Text and photos: Greg
I rode out to the local trails this evening. Stormy clouds were rolling fast and low over the valley. It had rained for much of the weekend, but -- except for a few small puddles -- the trails were dry. Better than dry. They were firm and grippy. Hero dirt, it is often called. Tires grabbed corners without letting go and I dove in and held on, feeling like a hero and grinning like a fool.
Swoop and flow of trail. Whir of wind and tread. Twists of bare trees against the boiling sky. Hard corners of rock. Scent of wild blossoms and a kaleidoscope of pink and white, yellow and red, lavender and green blurring past the edge of vision. Legs pumping, heart pounding, breath racing. Everything coming together until it was not me on a bike. Only a bundle of senses sweeping over the surface of a complex and beautiful world. Lighting the way ahead with the bright beam of a smile.
On a brighter springtime evening a few days ago, Mike and I headed out onto the same trails. Our intent, I suppose, was to use our cameras to try to capture that feeling of losing oneself in the flow and sensory overload of the ride. Perhaps ironically, our pace was much slower. We rode and shot, shot and rode. Until evening passed into twilight. My photos below. Check here for Mike's.