Last year Ethan started pee-wee soccer. His first game he would not play, he just sat in my lap and cried, like a lot of 4 year olds in their first soccer game.
We had prepared and talked about it beforehand. Got the cleats, shin guards, socks, shorts etc. But when it was game time, he folded like a house of cards.
I wasn't too pleased, and I let him know it. I started down the route that I hear so many other parents take, basically letting their 4 year olds know how disappointed they are in them.
Later, after we got home, I asked him what happened...Daddy was disappointed etc. As I was talking to him and explaining how it was not acceptable to cry on the sidelines, I asked him why he didn't want to play.
Tears welling up in his eyes, he looked at me and said, "Because I don't know -how- to play".
Bam. Just like that, the 4-year old put it in perspective. Of course he doesn't. I never took the time to practice with him or let him just kick the ball around. Dagger to the heart, but not left unheard.
So, Dad went on a mission. Practice, drills, and focused attention all next week. Little by little the concepts sunk in and he let go if his fear.
Then, the following week, armed with his new found confidence...he scored 4 goals. And I was reminded again of the process of mastery...the slow, deliberate process that weeds out all the mistakes beforehand so all that is left at gametime is the poetry of motion, the simplicity and grace on the far end of complexity that the masters make look so easy. The realized vision that starts with the most simple yet complex of steps...the getting of the wanting to just kick that ball into the goal.
It was like watching a piece of fine art develop over time every time the artist had a chance (weekly) to learn something new.
Over the course of the season, he regularly scored 4, 5, even 10 goals once. I heard other parents literally say "check that kid's birth certificate" even though he was 4 in the 4 and 5 year old league.
My son both humbled me and inspired me that season.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Windows of time
It doesn't take long. One minute they're covered in goo, gasping for their first breaths of air, then bawling because they can't fit all their toy people into the playskool bus you bought them. Shortly thereafter they get mobile and destroy everything in range without prejudice while at the same time learning to say I love you Daddy. Then come the first days of school which they see as a fun new adventure with playgrounds and classmates and leaving you with the un-grounded and irrational fears that they may face ridicule or isolation...or as I have come to discover, parental separation anxiety, just like our dog Duke used to display whenever one of us left.
Then the fun begins.
Daddy is the hero.
Stronger, taller, faster, smarter and more handsome and dashing than any other man that has ever existed.
These are really the best years, the years you want to maximize, to freeze in time. These are the years you discover things with them: The beach and the tides and all the wonders of a shoreline. The mountains, the snow, the altitude and the quietness of a remote meadow. Theme parks and rollercoasters. Leather-bound notebooks, Knights, Ladies and all sorts of characters at a Renaissance Festival. National parks and monuments and roadside tourist traps. Overpriced cave tours and under-priced museums. Interesting downtown areas that are only interesting to mom and dad. Summer campgrounds in new places with new and temporary friends, playgrounds, and strange 3-wheeled bikes that dad was hesitant to rent but glad he did. Remembering that dad said something about shoes and cactus and running around in the desert and yeah, flip-flops were a bad idea. Sitting around campfires on those same 6 chairs, and the conversations and s'mores that came with it.
And sometimes, sorrow. Like learning of the disappearance and death of a relatively young uncle, and wondering why mom and dad were gone for 2 weeks. Then wondering why they were different when they got home. Then wondering why they were so sad when they heard the news.
It's a cliche, but life is fleeting. Regardless of your belief system, in all the eternities, you don't get do-overs with the time you spend with your kids when they're young. I'm acutely aware of the age they gain every day, and regularly remind myself of the infinite value of every hug, kiss, wave and living acknowledgement we give each other. I try to treat them all like they are our last, for two reasons: 1) It could be and 2) I don't want our last to feel like I've been holding something back. No, I value my integrity too much to let someone I love see me die and wonder if I really meant it when I said I love them more than anything.
They will be off and away soon, citizens of their own future reality, forging a life of their own and coming to realize the fleeting nature of the things they hold most dear. Men talk of legacies and empires, and of course my children may inherit some of mine someday. But, as far as legacies go, my only real hope is that they simply remember the love they felt from their Daddy when they were young, seeing the things they did and feeling the things they did, in that special window of time when life was new and their minds were fresh.
Then the fun begins.
Daddy is the hero.
Stronger, taller, faster, smarter and more handsome and dashing than any other man that has ever existed.
