Night Riding

The single track disappeared into the trees, fading into the night like a trail that Hansel and Gretel might have followed and regretted. The sun had long since slipped behind the mountain behind me, and even in the open grasses light was fading. This was the point I’d promised myself I would turn around and go home. Just a quick out and back before dark.

But I had never ridden this trail before, and so far it snaked its way gently up the mountain where it looked like it might connect with a trail that I did know. I wanted to see where the two met up. And the air was cool but not sharp; it felt good to be outside, breathing hard.

I unwound the headlamp I’d wrapped around my wrist when I left the house and slipped it over my bike helmet. The thin, feeble light cast a pale glow into the trees–just enough light to see that the trail dipped down and then back up. I could do that, even in the dark.

The higher I climbed, the darker it got. I could see only a few feet in front of me, but instead of getting harder to ride, it got easier. When I stood up on my pedals to crest the top of a hill, the bike felt light like a feather. When I eased down the other side, the bike followed the trail with ease.

There was nothing but the sound of my breath and the wind through the trees, my bike tires scattering the leaves on the trail. In clearings, the sillouettes of mountains framed the sky, and a half-moon shined through wispy clouds.

I slipped through the trees, wove along the bends and slipped down drops in the trail. Not once was I afraid. Not once did I think about the next obstacle or how long a hill was, I just did whatever I needed to do to get through the trail right in front of me.

With the dark went my vision, but with my vision went my censor–that little voice that tells me a hill is too long or a drop in the trail too steep. The one that makes me stop before a jumble of rocks, or a root in the middle of a long downhill.

I rode fast and I rode smooth. It felt good to get out of my own way. It felt good to feel so free.

One Year Later

One year ago, maybe to the day (should I be able to remember? I can’t), I filled my car with the things that mattered most to me: clothes and gear for outdoor adventures; cookbooks and pots and pans for cooking; books, notebooks and my lap top for writing. And Mica-dog, of course, though she was quite suspicious of my plans.

We drove to Colorado, where we arrived on October 1, after a trip through the Badlands and the Black Hills of South Dakota.

 

My high school friend rode with me. I wondered if I would regret giving up the space for her suitcase when I had to send a couple of my own boxes up to my parents’ attic. But I no longer remember what was in them, and I knew as soon as we got into the car that I-90 would have seemed long and lonely without her; the corn palace a garrish tourist trap instead of a place to take pictures. I would have driven past the Badlands and barely seen the Black Hills, anxious about the life that waited in Colorado.

That new life was lonely at first. One Thursday night, the wind blew the front door open, and Mica snuck out the front door at midnight. I stood in the cold, rainy dark wondering where she was, alone and lonely. But all things change with time, and after a year, I am learning to call myself by new names: mountain biker, climber, writer (why does that one take so long?), loving girlfriend (the ex would be surprised by that one), skier, risk taker.

 

I call myself these names because of the many things that have happened since arriving in Crested Butte: teaching at the college, working as a reporter, writing new essays without the deadlines of grad school, getting a ski pass, going to yoga class (why, hello, P.)… in general, I said ‘yes’ when opportunities came before me.

It is tempting to make a list of all the lessons I have learned in the year since leaving Minnesota, but there’s only one that seems to matter: the importance of honoring all the things that didn’t come to pass. The essays that got rejected, the full-time job at the college that disappeared with the department (hello, budget cuts), pitches that got ignored, crushes that fizzled, trips that never happened.

Cast a wide net. Sew many seeds. Pick your own cliche, but remember that it is only by putting many ideas into the world that anything good comes back.

Staying motivated (whether you’re loving what you do, or hating it)

Here’s an example of my typical week:

• Monday morning: Dread going to work because I have no idea what I’m going to write about for the paper.
• Monday afternoon: Realize that I don’t have to find the stories by myself. Email a friend who works at Adaptive Sports Center to see if she has anything “story worthy.” Find out about handcyclists undertaking Ride the Rockies.
• Tuesday: Interview handcyclists. Feel totally psyched that these people trust me with their story, and that someone pays me to write them up.
• Wednesday: Proof the paper and finish out the “week” (we like to squeeze a week into three days at the paper) feeling relieved that it has gone so much better than I expected.
• Wednesday night: Wake up around midnight convinced that the first fact in the first sentence of my article is wrong. Handcycles have four wheels, not three. (Never mind my sources sent me pictures that clearly showed three wheels.)
• Thursday: Hope I don’t run into anyone that’s seen my story because I’m not ready to own up to my mistake.
• Friday: Figure out that three wheels was correct.
• Saturday: Go out for a drink with the friend from Adaptive, where she tells me it was a good story. Maybe I do like this writing thing…

I used to think that this kind of love/hate ”relationship” meant I was in the wrong field. I didn’t want to spend my life in marketing, convincing people to buy things they didn’t need. I didn’t want to run a wilderness program for kids because I didn’t want to deal with helicopter parents.

But I love writing; I don’t want to do anything else. And the cycle still exists.