werewolfin'

There's a roof over my head, and the rooms inside are heated.
I could go to the next room and take a shower right now if I wanted to.

A fluffy couch. A dining room table.
A toilet that flushes.
The softness of the civilized world encroaches upon me always.

I must keep it at bay.

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Last night, I left work.
Saddling up on my old Trek, I set off on the last half of my 56 mile round trip commute.

It was cold, and my toes numbed within minutes.
My face froze.
I hadn't eaten much during the day, and I welcomed the wobble in my legs.

Tractor trailers blew by me, and I snuck dangerously close to the white line, catching free speed from their drafts.

Soon, the lights of the city were gone. My small headlight shone on the pavement ahead- just enough to see any cracks in the road that might cause significant damage.

Other than the hum of my own tires: silence.
The moon hung in a perfectly clear sky- a sure sign that the temperature was only going to get lower.

I was left with nothing but analysis:
Of how my feet were going to hurt when they finally thawed.
How the moon and I have had some pretty intimate nights together on rides and runs just like this.

How being out there in the cold and dark, hungry, is so not something humans seek out. As a race, it's just not something we do. Much better and safer to go home and turn on the TV. Comfort. Why?

For a while, I pretended I was something else, and acknowledged the moon with a low howl.