I am not the world’s most organized person. “Naw!” my kids would say, watching me misch through the stacks of paper that have overrun our dining room table, my bedside table, and every bookcase in the house. I am searching for a notebook that’s full of all sorts of bicycle related information. Technical specs, dates of races, fragments of history. Which issue of Velo News has a particular article.
I’d like to work on Spokes, my pro cyclist romance, which I set aside when it was clear that I had two full Mountain novels to write and ranges of edits on three others, plus attention to the shorts. Nary a moment for my poor cyclists, whom I left at 20k words and a dreadful moment. Poor Christopher’s been staring at that ambulance for six months, and he’d really, really like to see something different.
I’d like to get him out of there too, and all my notes on how to do it have gone AWOL. They have to be here somewhere: I never throw things like that away. (“That’s half the problem, Mom!” my peanut gallery just chorused.) I have found other notebooks, though–three of them with Rare Event notes, 80 pages on the Titanic, jottings about poppies for Blood on the Mountain. But not a page with my detailed notes on Jacques Anquetil or Wouters Weland, not a scribble about the chapel of La Madonna del Ghisallo or race routes.
I have also found tax returns from 7 years, ago, several places neither I nor my cleaning lady have dusted recently, and a sock I despaired of finding and chucked its mate.
Thanks goodness for bookmarks in the browser. I can recreate most of what I need, and have already utilized the rest, but to call this “provoking” understates the matter, like describing the Giro de Italia or Tour de France as “nice little bike rides.”