We are in the last week of a balmy, almost warm, October and November. It has been bliss and a rush to enjoy those last days before bike riding will shift from pleasant to dreadful cold.
Yesterday afternoon, we headed up the canyon pathway. Tony on his road bike, and me, struggling to keep up even with my e-bike. It's only on the steeper inclines when I can pass him, when I jocularly pump up the power to level 4 and glide by while he is standing, peddling, giving his all.
On the lesser inclines, we can talk.
As we pass by the river below, I remember. "Hey, we didn't kayak the river this year!"
"I was just thinking the same thing. You were too busy."
"As were you."
"We didn't bike up to Sundance for dinner either."
"Ahhhhhh. We didn't."
Little flashes of sitting across from one another in the rustic restaurant come to mind. It's a favorite summer pilgrimage, and we missed it. Just like the river. I picture the warmth against the cool water, the bridge which we have to paddle perfectly past to keep from getting wrapped. I see my favorite spot of tall pines where peace resides, see the spots where we have to paddle hard over the little ripples to keep out of the jetty. I see the big bumps that splash and fill the front of the rubber kayak with water. Always. I think of the outbursts of shock when that cold water hits my body.
"You could even make it up the mountain on your own now," Tony says.
In the past, it was always on the tandem, and I wonder if he's relieved he will no longer carry the greater burden of peddling us up the windy, steep road.
"It's all over next week," I say with sadness. "It's supposed to snow."
"No, just rain."
"My weather app says snow. It'll be freezing."
"No. I read the highs, and it may only rain."
"I read the lows and it's going to snow."
In this one practice, I see how differently we look at and measure the world.
Yesterday afternoon, we headed up the canyon pathway. Tony on his road bike, and me, struggling to keep up even with my e-bike. It's only on the steeper inclines when I can pass him, when I jocularly pump up the power to level 4 and glide by while he is standing, peddling, giving his all.
On the lesser inclines, we can talk.
As we pass by the river below, I remember. "Hey, we didn't kayak the river this year!"
"I was just thinking the same thing. You were too busy."
"As were you."
"We didn't bike up to Sundance for dinner either."
"Ahhhhhh. We didn't."
Little flashes of sitting across from one another in the rustic restaurant come to mind. It's a favorite summer pilgrimage, and we missed it. Just like the river. I picture the warmth against the cool water, the bridge which we have to paddle perfectly past to keep from getting wrapped. I see my favorite spot of tall pines where peace resides, see the spots where we have to paddle hard over the little ripples to keep out of the jetty. I see the big bumps that splash and fill the front of the rubber kayak with water. Always. I think of the outbursts of shock when that cold water hits my body.
"You could even make it up the mountain on your own now," Tony says.
In the past, it was always on the tandem, and I wonder if he's relieved he will no longer carry the greater burden of peddling us up the windy, steep road.
"It's all over next week," I say with sadness. "It's supposed to snow."
"No, just rain."
"My weather app says snow. It'll be freezing."
"No. I read the highs, and it may only rain."
"I read the lows and it's going to snow."
In this one practice, I see how differently we look at and measure the world.
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