It’s Complicated

Most of the past week was spent in the gym lifting heavy things for no reason, in the dentist chair having my mouth torn apart, or in various doctor’s offices having my brain shrunk or now mended ankle looked at.

Somewhere in between all that, I found time to escape to Bundy Hill for a hike on Friday afternoon. I walked in the crisp fall air, I took photos, and I enjoyed the solitude of the woods.




With my mood boosted by my time outside, I checked the weather forecast for the weekend and saw that Saturday looked like it might be pretty OK for riding.

So, as much as I wanted to, I poo-pooed spending all morning drinking coffee watching the footy, and instead gathered my gear and headed out with Mr. Burgundy to a dirt road launching pad south of town that would have me riding a new-ish paved road-side bike path until jumping off onto dirt roads for some miles with my camera.

I really can’t remember the last time I rode my bike outside, and I could feel every bit of that slack as I took off into the crisp morning breeze.

Riding the bike path along the road was sort of strange. The sound of cars whizzing by had me wanting to be continually checking over my shoulder, only to see nothing but what seemed like my personal bike path behind me.


After a couple miles, I was off onto the dirt and gravel and would happily remain there for the next 23 miles or so before retracing my way back to the launch site.

I got some OK photos, had my legs snarkily inform me of my lack of fitness, and enjoyed a 28+ mile ride that was 95% dirt and gravel.



These days, if my relationship status with my bike were on a Facebook profile, it would surely say, “It’s Complicated.”

A series of injuries, illnesses, time restraints, mind funks, and increased loves of things not bike related means that my 25+ year affair with cycling is now more like a Tinder date than a faithful longtime lover.

It’s all good, though, because whether it’s self-gratification while pedaling to Zwift®, a quickie from the Cul-De-Sack Shack, or a well-planned multi-hour tryst, the result is the same; I look lovingly towards my bike and ask why we don’t do this more often.


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