Seems like I am falling into a nice pattern–riding every Saturday.
My two daughters, 6 and 8, have tennis lessons on Saturday morning, and afterward we drop by an exceedingly busy Starbucks to jostle for a table, where we chow on doughnuts and egg sandwiches. Then we’re over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house, where we drop the girls off so they can gorge themselves on DVD movies, online games (barbie.com, games.com, et al). Once that’s all done, my wife and I hit the hills. She jogs. I ride. I’ve always wished that she would ride with me, but alas, as she has said many times: “I don’t like rocks.”
So alone I’ve been going, up the mountain.
This past Saturday, it was warm–almost 50 degrees. We hit Mount Falcon Park, which is a long grind up to a gorgeous meadow and lots of singletrack options. There were many other bikers around–a gang of five hit the trail a few minutes after me, and though I hate to admit it, I hammered it so they would not catch me. I mean, I didn’t kill myself, but I didn’t take it easy, either.
Up to the top, to some old ruins of a summer house, then on to a lovely, lonely, singletrack.
This is why I do this: to feel the pain, to scare myself awake. To be alone, to make myself into something I want to be. To breathe, to be in the midst of the forest. And all that.
If this keeps up, it just might become a habit I can’t break. Which is fine with me.