The long winter, wet spring, and slow arrival of single-track ready weather's gotten me a touch reflexive as of late. It's my first riding season without Trek Far, my trusted steed of nearly 11 years. Sure, it wasn't in the same shape it was when I bought it at Snow Den Sports in Johnstown, PA, on my birthday in 2000. The tires were original, and so were the dings and scrapes, but the bottom bracket was on its way out and the shock long ago lost its coosh. I'd replaced it in my riding hierarchy with a fancy carbon fiber full suspension xc racing bike, the wheelset alone costing twice as much as I paid for Trek Far. But it still holds a special place in my heart as the first real mountain bike I'd owned. It sort of started it all, in a way. After I bought it, my brother and dad upgraded to non-big box bikes too. It is the bike that also helped me learn it isn't the ride but the rider that makes the difference in many cases.
I've also thought back further, almost as far as I can go actually, to some of the first memories I can recall. And guess what - they involve a bike. They are of me and my dad going for rides. Me strapped into a bright red child set sans helmet (back before common sense was mandatory), orange flag flapping high above my head. We'd venture out along the state highway and turn down dusty, pothole-riddled seasonal roads that 30+ years later are no longer passable. There were only one or two of them, and the rides weren't that lengthy, but they seemed then, and today, to go forever. The good kind of forever. I recall just being out, spending time with dad and seeing whatever there was to see - the reflections of the sky in the muddy pothole water, frogs, tractors, grasshoppers and smaller jumping insects. I remember them hitching a ride on my dad's back, and me on occasion trying to flick them off. One of the more memorable rides was the one where we flatted along the highway, just about to crest the small rise south of the house I grew up in. It was a loud explosion, and I remember being very startled. Dad calmly got off the bike and pushed us back home. No ride that day, but still an adventure.
I think that's what I am longing for most in this soggy bridge between snowy winter xc ski trails and dusty summer single-track - adventure... It is there, calling, but life is too - sometimes in a deafening, drown-everything-else-out way. Time is rolling on, and it is me that needs to make the time to get back in the saddle and explore those roads before they too become overgrown and impassable.
