Monday, November 21, 2011

Like The Last

Words and Photos by Greg

It's that time of year again when every ride could be the last. The weather could turn, temperatures could drop, and moisture could turn trails to mud or snow or ice. The golden sunshine of autumn could disappear into grey storms. The season is uncertain.

I try to remember that life itself is uncertain. Can I ever know which ride will be my last? I attempt to ride with eyes open, with senses aware. The color of light. The warmth from sun-warmed stone. The breeze that comes to me and the breeze that comes from me as I flow through the air over textured trails. Shadows of clouds. Crack of dry leaves. The scent of brush and earth from wild dogs who roam the desert, then return to warm my lap. The smile of those who share the ride.

Can each day, as it takes me to places familiar or strange, count for something? Can it count for nothing more than another tic on the tablet of memory. And can that be enough? Memory is never perfect. Memories will fade. And memories are nothing when there is no tomorrow from which to remember.

One last ride of the season. Again. Today. And perhaps tomorrow.

Riding lost singletrack on the Dark Side.

Four-hours of running = smile of satisfaction.

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