These are really the best years, the years you want to maximize, to freeze in time. These are the years you discover things with them: The beach and the tides and all the wonders of a shoreline. The mountains, the snow, the altitude and the quietness of a remote meadow. Theme parks and rollercoasters. Leather-bound notebooks, Knights, Ladies and all sorts of characters at a Renaissance Festival. National parks and monuments and roadside tourist traps. Overpriced cave tours and under-priced museums. Interesting downtown areas that are only interesting to mom and dad. Summer campgrounds in new places with new and temporary friends, playgrounds, and strange 3-wheeled bikes that dad was hesitant to rent but glad he did. Remembering that dad said something about shoes and cactus and running around in the desert and yeah, flip-flops were a bad idea. Sitting around campfires on those same 6 chairs, and the conversations and s'mores that came with it.
And sometimes, sorrow. Like learning of the disappearance and death of a relatively young uncle, and wondering why mom and dad were gone for 2 weeks. Then wondering why they were different when they got home. Then wondering why they were so sad when they heard the news.
It's a cliche, but life is fleeting. Regardless of your belief system, in all the eternities, you don't get do-overs with the time you spend with your kids when they're young. I'm acutely aware of the age they gain every day, and regularly remind myself of the infinite value of every hug, kiss, wave and living acknowledgement we give each other. I try to treat them all like they are our last, for two reasons: 1) It could be and 2) I don't want our last to feel like I've been holding something back. No, I value my integrity too much to let someone I love see me die and wonder if I really meant it when I said I love them more than anything.
They will be off and away soon, citizens of their own future reality, forging a life of their own and coming to realize the fleeting nature of the things they hold most dear. Men talk of legacies and empires, and of course my children may inherit some of mine someday. But, as far as legacies go, my only real hope is that they simply remember the love they felt from their Daddy when they were young, seeing the things they did and feeling the things they did, in that special window of time when life was new and their minds were fresh.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Excavation, earth, and restoration
Holy Mary mother of God manual labor is hard. I say that in those terms because it sounds Catholic and for some reason, it sounds like the appropriate thing to preface my lamentations regarding pick, shovel and wheelbarrow. But I digress already. Yes, landscaping is hard if you have an ambitious plan and are doing a good portion of it yourself. It's also stressful because there is this big expensive mess in our front yard that runs a very high risk of becoming the stereotypical eternal project that those of the male persuasion seem to be pre-disposed to start and never finish. However, finish I will. Come hell or high water or credit card abuse, finish I will.
What's interesting to me is that the earth, in this story, just sits there and doesn't want to do anything except sit there and do nothing. "The" Earth is vibrant and changing and moving and evolving in so many other ways, but in my yard, shit just sits there. And that shit is heavy.
Days of pounding, breaking, lifting, shoveling and moving large chunks of aforementioned earth have left me sore and worn but with a renewed appreciation of why I avoided the allure of construction apprenticeships and criminal enterprises and went to college. But I will admit, smashing the shit out of something does something for the soul. Especially if it needed to be smashed and the replacement is entirely dictated by the needs of your soul. Yeah it's only a front yard, but it's MY front yard and dammit it's gonna be built like my front yard was meant to be built. Pleasant, organized, clean and appealing, but with a hint of different and a large dose of attention to details. And I sure as hell will not have any damn lantanas. Or palm trees.
What's interesting to me is that the earth, in this story, just sits there and doesn't want to do anything except sit there and do nothing. "The" Earth is vibrant and changing and moving and evolving in so many other ways, but in my yard, shit just sits there. And that shit is heavy.
Days of pounding, breaking, lifting, shoveling and moving large chunks of aforementioned earth have left me sore and worn but with a renewed appreciation of why I avoided the allure of construction apprenticeships and criminal enterprises and went to college. But I will admit, smashing the shit out of something does something for the soul. Especially if it needed to be smashed and the replacement is entirely dictated by the needs of your soul. Yeah it's only a front yard, but it's MY front yard and dammit it's gonna be built like my front yard was meant to be built. Pleasant, organized, clean and appealing, but with a hint of different and a large dose of attention to details. And I sure as hell will not have any damn lantanas. Or palm trees.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Love Shack
So Amy and I have pretty much completed the purging and re-settlement of our lives, at least for now. We just purchased our first house together, a semi-craftsman style bungalow on a 1/4 acre in a historical district in Mesa. Mostly restored but still needs touches and upgrades, which we now have a lifetime to work on and further settle the sediments in our healthy pond.
