An Ice Cream, A Mountain Bike, and a Naked Ping Pong League
It was February the last time I was able to hop on my Mountain Bike and hit a trail. There has been injury and rehab and injury and rehab and injury and rehab that have kept me at arms length from the phantom horse that carries me over river and dale. No longer will that distance be tolerated.
Trails are waiting for me out amongst the bramble and the brush. Sunset hectors me for a race. The vacation bank is full, and I'm thirsty for some time to separate from the day to day. An old joy is rising from the depths; memories rush forward begging to be recalled. I love the trail. I've missed the trail.
My wife, loving and understanding to the core, has given me the green light to ride the earth, like Cain in Kung Fu and Jules in Pulp Fiction, except I'll be on a mountain bike and not on foot.
It may seem like the blog is dead while I'm gone, but it merely sleeps. Maybe during that slumber dreams will come, dreams less haunting, dreams less crushing. The soul needs a hot cup of adventure to sip, or it will shrivel up and die. The heart needs to beat wildly while fleeing breathlessly from a barbarous end, or it will settle into a monotone thump and thud devoid of resonance. Man needs to be covered in the earth from which he was created, reunited with his ancestry, to keep hold of his senses in a world that moves at hundred and twenty thousand miles an hour. A blog needs new stories to tell.
A post from the road may appear here and there over the next sixty-one days, but no promises. It could be that on this journey we may meet out there in the real world - me on my bike, you in whatever mode of transportation you employ- if so, just hand over your wallet politely and there won't be any trouble.