S
Spider
Guest
It's a sunny day, the N. Idaho trails are mostly firm, if not dry, and the bike calls me to ride.
Up, up, up 3 miles of double-track, stop every now and again to admire the view. What's this? I've
never seen this trail before...
A 30 vertical ft, 50-degree slope with rocks and loose dirt, and the run-out sucks. OK, no problem,
start slow, ass scraping the rear knobbies, slowly building speed so there's no skidding. Aw, **** -
there's a small drop-off at the bottom that I couldn't see from the top. Let the brakes go, get
ready to yank up on the bar, get ready to flex my knees...
Well, no crash, but its' not the same as last year. Everything *feels* different. Riding on the
road just hasn't prepared me, but I just don't know it yet - I thought it was just because it was a
new trail.
No, the *bike* is what's new. Everything is just slightly different. Now it dives when I'm on the
brakes, which means I have to get back more. And I can brake later, because the brakes are better.
And the riser bar makes the riding more upright than last year. And the new drive-train has
different ratios than last year's - which means I'm *never* in the right gear. I'm exhausted 2 miles
in, and it's not only the flabby legs. I've been chasing the bike the entire time, never out front.
I'm gased, thirsty, and looking forward to justing riding back and calling it a day. And I'm only
about 5 trail miles away from the car. Grumble.
Here's a wide spot with a good view and big log to rest my sorry legs. I sit on the grass and look
down on a clearcut that's growing back. Hawks wheel on updrafts, and a flicker is poking around that
dead tree for bugs. The wind whispers in the conifers, and the air smells of damp earth and
evergreens. My mind wanders...
I think about darsh. What would I do if I couldn't ride any more? I'd find something else to do, I'm
sure. Then I think about my dad. He had all kinds of plans, and they got cut short when renal cell
carcinoma took over his body and killed him in less than a year. Better get out and do now, while I
can. Since I can. No more worries about how my weak legs and different bike on an unfamiliar trail
are sucking. I guess stuff doesn't suck so much, now that I think about
it. Time to head back - I got stuff to do.
Downhill, it's all a blast. I know what the trail is gonna serve up, and I roll with it. I'm ahead
of the bike, and myself. Still can't find the right gear all the time, but life's *****. Some guys
down at the bottom have high-centered their Saturn, but have still unloaded their MGX bikes, and are
preparing to ride. They're both wearing flip-flops. I ask if they need help. "No, dude - we're
good." I say "take it easy," but I think they misunderstand my comment as one of goodbye. I call a
buddy that lives nearby to check up on them later - I'll buy him pizza next week.
On the way home, I don't think about the split seam on my Camelbak bladder, or the broken LCD on my
cycling computer. It just doesn't matter. My weak legs are going to be *****ing, I know, but that's
what Ibuprofen is for (better living through chemistry.) The bike needs some tweeking, but it's not
bad as it is. Just different.
I'm glad I can ride. I'm glad to be alive to ride. I think about darsh somemore, and what I would
say to him. I can't think of anything. The sunroof is open, and the music is playing. This is pretty
good, too.
To those of you to whom this makes sense: He is risen!
Happy Easter to you all,
j. Jones (Spider)
Up, up, up 3 miles of double-track, stop every now and again to admire the view. What's this? I've
never seen this trail before...
A 30 vertical ft, 50-degree slope with rocks and loose dirt, and the run-out sucks. OK, no problem,
start slow, ass scraping the rear knobbies, slowly building speed so there's no skidding. Aw, **** -
there's a small drop-off at the bottom that I couldn't see from the top. Let the brakes go, get
ready to yank up on the bar, get ready to flex my knees...
Well, no crash, but its' not the same as last year. Everything *feels* different. Riding on the
road just hasn't prepared me, but I just don't know it yet - I thought it was just because it was a
new trail.
No, the *bike* is what's new. Everything is just slightly different. Now it dives when I'm on the
brakes, which means I have to get back more. And I can brake later, because the brakes are better.
And the riser bar makes the riding more upright than last year. And the new drive-train has
different ratios than last year's - which means I'm *never* in the right gear. I'm exhausted 2 miles
in, and it's not only the flabby legs. I've been chasing the bike the entire time, never out front.
I'm gased, thirsty, and looking forward to justing riding back and calling it a day. And I'm only
about 5 trail miles away from the car. Grumble.
Here's a wide spot with a good view and big log to rest my sorry legs. I sit on the grass and look
down on a clearcut that's growing back. Hawks wheel on updrafts, and a flicker is poking around that
dead tree for bugs. The wind whispers in the conifers, and the air smells of damp earth and
evergreens. My mind wanders...
I think about darsh. What would I do if I couldn't ride any more? I'd find something else to do, I'm
sure. Then I think about my dad. He had all kinds of plans, and they got cut short when renal cell
carcinoma took over his body and killed him in less than a year. Better get out and do now, while I
can. Since I can. No more worries about how my weak legs and different bike on an unfamiliar trail
are sucking. I guess stuff doesn't suck so much, now that I think about
it. Time to head back - I got stuff to do.
Downhill, it's all a blast. I know what the trail is gonna serve up, and I roll with it. I'm ahead
of the bike, and myself. Still can't find the right gear all the time, but life's *****. Some guys
down at the bottom have high-centered their Saturn, but have still unloaded their MGX bikes, and are
preparing to ride. They're both wearing flip-flops. I ask if they need help. "No, dude - we're
good." I say "take it easy," but I think they misunderstand my comment as one of goodbye. I call a
buddy that lives nearby to check up on them later - I'll buy him pizza next week.
On the way home, I don't think about the split seam on my Camelbak bladder, or the broken LCD on my
cycling computer. It just doesn't matter. My weak legs are going to be *****ing, I know, but that's
what Ibuprofen is for (better living through chemistry.) The bike needs some tweeking, but it's not
bad as it is. Just different.
I'm glad I can ride. I'm glad to be alive to ride. I think about darsh somemore, and what I would
say to him. I can't think of anything. The sunroof is open, and the music is playing. This is pretty
good, too.
To those of you to whom this makes sense: He is risen!
Happy Easter to you all,
j. Jones (Spider)
