Winter of 1998. 10 degrees. Full moon. I'm living in a sad small town within the Berkshire mountains of Massachusetts. Reminds me of the Upper Peninsula a little bit, except for the elevation and closer proximity to larger metros. It's late and there's lots on my mind. I'm sad. Troubles in life that I don't know how to fix. I'm on my mountainbike. The snowmobile trail running from town up to the campground is notably firm- perfect traction due to the cold. My tires have the perfect air pressure. I'm not yet overheated. This is the first time I've ever made this climb without stopping. The air is still and very quiet, the lack of wind is helping me. My pace is slow but comfortable. Normally my tires would be sinking into the snowy crust but the colder temps and recent freeze/thaw cycles have made for amazing trail conditions. I'm thinking alot. At the top of the climb I linger just long enough to catch my breath and start to shiver. I see the dark silhouettes of deer among the half buried picnic tables nearby, digging for whatever slivers of food they can gather. I can hear their teeth gnawing on the buried grasses they've found. They don't pay me any mind, and I let them be.
The slow climb was bright enough with only the moonlight, but as I turn downhill, I switch on the headlamp attached to my helmet. I'm startled by how bright everything is, the snow reflecting everywhere. Snow crystals flicker below me and it's as if the stars are upside-down. I let off the brakes a little and gain speed. When I'm biking, gravity is my friend only half of the time. I'm careful not to get too far left or right so I don't dive off into the soft stuff. The best traction is right down the middle, where the track of the snowmobile laid down a near perfect pleat. As the downgrade wanes, the trail cuts across the top, then down along the side of the Hoosac Tunnel's west portal. At night, the dark surrounding the opening appears to get sucked deeper into its creepy mouth.
As I approach the transition from the woods to the railroad grade, I hear and feel a rumble. A train is coming. Fast. I click off my headlight so as not to be made out.
My tires find the icier path alongside the tracks just as the three engines breech the portal. The sound is deafening and the smell of diesel smoke is thick and I'm entirely too close, but marginally safe. I'm surprised by how fast it's moving. The turbulence coming off the train is driving a chill into me. Staring upwards, I follow the moonlight dancing along the edges of the railcars and consider what my problems really are, and what they are not.
Spring of 2013. 52 degrees. There's still fog this early in the morning as I slowly pedal my mountainbike among the redwoods in the hills above Oakland California. The Bay Area affords me fast access to mountain bike trails but I haven't been out on the bike for a long while. Legs are heavy and my lungs burn a bit, and any uphill effort makes me pant deeply. I have to stop for a breather often. Under every tree there's a damp area and the moisture releases a piney scent that takes me back again to my youth in the Upper Peninsula. As I stand panting under the tree canopy, the condensed fog from high above drips on me. I've got lots on my mind, but I don't want to bathe in it right now. I flow along the swoopy singletrack sections and embrace the adrenaline rush. The riding blanks me out, letting heavy thoughts grab hold only periodically as I slowly crank up the longer climbs. I'm high off the fact that I'm riding buff singletrack before work. I'm pleased with myself for getting out. On the faster sections and blind curves, I give the little bell on my handlebars a ding. I debate what is less obtrusive: the mildly passive-aggressive bell dings, or my voice saying "bike back" over and over. The trails are mostly desolate today. Sun's coming up. The temperature slowly starts to rise as the fog burns off. I'm overdressed and sweaty now.
It's a good thing; mountainbiking. I've always identified as a biker even though my physique belies such a moniker. It's been 15 years since that night at the tunnel in Massachusetts and I'm struck by the many ways I'm different, and the many ways I'm the same. Life. I've been through the wringer but I'm doing pretty well, I guess. I concede that I'm proud of myself for how I'm managing to adjust to this new life- at least over the past couple weeks (I see the successes as tenuous; as always, I'm braced for the rougher stuff that comes when I least expect). But for today, I catch myself walking a little taller after being out on the bike before work. Eileen would be happy that I'm riding again. I need to ride more.
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