Sugarbush #145
Sugarbush ran since birth. She ran to a remote Caribbean isle where feral goats and land crabs bickered in the mangroves. She ran to the great white Yukon, where the sun rose and set for eight hours of each day, and starved wolves begged for raisins on the roadside. And south again, squatting for weeks in an island jungle, befriended by chickens and giant cane spiders. By bush plane, by sail, by greyhound, by thumb, by school bus, by child's huffy mountain bike, Sugarbush hauled ass. "This is bullshit," she kept repeating, sharing old donuts with tweaker homebums or sipping champagne at the Ritz in Madrid, "Bullshit." With a fierce burning in her loins for the smells of knotted wrackweed and sugarshacks at work, she returned to the wilds of Maine. And after all the squalor and all the glamour, she figured out that there isn't a damn thing out there any better than the crack of an opponent's knee pads hitting an old gym floor. All for derby.
