Riding Out of the Fog
I went to bed last night with the intention of getting up early for a ride with a friend. I'm not a morning person any longer, haven't been for several years now. When the kids were younger, I had to be a morning person to make sure they got up, ate breakfast, then set off to school on time. I, too, would go through the routine of readying myself for work and arriving to teach at 8 am.
Now, I find getting out of bed before 7 quite difficult.
This morning, though, I was up at 4:50, out the door and on the bike by 5:25. My friend and I rode 31 miles. The first 10 miles in fog. The last 21 miles in mist. We ended at a coffeehouse, where I indulged in tiger chai and an orange-cranberry scone.
With the first revolution of the crank, my being sighed. I hadn't realized how much I missed being on the bike until the front tire bumped off the driveway onto the street, and I began the short climb up to the main road that would take me to meet my friend. A physical response -- like a lightness infusing every cell -- contentment? joy? -- filled me. Like I had been holding my breath for way longer than I was truly capable then pulled in precious air. Relief.
My friend was waiting for me, and in the early morning quiet further hushed by the fog, we set off. We agreed to 20 miles, but 10 miles in he said, "Let's keep going." Fifteen miles brought us to one of my favorite stopping places, a bridge over a creek that winds through the fields. We talked some, not much, which is our usual. Neither of us ever truly feels the need to talk when we cycle together. A great blue heron flew out of the tall grasses, glided over the waist-high corn, and landed within the stalks.
The familiar fatigue in the legs showed up when I clipped in and began the short journey from the coffeehouse to home. Memories of days on the cross-country rides, the fatigue grabbing hold after a lunch stop, a snack break, any kind of time off the bike then back on to keep going, rushed in. I learned from those rides the fatigue will diminish if I just turn the crank. The fatigue was all but forgotten as I sailed down the hill to home.
Now, I find getting out of bed before 7 quite difficult.
This morning, though, I was up at 4:50, out the door and on the bike by 5:25. My friend and I rode 31 miles. The first 10 miles in fog. The last 21 miles in mist. We ended at a coffeehouse, where I indulged in tiger chai and an orange-cranberry scone.
With the first revolution of the crank, my being sighed. I hadn't realized how much I missed being on the bike until the front tire bumped off the driveway onto the street, and I began the short climb up to the main road that would take me to meet my friend. A physical response -- like a lightness infusing every cell -- contentment? joy? -- filled me. Like I had been holding my breath for way longer than I was truly capable then pulled in precious air. Relief.
My friend was waiting for me, and in the early morning quiet further hushed by the fog, we set off. We agreed to 20 miles, but 10 miles in he said, "Let's keep going." Fifteen miles brought us to one of my favorite stopping places, a bridge over a creek that winds through the fields. We talked some, not much, which is our usual. Neither of us ever truly feels the need to talk when we cycle together. A great blue heron flew out of the tall grasses, glided over the waist-high corn, and landed within the stalks.
The familiar fatigue in the legs showed up when I clipped in and began the short journey from the coffeehouse to home. Memories of days on the cross-country rides, the fatigue grabbing hold after a lunch stop, a snack break, any kind of time off the bike then back on to keep going, rushed in. I learned from those rides the fatigue will diminish if I just turn the crank. The fatigue was all but forgotten as I sailed down the hill to home.
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