J
Jonesy
Guest
The gravel is wet, and the large stone aggregate of the logging road is slippery in every way - the
knobs just aren't biting. Up, and up, and up, climbing into the cold fog, snow on the ground in many
places, damp leaf litter in others, waiting to act as the lubricant to reunite me with the ground.
The whole climb is a fight - fight against the cold air, fight against gravity, fight against iffy
traction - a fight I feel I'm losing. My legs are burning, and my mind is set to conquering it all,
head down, jaw set, get-up-that-hill-lactic-acid-be- damned determination. And the hill is winning.
I get to the turn-around damp and in poor sorts, "why the hell did I decide to come out today?
Football and beer would have been so much more fun." Dammit, I'm cold and wet and dirty, and I have
to now ride down the damn hill. Sit down on a rock, grab a handfull of goldfish crackers out and
munch a bit.
The woods are quiet. A persistent and steady off-rhythm of drips serenades my "lunch", and I swill a
bit of warm water to wash down the "cheese" flavor. Hmm, well, it's always nice to be out in the
woods, I guess. And it'll be warm in the car when I get going, so, really, so what if it's a little
cold? I just need to get back there in one piece, and then I can get to my beer and football.
First corner, 10 feet down the trail, the front slips on a root at an oblique angle to the trail.
The front decides to pop off the trail, and down hill. Oh, **** - tuck and take it. Only going at a
walking pace, so no big deal. wipe off the dirt and leaves, get back up, and start off again,
telling myself to take it easy, no need to shave thirty seconds off the run if I'm gonna smack a
tree as a reward. I'm thoroughly annoyed now.
The rest of the run down the trail is over in a flash - as I relaxed, the bike became just an
accessory, barely noticed as I flowed over roots and rocks and leaves and dirt. Everything going
smoothly, time slows down and you can see and feel it all - smooth, smooth, smooth. Where it's all
about the ride, and not what's being ridden. After so many rides - countless, really, I've never
felt the bike "disappear." Always conscious of the brakes, or suspension, or some other detail. And
always picking carefully each foot of trail to go over. And thinking hard about the next switchback,
or stream crossing, or narrow spot with exposure. Not now; it's just the woods and me, and I'm
barely there.
The trail ends, and it's back to the fireroad. I stop and think - do I really want to go home?
"Do it again!" my mind shouts. No, don't ruin it - know when to call it a day. Football and beer
are no reward
- all I can do is daydream of that all-too-short trip down the hill. I head to the garage and wipe
down the bike, lost in the just-riding-along in my mind. "Do it again!"
--
Jonesy
knobs just aren't biting. Up, and up, and up, climbing into the cold fog, snow on the ground in many
places, damp leaf litter in others, waiting to act as the lubricant to reunite me with the ground.
The whole climb is a fight - fight against the cold air, fight against gravity, fight against iffy
traction - a fight I feel I'm losing. My legs are burning, and my mind is set to conquering it all,
head down, jaw set, get-up-that-hill-lactic-acid-be- damned determination. And the hill is winning.
I get to the turn-around damp and in poor sorts, "why the hell did I decide to come out today?
Football and beer would have been so much more fun." Dammit, I'm cold and wet and dirty, and I have
to now ride down the damn hill. Sit down on a rock, grab a handfull of goldfish crackers out and
munch a bit.
The woods are quiet. A persistent and steady off-rhythm of drips serenades my "lunch", and I swill a
bit of warm water to wash down the "cheese" flavor. Hmm, well, it's always nice to be out in the
woods, I guess. And it'll be warm in the car when I get going, so, really, so what if it's a little
cold? I just need to get back there in one piece, and then I can get to my beer and football.
First corner, 10 feet down the trail, the front slips on a root at an oblique angle to the trail.
The front decides to pop off the trail, and down hill. Oh, **** - tuck and take it. Only going at a
walking pace, so no big deal. wipe off the dirt and leaves, get back up, and start off again,
telling myself to take it easy, no need to shave thirty seconds off the run if I'm gonna smack a
tree as a reward. I'm thoroughly annoyed now.
The rest of the run down the trail is over in a flash - as I relaxed, the bike became just an
accessory, barely noticed as I flowed over roots and rocks and leaves and dirt. Everything going
smoothly, time slows down and you can see and feel it all - smooth, smooth, smooth. Where it's all
about the ride, and not what's being ridden. After so many rides - countless, really, I've never
felt the bike "disappear." Always conscious of the brakes, or suspension, or some other detail. And
always picking carefully each foot of trail to go over. And thinking hard about the next switchback,
or stream crossing, or narrow spot with exposure. Not now; it's just the woods and me, and I'm
barely there.
The trail ends, and it's back to the fireroad. I stop and think - do I really want to go home?
"Do it again!" my mind shouts. No, don't ruin it - know when to call it a day. Football and beer
are no reward
- all I can do is daydream of that all-too-short trip down the hill. I head to the garage and wipe
down the bike, lost in the just-riding-along in my mind. "Do it again!"
--
Jonesy
