Cycling in the South Bay

For some people, frontiers are borders, boundaries. For others, they are regions beyond the known.

In actuality, they are spaces inside your head that demarcate the new you fear and the old you know. The frontera that is a line in the sand, a river, a checkpoint, an airport, a harbor, a coastline, a drawing on a map, or a wall, marks off them from us, you from me. The frontier that is an unknown expanse, unpopulated and wild, separates what we seek from what we wish to leave behind. The civilization of experience from the chaos of experience.

Neither thing really exists, nor does either function as planned. The frontera, once crossed, is just as green as the grass you left. The them differs from the us in qualities that ultimately mean nothing.

The frontier defies exploration and population without employing the very norms and ideas you left behind. Truly, wherever you go, there you are.

But like a funhouse of mirrors that you know are mere warpings, you are compelled to go anyway.

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END

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