Writing when I should be riding

The human mind can be a gracious gift. Sitting on a bus for hours on end, it's easy to find the imagination spinning to completely different locations, placing recognizable faces around every corner. When I feel too stuck in the reality of right now, it can be effortless to open a mental door and walk into a comfortable or uncomplicated daydream.
But with this gift, reality can become bothersome. I feel that one can slip into striving for moments of intense emotion when we aren't capable of having it at that moment. On the contrary, being on a bike in extreme heat for hours until I am in a safe location to stop, I find it more difficult to remove myself from reality. I can almost count the corn stalks and see the cracks in the dry earth as I plead for my legs to move a bit faster, yearning for the calm sway of my hammock.
Before travel, had fallen into a cycle of only striving for the beauty and the precisely over-emotional moments in life. Moments that should have brought me happiness or pleasure left me in a mental state of craving more. Conversation felt like arduous small talk, little moments of sharing a smile made me search for longer interactions, only to be disappointed by the reality of extended human connection.

I've been immersed in a constant state of ever-changing scenery and acquaintances due to travel. I was in Illinois on a road mostly tractors and local traffic used, and I couldn't even pronounce the next towns name. As I fumbled with my trail book, I searched for any sign of my next turn. I had read that there was no sign, but couldn't recall what the text said about landmark to guide me.
I had pulled off by some mailboxes, flipping through the book, shuffling through ripped out pages and not being able to find the context. A man on a seemingly tiny motorbike made his way around a patch of grass behind me. I turned to wait for a break in engine noise so I could inquire about the campgrounds. It was obvious to me he was working on the bike with how he was eyeing and listening to it.
His black button up, short sleeve shirt had a reoccurring print of full beer glasses, and his greying hair was still in the lack of a breeze as we chatted. A butterfly circled him and landed on his skin, yearning for the salt in his sweat. He had a joyously loud voice that made every thought easy to read as he talked. I found it easy to trust this stranger, who knew as much as myself with the location of the closest campsite.
John introduced me to his wife, Becky, who offered me more zucchini and cucumber that humanly possible to eat in one sitting. Her blonde hair was pulled back, bright eyes, and patience for her ever-joking, sometimes forgetfully excited counterpart. After a few bites of cucumber, I realized making the next campsite was far less exciting than listening to their interactions and watching the chickens and ducks they owned chase each other. They kindly agreed to let me stay, if I was okay with running errands with them.
Oquawka, Illinois, is a small town not unlike many that I roll through. It happened to be John's birthday, and his day consisted of more fun than work. He was on vacation from his train conducting job, and his errands drove us east to the bigger city of Galesburg. Before our errands, they took me to the gravesite of Norma Jean, an elephant that had been struck by lightning as the circus was rolling through town back in the 20's. We stopped at the gun range, the beer brewing store, the local grocer for berries to brew, and Lowes.  Though I was exhausted from the ride, I had a fun time as the passenger, watching the grey clouds threaten moister from safely inside a vehicle that moved ten times my bike pace. We had dinner at a pub that offered delicious burgers, as well as a great salad bar. I slept on their couch, across the mantle of their fireplace that held several different kinds of lava lamps. Saying goodbye in the morning, I rolled away with a few extra pounds of produce, their kind faces fading from view.
A few days down the road, I was passing fields of corn and soy when a cyclist passed me. After an hour or so on his return trip, he slowed and talked with me. After a few miles of conversation, he mentioned he worked for the railroad, and just so happened to know John. Greg has been training for cycling races, and was counting calories. He kindly took me to a buffet, where I enjoyed a few plates, apologising that he was only able to watch me. The conversation flowed, his interest in art and good movies similar to my own. We watched True Romance, and gushed (the gushing might have been one sided) about Richard Linklater's Before trilogy.
The details, when written down, don't feel as thick and amazing as when they were happening. I can easily compare it to wanting a rich meal when I can only afford dollar store tortillas. It's still satiating, but not as satisfying. The words I use may paint a picture in your mind, though I'm certain there is a lack in my communication.

Thank you for keeping up though I've been in a persistent writers block. Onward and upward, my dear.