Divorce for us was like tossing a big rock in a small pond and watching the all sediments that had collected get kicked up and examined by the small trickle of life that was left flowing in and out of our souls. Values and possessions, ideas and dreams, fears and assumptions, all tossed up into the flow of life to get re-assessed, re-prioritized, re-valued.
Turned out we were living in some pretty toxic, lifeless, stagnant ponds.
It also turns out those ponds can get stagnant again pretty easily if you're not careful. What I didn't realize was that the way to keep the cleansing flow of life flowing strong was to keep pushing it out the other end of the pond.
So, back to the house. This is a big deal for me, because for the first time in my life, I really feel like this is a place that will be with me for a long time. I have never lived in the same place for more than about 3 years. Seems like I've always been moving. I remember growing up wishing that I just had a personal space, one that I din't have to share with siblings or the occasional daycare that my mom would start up from time to time when money was tight. One that wasn't just a stepping stone to a bigger, "more settled" house that never came. One that wasn't just a waypoint on some random journey to nowhere.
This place feels more right than anything I have anticipated moving into before. The future gem that others can't see. A place to plant our lives and branch out from, give back to our kids, family and community. A place to give our kids recurring memories and a place to call home that actually has our influence all over it. A place that doesn't require a house number to distinguish it from the rest of the street. A home that reflects who we are and what we value. It's about time.
Divorce for us was like tossing a big rock in a small pond and watching the all sediments that had collected get kicked up and examined by the small trickle of life that was left flowing in and out of our souls. Values and possessions, ideas and dreams, fears and assumptions, all tossed up into the flow of life to get re-assessed, re-prioritized, re-valued.
Turned out we were living in some pretty toxic, lifeless, stagnant ponds.
It also turns out those ponds can get stagnant again pretty easily if you're not careful. What I didn't realize was that the way to keep the cleansing flow of life flowing strong was to keep pushing it out the other end of the pond.
So, back to the house. This is a big deal for me, because for the first time in my life, I really feel like this is a place that will be with me for a long time. I have never lived in the same place for more than about 3 years. Seems like I've always been moving. I remember growing up wishing that I just had a personal space, one that I din't have to share with siblings or the occasional daycare that my mom would start up from time to time when money was tight. One that wasn't just a stepping stone to a bigger, "more settled" house that never came. One that wasn't just a waypoint on some random journey to nowhere.
This place feels more right than anything I have anticipated moving into before. The future gem that others can't see. A place to plant our lives and branch out from, give back to our kids, family and community. A place to give our kids recurring memories and a place to call home that actually has our influence all over it. A place that doesn't require a house number to distinguish it from the rest of the street. A home that reflects who we are and what we value. It's about time.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Persimmon haze
The dirt is caked on like a thick layer of powdered sugar. I feel everything. I live to ride again.
That is to say; I live, to ride again.
Rode the east/west loops yesterday. It had been awhile, and like most trails lately, I'm re-discovering them with a different body. I'm trying to restore to myself the body I had 3 years ago...lean, fast and aware. But 3 years of change and recovery has made me soft. I've dropped 15 pounds so far this year, looking to drop at least 30 more, but I'm finding age has decided I can't do that as fast as I used to. I was 29 when I finished grad school and found the time to again think about my body in addition to my mind and soul. I was almost 31 when the restoration was complete.
I'll be 38 in a month and I feel like I've aged 20 years since that triumphant day in November, just over 7 years ago. Just found some old pictures of me from 5 or 6 years ago and Amy said I looked like a cancer patient in some of them. I suppose, but those were the days of lean, fast and aware. And I want it back.
And get it back I will. Just posted another personal best on a familiar route and took another ride a few days later on a trail I thought I'd never enjoy again...but that Secret trail was even better than the one I'm so used to. I laugh at the pathetic meaning I once attached to it. Something about change, but now I know, it's just another trail, and my body feels the climbs just the same.
My lenses on my riding glasses are persimmon now, not dark grey. I like the clarity, but metaphorically, I like the fact that I can't hide my attention anymore. I never liked being hidden, but the haze that accumulated made it all to easy.
7 days now, 7 more rides. I've been ineffective this week. Time to wipe the haze away.
That is to say; I live, to ride again.
