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Written by Jack Martin
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I lean onto the mountain lake, pedal faster as the tires hydroplane
across the surface. The water unzips and unzips. My thighs and lungs
burn. The water offers little purchase. The shore approaches and
approaches. The water must be deep. I pedal. When front tire meets
bank, back tire sinks, and I downshift and crank, feet dripping, into
the gusty trees on a morning path where, something I haven’t earned, my
wife and children beside me, still asleep in our bed.
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