Casual Riding

This morning I went mountain biking to try to reclaim my balance and sanity. It has been the craziest time of changes lately, and I needed to feel like my old self, spinning my wheels over familiar ground, rooted to the same, twisting, sun-baked summer trails I’ve known and loved since I was 23 and to the same girl I used to be.

I only had an hour, so I rode one of my usual loops. The scenery was familiar—winding singletrack through the pinon-juniper foothills, the blobby peak of Atalaya to the east, the unbearably hot and dry desert to the south—but the way I rode was different. I wasn't slower, exactly, just more relaxed, more deliberate. I didn’t start out this way, with the intention of being intentional. I was just riding, not rushing, which is strange and noteworthy because I am always rushing lately, even (and especially) when I ride. I was vaguely aware, as I rode, that a choice was materializing: I could spend an hour on my bike lamenting the headaches and heartaches at home, reliving them and trying to solve them, or I could just turn the pedals and watch the summer morning slide by. Very casually, it seemed, I chose the latter.

I rode the road to the trails, already sensing this weird but not unwelcome relaxation, and even when I came upon three guys on mountain bikes near the trailhead, I didn’t speed up like I normally would, trying to claim my space on the trail and put enough distance between us. I just riding very casually, as though I had all the time in the world, even stopping after I flubbed a technical section to pick up a raven’s feather in the dust by the side of the trail and stick it in my pocket for Pippa. The guys must have taken a shortcut because a little ways later, I came across them again at the bottom of a steep hill. One guy let me pass, and the other dropped me. I kept pedaling, waiting for my usual competitive fire to kick in—that antsy, frenetic compulsion to get out in front and stay out in front. Nope. Just riding. 

Farther up the trail, after I’d sweated up that steep rubbly pitch and hopped down little limestone ledges and started ascending again to the next high point, I stopped again. Not only in mid-ride, but mid-climb, which is an unspoken no-no, a major psyche-out for this mountain biker. Whatever you do, don’t stop ‘til you get to the top (but if you must stop, get back on and try to keep riding again ASAP, even if it’s too steep and futile). Somebody had built a small bench out of a slab of limestone in the meager shade of a withered piñon. I’ve always admired this spot; there’s something just-so about the way the trail levels off and hugs the edge of a small overhang that feels both sheltered and expansive. The person who made the bench must have thought so, too. I’ve thought about stopping there many times before, but always crank right on by. Not this time. I propped my bike against the gnarled little tree and sat down on the bench and listened to the far-off hum of someone’s garden machinery, and the crickets whirring, and the otherwise silent foothills around me. I thought about things all the things I could think and worry about, but decided against it, and just tried to breathe and feel the air whoosh out of my nose and the sun cook my ankles. 

Eventually I glanced at my watch and saw that it was time to be getting home, but this didn’t annoy me like it usually might, or make me antsy or ungrateful with if-onlys. I got up and continued on my way. It all felt strangely casual. The climbs were just as steep and long and I flubbed the sections I usually do and my legs were no less tired than normal, but I was casual about it—that’s the only word I can think of to explain this surreal phenomena. 

Casual riding. Maybe that’s what they mean by lowering the bar? Whatev.