"I want to come with you." Oh, peachy. The last thing I wanted was a kid to drag along. They'd
already had their ride. This was supposed to be my time, the last half hour before official sunset.
Fifteen minutes after that, in spite of the glow lingering in the sky, we had to be gone. That's
when they lock the park's gates. Up until a couple of months ago roughly 95% of my rides were solo,
unless you wanted to count the dogs. I was alone a lot, and I enjoyed it. But then Dan's work
schedule changed and gas got expensive and what were once solo rides turned into family outings. The
usual drill involves loading up the bikes and leaving as soon as the kids get home from school. We
do the eight mile loop with the kids, then drop them off at the trailhead, where they either sit in
the van and play video games or, weather permitting, play in the creek. Then their dad goes and
tackles one of the high trails and I do a fast five mile out-and-back, rebuilding legs and lungs
that have gone all floppy over the long, cold, wet winter. That leaves us just enough time to get
packed up and on the road before the ranger locks up. "I'm only going up to the railroad bridge and
back - five miles - and I'm going to go fast so we can get out of here before the park closes." " I
know. I still want to come with you. Can I?" "I'm not going to slow down or wait for you. If you
come along, you have to keep up. And no whining, either." We set off and by the time we reached the
entrance to the trail, we were cranking along at a pretty good clip. You can't really do an all out
sprint - too many people around for that to be safe - but 13 or 14 mph is do-able. My daughter hung
off my rear wheel like grim death until we hit the sand pits, where she dropped back maybe a hundred
feet. As we came to the final half mile or so before the bridge I had to focus more of my attention
on the twisty trail ahead of me. When I reached the bridge and turned to look back, she was nowhere
in sight. The trails has a lot of bends, and with the leaves up on the trees, you can't see more
than 50 feet down the trail. I barely had time to work up the first tinglings of concern (maybe 30
seconds?) when she hove into sight around the corner. She pulled up next to me, and we stood there
watching the sun reflecting off the river. I could feel the heat radiating from her bare arm next to
mine, could hear her breathing, sucking in deep gulps of air, and I knew what it had cost her to
maintain that pace. But she wasn't whining. "I'd like to see Ashley do *that*", I said quietly, and
watched her grin. Ashley is the self-appointed abitreuer of sixth grade feminity, and is profoundly
and vocally disturbed by my daughter's unconventional demeanor and choice of activities. We shared a
smirk at the thought of Ashley in bike shorts, covered with dust, splattered with mud, and Elaine
launched into a dead-on impression of Ashley's high-pitched voice, complaining about the clothes,
the lack of color-coordinated dirt, and the hard work. Then we headed back, cruising this time,
instead of cranking. And I was proud. I'm not ready yet, to pass the torch. But I'm happy to give my
daughter a light off of mine.
Kathleen