We rode and I got dropped.
We rode and raced the sun, not wanting to get caught in its absence.
We rode up a hill and I fell off the back.
I don’t mind getting dropped so much. Getting dropped will only make you better.
I’ll get dropped every fucking day if it means I’m getting faster. Stronger.
I do mind holding people up, although the boys I rolled with seemed not to mind too much.
They noted that I was pushing knobbies, which was very kind of them.
Sure my bike is heavy. And the knobbies suck.
But it’s just me, dude.
You’re faster than me. Maybe you will be forever, maybe you won’t.
The point is that I’ll never stop trying to school your shit.
You can drop me a million times.
The weather report for Saturday looked grim. Grim as in rain. Rain, rain and more rain. And COLD. The temperatures were dropping. I received this news unfazed. When is it not raining in the Pacific Northwest, really? I expected as much. I was prepared. I borrowed a rain fly for my backpack and sealed all my clothing and supplies in zip-loc baggies. I wore the froggy-green Marmot jacket that looked invincible.
Rain? Bring it.
It rained all night before I left. It rained all morning. It rained during the 45 minute drive east. It was raining when I turned up the first switchback.
Who cares about rain.
The first 3 miles went straight up. Switchback after switchback. My pack is a hand-me-down and just a little too big. I could tell. This is the part where gear is really, really important. If you’re walking up the side of a hill over root-strewn dirt paths with 30 pounds worth of gear on your back then you need everything to be dialed. Shoes, socks, jacket, pack. I had everything in place except the pack, and I was feeling it.
I pressed on.
At 1.5 miles I came around a switchback and uttered the only words that I spoke out loud all day long: “Holy shit. You are fucking kidding me.”