Rode the east/west loops yesterday. It had been awhile, and like most trails lately, I'm re-discovering them with a different body. I'm trying to restore to myself the body I had 3 years ago...lean, fast and aware. But 3 years of change and recovery has made me soft. I've dropped 15 pounds so far this year, looking to drop at least 30 more, but I'm finding age has decided I can't do that as fast as I used to. I was 29 when I finished grad school and found the time to again think about my body in addition to my mind and soul. I was almost 31 when the restoration was complete.
I'll be 38 in a month and I feel like I've aged 20 years since that triumphant day in November, just over 7 years ago. Just found some old pictures of me from 5 or 6 years ago and Amy said I looked like a cancer patient in some of them. I suppose, but those were the days of lean, fast and aware. And I want it back.
And get it back I will. Just posted another personal best on a familiar route and took another ride a few days later on a trail I thought I'd never enjoy again...but that Secret trail was even better than the one I'm so used to. I laugh at the pathetic meaning I once attached to it. Something about change, but now I know, it's just another trail, and my body feels the climbs just the same.
My lenses on my riding glasses are persimmon now, not dark grey. I like the clarity, but metaphorically, I like the fact that I can't hide my attention anymore. I never liked being hidden, but the haze that accumulated made it all to easy.
7 days now, 7 more rides. I've been ineffective this week. Time to wipe the haze away.
What a great song
Ha. So fitting in so many respects. Chase after it, you overgrown children, cause that's all you can ever do. Seek after that which you think you need...Amuse us, because at the end of the day, after all the words come out and and the only thing left is primal...who acts and who does what they're told?
You Don't Know What Love Is (The White Stripes):
In some respects
I suspect you've got a respectable side
When pushed and pulled and pressured
You seldom run and hide
But its for someone elses benefit
Not for what you wanna do
Until I realize that you've realized
I'm gonna say these words to you
You don't know what love is
You do as you're told
Just as a child at ten might act
But you're far too old
You're not hopeless or helpless
and I hate to sound cold
But you dont know what love is...
You just do as you're told
I can see your man
cant help but win
any problems that may arise
but in his mind there can be no sin
if you never criticize
you just keep on repeating
all those empty "I love you's"
until you say you deserve better
I'm gonna lay right into you
You don't know what love is
you just do as you're told
just as a child of ten might act
but your far too old
your not hopeless or helpless
and i hate to sound cold
but you don't know what love is
no you don't know what love is
no you don't know what love is
you just do as you're told
you do as you're told
yeah
Friday, January 27, 2012
7 days, 7 rides
Day one:
Desert classic. Pima canyon, to the tank and back. 50 minutes in the setting sun. Tires settling in, found the right pressure for the rear, still too much in front. The green concoction seems to work well, good for porous non-UST tires. Still so fat and slow, 30 pounds away from where I will be in a few months. Working those climbs, re-awakening those muscles as much as I can before age and life take them away. Familiar trail, familiar sights, familiar thoughts. Push, shift, push again. Get over the top. I am happy with where I am. Shift again, build momentum. Life's crazy, all the twists and turns. Another hill. Shift, spin, grab and go. Ride the balance, don't let it spin out. It would be easy to overpower here, but that would kill the flow of the journey. Feel the tension between earth and motion, understand how it works, and ride it up. No emergency, no need to disturb the earth here. Fast and flowy now. Gravity is pulling but the trail is resisting. Find your center, aim, lean her over, and find where the edges start to have their say.
I am happy with where I am.
Day two:
Desert classic, to the tank and back, slightly different route. Same setting sun, different results. 45 minutes, out and back. Routine? Really? Already? Tires better, but the back is a little slushy. Easy fix. Individual rocks that fight back, all day every day, are felt even less. Almost dialed in, but I'd like to quit thinking about that. Did I make the right choice? I like things that matter, things that last, things that don't change or break at the first sign of trouble. And yes, it still feels soooo good, regardless of what my micro-vision may suggest. Perfect? Nope. But what is? Can't hold a double standard on my life and what is right in front of me. Spent too many years overly concerned with the so-called ideals that I lost touch with the now. And the now is, quite simply, I'm getting faster again. Don't need a therapist to figure that one out.
Day Three:
Desert classic: Pima Canyon, tank, Secret loop, tank, Pima canyon. 75 minutes. When your usual ride starts to feel too long, go for a longer one. Little things start to come back, like where to center yourself on a fast corner, or that big cog/big ring is a no-no. Lost my chain twice this ride, and something started squeaking. Think I hosed my rear derailleur. Tires felt perfect though. I'm such a diva. Locked out my rear shock for about half the ride, think I'll do that more often, on this trail at least. Am actively fighting the guilt of leaving work early and the perception of not spending as much time with the family, but the benefit of more endorphins in the system and just more good juju in general seem to be countering that. For now. Soldiering on. Tomorrow, a relaxed change-up, me thinks. Pima canyon, east-west loops, up and down Javelina, east-west loops, and back. Maybe bring the big bike and test the Marz 66.
