“I hope I run into the bear on a downhill,” I thought as I rounded the blind corner in a tuck and in the drops. The trash cans along the road had been turned over, sorted through and consumed. Bear country. At 30mph I might just glide by, but in the steep sections I was moving so slowly I could see the individual knobbies on my front tire.
Maybe my flashing headlight would lull Mr. Bear into a trance and allow my passage without complaint. Or send he or she off into the brush at warp speed. As it turned out, no bear. Not today. Perhaps they too were hungover after the holiday weekend, food drunk on sloppy campsite dweller trash. Up early today, before the sun, an extra thermal layer to protect my fragile, shrinking body. Nobody on the road. The sun rimming the Sangres.
Although I ride with others, for the most part, riding is a solitary pursuit. I like being alone, on my own, and at the mercy of the environment. I daydream, visualize and talk to myself. When I my legs burn and feel tired I pedal harder, just to see what happens and if I can recover. I’ve ridden this route many times. It’s somewhere between 23 and 27 miles but the GPS always cuts out and says “Sorry, not really sure how far you went.”
That’s okay. It’s just an idea more than a challenge. It’s simply about being out. Long rolling downhills, steep uphills and the shadow cast as the sun peaks the mountains and lights up the path in a vibrant yellow swath. I watch my own form, and that of the bike, as they roams the rock, dirt and high desert scrub. Coasting and looking. Waiting for what lives around the bend.