Our recent acquisition of a four-bike bicycle carrier opened up a whole world of far-flung bike trails this summer. The carrier and the fact that life as we've known it for the last five years is about to change dramatically has spurred us to spend more time than usual together, much of it pedalling the length and breath of the county. My companions, the OC [Old Curmudgeon] and the The Bean [youngest son] have the whole alpha male thing going, one being the incumbent, the other the challenger. The one is intent on losing accumulated poundage, the other on amassing muscle. And so they ride at man-speed--hard and fast, getting a thrill from testing their endurance. It may just be a bike trail in an obscure county in central Florida, but for them it's just a blink from "Le Tour" and they're the peleton.
And me? I'm just happy to be on the bike, puttering along at mom-speed. We rode bikes everywhere when I was a child so it's like a comfort activity [like comfort food...]--something I've always known how to do. The thrill for me lies in watching the butterflies flit, feeling the sun warm on my skin, stopping to watch a huge gopher tortoise remodelling his burrow. Something about the rushing air, the buzz of insects, whizzing along from merciful tree cover to blinding sunshine, then back again into cool, green shadow....it sets my brain on fire! The ideas tumble over each other , each one wanting center stage. I've written brilliant stuff in my head on these bike rides. Brilliant drafts of brilliant blogs---not one of which I can remember when I get home. And that's a problem. As soon as the bike is back on its hook in the garage, the ideas shrivel up. Does this mean I have to take a tent and camp out on the Withlacoochee Trail just to keep the creative juices flowing? What I need is a small handlebar-mounted desk and a pencil holder next to my water bottle cage......While my brain is wrestling with how this fantasy could be accomplished The Bean comes zooming towards me, skids a u-turn and herds me towards the car.
While they drip all over the pavement and mop themselves with towels, I retrieve some dry jerseys from the trunk. So they're not yellow, but who cares?
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