More snow fell overnight, making any trail riding an exercise in futility, unless slip slidin’ away…hmm?…well…actually…it sounds pretty good right now from the the vantage of inside-looking-out while seated on the yoga ball and tappin’ at the keys. Not going to happen. I’ll have another glass of boxed wine and accept that winter is here, and that if I’m able get some trail miles on my legs over the next four months, it’ll likely mean putting some miles on the car’s odometer.
It can be a heady thing to sit back and delve into the cerebral world of filling the tank to drive a bike to the trailhead so that I can take it off the car, mount it, and pedal all day. I suppose there are worse things one can do. Still, it doesn’t sit squeaky clean in my conscience. Yet, further still, it’s going to have to be my own mindf?!ck for a lifetime: I need to ride knobbies on mountain, forest and desert paths.
Loved ones don’t always understand, but as we learn in A River Runs Through It, “we can love completely without complete understanding.” I can subscribe to that teaching. I don’t really know why I love mountain biking as much as I do.
I don’t understand why I ride one of the most perfect machines humans have ever created for hours on end on terrain that often is less than forgiving. I don’t understand why I smile when I crash into a tree, bash my shin into a rock, lungburn up a goat path. I don’t understand why when I’m riding I sometimes tell myself “I am never coming here again” and then find myself back at the same trail, enduring the same beating, and telling myself the same thing.
I go back. I go back and find that same crooked smile on my face mid-ride and remind myself, “you’ve been here before, and you’ll find your way back here again. A circular journey that moves forward at the same time, perhaps leading to a lesson or two as you go to-and-fro.”