Before last night, it had been since sometime during the Reagan administration that I got to ride my bike that hard. At least it felt hard, enough. There was a time in the not so distant past that I climbed rocks more often than politicians made promises. A time when [that] was my lifestyle and I tried to share those experiences with all of my pals; eventually leading me into a roller-coaster of being more of a teacher, introducing people to the sport. This ultimately pushed me away from climbing, which I deeply loved and devoted over two decades of my life to. I believe the reason I left climbing was because I was no longer doing it for me, but for others. This seems to relate to my cycling addiction as of late, and translates so. Last week I made a decision to be selfishly selfish. I am going to ride for me and stop waiting for everyone else to, without better words - catch up. Not that I'm fast or even that hardcore, but there's something about the flow of it all that keeps me hooked. Something about the pain, the drive, the push - the not looking back.
Last night there were no invitations sent out, no phone calls made and no pushing or prodding those with lesser drive to come and ride. Everyone knows about the Pirate ride, and those psyched to lay rubber to dirt would show up and have a great time. Just as I'd hoped, a handful of true and brave souls attended what turned out to be the first of many grand nights riding trail with minimal stops, a solid pace and of course; crashes. This one I'm letting play in my mind on repeat, without crazy stories of anything other than the disgusting image burned into a few of our minds of a certain dead turkey.
Thanks to the usual suspects, the P-ride posse for rallying and making things happen. Great times my friends, great times.
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