To ride where I do, you have to be a willing target. One for aimless autos transporting their mindless automatons with cell phones grafted to their hands and faces.
One for rigs spewing acrid after-burn that immediately sets up shop in the peeps, schnoz, and windbags, our most naturally efficient system for toxin transport to blood and brain.
One for frigid, mist-laden gales that bite and _always_ blow against. One for spider webs that cordon off the trail every few feet and stick to lips, tongue, and lenses, and slow you down just from their weight and friction.
One for bees, who find the most beautiful of settings and fair of skin.
One for leash-less k9s that want nothing more than to savor your spinning meat.
One for mud that is primed to vector fauna scat and giardia down your throat. One for
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