Day Four:
Fuck it. Don't wanna drive to the trailhead, don't wanna go through the routine. Jeans, Keens, and a cruiser work right now.
Day Five:
Good ride on DC with an old friend. Slow is just a phase, not a perpetual prison. And, in the end, truly just a function of choices, driven by priorities. Like anything, slow happens because you don't push the slow back. You let it decide because you either haven't decided, or worse, decided to let it back in. But sometimes it just happens. Learning to push it back and not be afraid of it is a step. A small one, but a step nonetheless.
I have spent my life on journeys of some kind or other. I am happiest and most productive when I am on one. Biking, skiing, driving, educating myself or others, tour guide, writer, whatever. The act of the unfurling journey is what I crave. I get bored when I arrive, I am anxious when I can't leave. Navigation is my calling.
Day Six:
Papago. From the house. A fast 45 minutes and a whole new section of trail discovered. Funny, just the ride through campus and up Mill ave. is almost as entertaining than the dirt part. I must look like a fool to the kids I pass by, the old guy riding his over-priced mid-life-crisis bike. But I don't even care in the slightest, which I guess makes me an -eccentric- old guy riding his over-priced mid-life-crisis bike. I'll keep on turning those cranks and enjoy the buzz of the knobbies on the concrete. I'll not worry about the annoying creaks coming from my under-lubricated seatpost. I find myself thinking of my kids and family and how much they mean to me. I love the state of mind I'm in when pedaling, that's the mental place where I want to be when I leave this life.
Day Seven:
FINS. Fantasy Island North Singletrack. Not bad, but nothing I'd call flowy either. Fun, but in a different, more deliberate and raw kind of way. Like an amateur musician's first composition, got so caught up with each measure and note that the idea comes out distorted when played at normal speed. Maybe we rode it in the wrong direction, everyone seemed to be going the other way. Ah, that's it, we were playing the record backwards! No wonder it sounded like devil music.
Was good to ride again with Dan and Rick. I got Dan into mountain biking about 5 years ago and created a monster. It's good to see, I'm glad I turned him on to it. Rick and I hadn't ridden together in about 2 years prior to last Sunday at SoMo. Feels good to be riding with old friends again. 4 years of monumental changes seem to be coming full circle. I was in such a stable yet miserable place then, like the song was playing but terribly out of key. I still look forward to retirement and the RV and traveling the country but I'm in no hurry to get there now. The thought of the next few hours, the next few years and decades, if not the whole lot of my time left, hold enough potential to keep me in that state of wonder, that place I want to be always, at the end, and beyond. I perceive things now that I would have missed, things that will live on just because I notice them now.
7 days and 7 rides wasn't just a goal, it turns out. It was a prescription.
Desert classic. Pima canyon, to the tank and back. 50 minutes in the setting sun. Tires settling in, found the right pressure for the rear, still too much in front. The green concoction seems to work well, good for porous non-UST tires. Still so fat and slow, 30 pounds away from where I will be in a few months. Working those climbs, re-awakening those muscles as much as I can before age and life take them away. Familiar trail, familiar sights, familiar thoughts. Push, shift, push again. Get over the top. I am happy with where I am. Shift again, build momentum. Life's crazy, all the twists and turns. Another hill. Shift, spin, grab and go. Ride the balance, don't let it spin out. It would be easy to overpower here, but that would kill the flow of the journey. Feel the tension between earth and motion, understand how it works, and ride it up. No emergency, no need to disturb the earth here. Fast and flowy now. Gravity is pulling but the trail is resisting. Find your center, aim, lean her over, and find where the edges start to have their say.
I am happy with where I am.
Day two:
Desert classic, to the tank and back, slightly different route. Same setting sun, different results. 45 minutes, out and back. Routine? Really? Already? Tires better, but the back is a little slushy. Easy fix. Individual rocks that fight back, all day every day, are felt even less. Almost dialed in, but I'd like to quit thinking about that. Did I make the right choice? I like things that matter, things that last, things that don't change or break at the first sign of trouble. And yes, it still feels soooo good, regardless of what my micro-vision may suggest. Perfect? Nope. But what is? Can't hold a double standard on my life and what is right in front of me. Spent too many years overly concerned with the so-called ideals that I lost touch with the now. And the now is, quite simply, I'm getting faster again. Don't need a therapist to figure that one out.
