Dirt, Love and Aspens.
Death and taxes, single track and aspens, blend me with a mix of frustrations and passions. I was burnt on love, more than once when it came from another. In the silent beauty that was created long before us, rejuvenates and nourishes back to a whole. Idle hands do the devils work, tips of fingers connect freckles that do pleasures work. These clocks have no hands as hours turn to days when you lay your head on my chest and expel the words trapped in that pretty head.
We are all held by expandable ideals, our past, present, and future. These sidewalks lead towards unpaved areas, and that is where I do my best work. The world is big and round, some however still believe that at the city limit sign it dives towards infinity, and I believe nothing should have a limit. We are all currents moving to what drives and separates us. A couple weeks ago I took friends to a slice of trail that I may love more than anything. I never cover the miles at speed; I covet my time in the tinted perfumed air and listen to aspen leaves rustle in a cooling breeze. It has all things I love and worship about riding a mountain bike, personal freedom, amazement about beauty, effort, and bermed trails where your weighted body flows over perfect earth.
It would be inaccurate to say these days are the same as last month, last year or yesterday. The hours are shattered by the thought and idea of someone new, something healthy and a positive in the depth that stirs below my gut and behind my ribs. Life is for living and people are for loving, bikes are for riding and hours are for exploring. To each their own, and own identity, we blend in the pot as big as we wish to meld. Wrought iron rust, we’re caged and we must, become more than what we’ve been. Experiences define us, people come and go into our lives and it’s up to us to allow just how we accept it.
I have always felt comfortable in any situation. I’m as happy waking up along a trail completely alone with just my surroundings or being dropped into a room of college tuned intellectuals, mine was earned by time, effort and experience. They tell tales of what they’ve read and what they would like to do. My collar unbuttoned and free to move about, there’s a credence of precedents, doesn’t matter the situation, a knowing is a knowing. Character isn’t defined by what you talk about or what you speak about, rather what you’ve done and where you’re going. We are all molded by the past and future ideals, but every mold should be broken, and every idea and action should spawn from a thought, those with character turn all those into adventures, leave behind still photos and a wanting to share with those they love.
Long before the fall flickers and fades to winter, the decisions we’ve made, hang and linger on what we think should’ve been. I’ve been jailed, housed on a boat, held by people I love, and caressed by the paths that help define me. I wish to touch you in the early moon light, before the sun is awoken to the east and the effervescent hangs to the west, we are in the middle. You kiss me new in this decade of three plus, lines replaced the perfectness of youth, grays dot my pours, my hair thinned and faded from atop my head. Stronger, defiant, soft and comfortable in the knowledge of where I’m going and all I’ve done. I don’t hang to a sliver of what I was once but think of the tree I’ve become, my arms hold my friends turned to family as pages roll from upsets to triumphs, past failures and goose bumps. With roots and time we grow stable, some fall to fables and others to tales, me; I’ve always loved a true story.
A blended mix of durometered rubber grips the earth under me, connecting me to nature, myself, all these thoughts and flooded grey matter. All that I see and feel is breathing, the sights downloading from my eyes, the clicking of shifters, and the slowing of brakes. The tall grass moving around my body as I slalom between trees and move around stones, it’s the purest effort I’ve felt, and the longest love I’ve known. Everything smells alive and living, you’re in natures living room as a guest and the more prepared you are, the longer the visit, some of us pack better than others. Like your grandparents telling stories of decades past, I curl up and listen to all it has to say with the boyish amazement and wonder that is still housed in me.
Gatlin guns and trampolines, we all jump and shoot and try to live outside our means. I won’t be washed in the disbelief, facades or ambience. Brick and mortar, labors of love and lessons learned, I’ve become harden and skin torn and wrinkled but in the trees and holding on to the ideals of you I become youthful again. The cool air whistles and calms my exuberance and mellows back to me, the soil under my hands like the seeds sown, harvesting thoughts and growing the fragility of what was once broken back to being stronger and wholesome.
Running on faith and the caveat of mortality, we continue these days and efforts and are joined by others. All who wonder are indeed not lost, all whom are broken are surely repairable, we absorb and deflect, move and react until our bodies can no longer match the brains ask, and that is the rhythm of riding that I seek, and also the balance with those who surround me.