I was never any good at writing the bridge. I suppose you could argue I wasn’t good at verse or chorus either, but at least I came to band practice with those mostly ready. Thatch had to step in and write the bridges, those interludes when (theoretically) you make the listener anxious to hear the chorus again. His bridges were usually my favorite part of the songs I had written, and the most fun parts to play.
Being in a band had this rhythm like the songs did, practice, eat burritos, practice, eat burritos, play a show. The burritos were maybe the best part.
Running has that rhythm too, a lot of verse (training) and chorus (event), and then these slow, drone-y bridges. That’s where we are now. This one may have devolved into one of those space jams the hippies love so much. Basically, I’m wandering around the stage wondering what to do next.
Well, we ran 30 miles, and then the afterglow and hangover set in. Then I said yes to the dress, which in this case turned out to be a big gravel ride (grambling really) in New Hampshire. That had a short turn around. Do not nearly enough bike riding to get ready, and then launch headlong into the event as if you had. Suffer. Done!
In the build up to that spasm of cycling fun I crashed and sprained my ankle, so here we are on the backside of the big ride and I am not exactly in condition to hit it with the trail running.
Space jam. Attempts at soloing. Stumbling around in the heat on a bum ankle. Trying to find a massage therapist to unfuck my lower legs. Doing my best to keep moving.
That actually describes my acumen with guitar solos pretty well, stumbling around, doing my best to keep moving. Thankfully, my chosen genre didn’t require much from me in this regard.
So anyway, here we are in the bridge. I’m aching to get back to the verse. I have so much to say still, and you can’t hold the chorus off forever. Especially if it’s a sing-along.