Mrs Henrietta off in the distance
I celebrated Veterans day today with a solo boogie in the northern
Gabilan Range to Henrietta Peak via San Juan Di Anza Historical Trail. I
ran into a couple of fire buddies in SJB while I was refueling the tank
and they said that I looked "tired". I was pedaling octagons up School
Rd on the return trip with a huge smile on my face. I was thinking of this mountain when I wrote this.
Wulerus who can't ride often dream of riding
I can almost make
out the words of the green street sign as the rising sun wiggles its way through
the early morning coastal fog. I usually don’t get up this early, but this all day ride has been on my mind for months and I
had to experience it again. As I approach the old fire house and the first
small decent of the day, I feel like reaching down and slowly dragging my hand
over the familiar smooth roads like a surfer would feel the silky moving water
of a wave.
When I was a kid, I
embraced the endless stretch of time between school years. That feeling of
drifting is one that I look back upon with fervor that borders on a jealousy of
my former self. I can’t remember particulars, only that feeling of freedom from
a life unencumbered, and drifting free. And while growing up has eliminated
those epic spans of time, the drift can still be felt off the tarmac. I climb to
crest the summit, and see the gravel bed lying down before me. I surge to pump
speed into the backside of the summit grade. I lift my hips up and behind the
seat, drop the heels, and personify a mountain lion about to pounce. As I
accelerate downhill my speed indicator is simply the wind whipping along my
ruffling jersey. The drive train whirs. Each tic of the freewheel is a
stressball rolling off my shoulders. I dive into a massive sweeping gravel left.
The bike leans over. While down below the tires claw for traction, up top I’m
relaxed, I’m drifting. And as I hit the apex of the turn and begin to carve, the
g-forces push the corners of my mouth upward. The wind. The drift. The smile.
The endless sense of time between this corner and the next. I’m young again.
I cherish the moment knowing the road has gifted me this day. My life long
kinship with the open road has been unwavering and feels like a warm blanket as
I drift in and out of its familiar spaces. As I pedal along leaving a virtual
trail of worries in the dust, I make subtle adjustments to my position unseen to
the naked eye which will prove to be crucial over the next 6 hours. As I scan
the horizon I can see my prominent and permanent friend off in the distance
waiting for my arrival. My mind settles on the notion that every valley, every
pebble, every inch of pavement, have defiantly conspired to deliver me to the
top of the mountain.
