we cross and weave round puddles, czssschhhh in the puddles. I am not feeding the jitter wolf, I am not feeding her, I am not. Om gam ganapatye namaha. In breath, out breath. Sky, water, grips.
You're smiling, Jamie says, and I am, though I'm not happy yet. The frustrated, angry, fatigued wolf has a way of keeping up. It'll take a lot of work to starve her.
The good wolf finds wood blewitts on the home stretch and we salivate about mushroom burgers with hot chips when we get home. I whizz up the last of the pickled beetroots for relish.
The calm wolf πΊ rolls herself on the couch in the sunshine and is ready to doze a while.
The jitter wolf is still out running, and running, panting, the blood wailing in her head. She will be home soon, but at least I have a little respite.
With Love,
