I’ve been riding since late January. A mild winter and spring. The first 4-5 weeks I wore jeans and Cons and down jackets and a ski cap. No helmet. By March I grabbed the usual dress of my sport. Thermals. Rain pants. Layers. Many days of pedaling. But haven’t found the switch. These hours and miles. Each ride feels different. Some decent efforts. All of them into the wind. The next level doesn’t come.
Perched high and looking down. Trying to understand. I watch. I follow. Me. Going through motions once familiar. The ritual. What was once effortless isn’t. If I could find that switch. Because I can’t match my cadence. Or hold my own rear wheel. Who is this man. Who is this man now. I wonder. There’s an air of clumsy. It teases me. In time we will all be teased. Each time feels different.
I did four hours today. On a road through Killingworth. One dotted with stables and small farms and homes built in the 18th century, I passed a dirt driveway. And doubled back. To see a white-tailed deer and its fawn. A good 100 feet down the path. Both still as statues. I stared. Frozen in the moment. I stay in my space. Not a movement from the three of us. Could such a moment last. This beauty. I stared. And wanted all of it forever.
All This By Hand
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