Day Three:
Desert classic: Pima Canyon, tank, Secret loop, tank, Pima canyon. 75 minutes. When your usual ride starts to feel too long, go for a longer one. Little things start to come back, like where to center yourself on a fast corner, or that big cog/big ring is a no-no. Lost my chain twice this ride, and something started squeaking. Think I hosed my rear derailleur. Tires felt perfect though. I'm such a diva. Locked out my rear shock for about half the ride, think I'll do that more often, on this trail at least. Am actively fighting the guilt of leaving work early and the perception of not spending as much time with the family, but the benefit of more endorphins in the system and just more good juju in general seem to be countering that. For now. Soldiering on. Tomorrow, a relaxed change-up, me thinks. Pima canyon, east-west loops, up and down Javelina, east-west loops, and back. Maybe bring the big bike and test the Marz 66.
Day Four:
Fuck it. Don't wanna drive to the trailhead, don't wanna go through the routine. Jeans, Keens, and a cruiser work right now.
I have not introduced my cruiser, have I? Coaster brakes, 29-inch wheels, big fat black leather seat with red piping, cool grey ano frame, and nice accents. Enjoyable on a totally different plane, like an alternate universe where fun comes before pain. It's like a wormhole shortcut into a perfect, effortless moment of single-speed motion, comfy laid-back posture, super-hero intentions, and all the accuracy of a la-z-boy mounted in the driver position of a 76 Cadillac Coupe-de-Ville after a few shots. 4 to 16 shots, to be "specific". 45 minutes of checking out the 'hood and pushing a little extra harder just to see what happens, rewarded by completing day 4, even when I didn't want to.
Day Five:
Good ride on DC with an old friend. Slow is just a phase, not a perpetual prison. And, in the end, truly just a function of choices, driven by priorities. Like anything, slow happens because you don't push the slow back. You let it decide because you either haven't decided, or worse, decided to let it back in. But sometimes it just happens. Learning to push it back and not be afraid of it is a step. A small one, but a step nonetheless.
I have spent my life on journeys of some kind or other. I am happiest and most productive when I am on one. Biking, skiing, driving, educating myself or others, tour guide, writer, whatever. The act of the unfurling journey is what I crave. I get bored when I arrive, I am anxious when I can't leave. Navigation is my calling.
Day Six:
Papago. From the house. A fast 45 minutes and a whole new section of trail discovered. Funny, just the ride through campus and up Mill ave. is almost as entertaining than the dirt part. I must look like a fool to the kids I pass by, the old guy riding his over-priced mid-life-crisis bike. But I don't even care in the slightest, which I guess makes me an -eccentric- old guy riding his over-priced mid-life-crisis bike. I'll keep on turning those cranks and enjoy the buzz of the knobbies on the concrete. I'll not worry about the annoying creaks coming from my under-lubricated seatpost. I find myself thinking of my kids and family and how much they mean to me. I love the state of mind I'm in when pedaling, that's the mental place where I want to be when I leave this life.
Day Seven:
FINS. Fantasy Island North Singletrack. Not bad, but nothing I'd call flowy either. Fun, but in a different, more deliberate and raw kind of way. Like an amateur musician's first composition, got so caught up with each measure and note that the idea comes out distorted when played at normal speed. Maybe we rode it in the wrong direction, everyone seemed to be going the other way. Ah, that's it, we were playing the record backwards! No wonder it sounded like devil music.
Was good to ride again with Dan and Rick. I got Dan into mountain biking about 5 years ago and created a monster. It's good to see, I'm glad I turned him on to it. Rick and I hadn't ridden together in about 2 years prior to last Sunday at SoMo. Feels good to be riding with old friends again. 4 years of monumental changes seem to be coming full circle. I was in such a stable yet miserable place then, like the song was playing but terribly out of key. I still look forward to retirement and the RV and traveling the country but I'm in no hurry to get there now. The thought of the next few hours, the next few years and decades, if not the whole lot of my time left, hold enough potential to keep me in that state of wonder, that place I want to be always, at the end, and beyond. I perceive things now that I would have missed, things that will live on just because I notice them now.
7 days and 7 rides wasn't just a goal, it turns out. It was a prescription.
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