Was on a solo road ride this weekend, spinning the wheels of my mind. Usually just head from home with a concept of a ride; general direction and time, and improvise. Things have changed. After watching 127 hrs with Tera last week I decided it was time I let her know where I’m going, more or less. She rolls her eyes when I tell her I ride differently when I’m by myself, especially on the dirt. Hey, it’s true, I do. There’s never any dust and no need to up the tempo heading for hole shot. On the road I’m more conservative in general and less likely to give someone the bird. I remember on of our first road trips together to Baja. We drove to the top of “El Picacho del Diablo” The Devil’s Pitchfork. About 50 miles South of Ensenada you take a left and drive for 60 miles up a dirt road to about 10,oo0 ft. I had read that this is the southern-most tip of the Sierra Nevada, having separated from the same range that forms Mt. Whitney thousands of years ago. We left the sage and cactus and summited into snow. We camped amongst massive granite boulders, aspens and pines. The next day I took off for four or five hours and she trusted I’d return safely. I did. Don’t know exactly where I was headed but couldn’t get too lost, or could I? To the east was a steep drop to the Sea of Cortez. From the top of the mountain you can see the dirty brown mouth of the Colorado, mainland Mexico and the Pacific Ocean! For five straight years I spent my spring break with D.H. in Moab. Summers in Oregon, Canada, Colorado. Racing, riding, relaxing. Pushing myself to the limit and then backing it up a notch; a day spent lounging at a local swimming hole. I’ve never been a nostalgic person. There are times I run into little league team mates who remember the Blue Jay and Padre championships at Ives Park. High School friends remind me of the epic soccer battles against Casa Grande or baseball games vs. El Molino. I catch a glimpse of longing in their voices; moments in others minds when time stood still and we were the center of the world. That’s what being a kid and playing sports was about. I only need to open my eyes to affirm that I’m no longer a kid and any illusion of the World revolving around me has long since passed, but while riding a bike time stands still. If I add up all of the years of time standing still does this mean I’ve missed something? I think not. Would I rather live in a time of less responsibility, family, personal obligations? Not for a second. There are those who wish to lay claim to having experienced something no one else has. They elicit ageism in relation to music, culture, sport in effort to lay personal claim to a sacred time. Didn’t someone recently attempt to take credit for the term “being in the zone”? For fuck sake, anyone want to take credit for the first orgasm??? When was the “golden age of mountain biking/ cycling”? I think someone will only attempt to define this if their time has passed. It’s impossible to put a finger on the present. To name is not to know. So, what are your “good ol’ days”? Hopefully it was today and will be again tomorrow; wrestling with your kids, a walk with your best friend, a ripping ride in Annadel or Mt. Tam. Tomorrow after work I’ll hit a favorite after work cross loop and baptize myself in a frigid bowl in E. Austin Creek. I won’t be “training” but will no doubt empty my cup so that it can be filled anew.