After hitting the Publish button on my last post, I stuffed the Stache (known in some circles of my brain as The Mustachioed Bastard for reasons I will spew forth later) into Escape II and drove to my normal lumbering trails at Deerfield Park. Only this time, there was no lumbering but 11 miles of big wheel cruising through the woods.
I hadn’t been on a mountain bike doing actual mountain biking since June of 2021, when I did a loop on the trails near Mid Michigan Community College. It was a loop that COULD have been close to 20 miles, but I cut it short to 6.50 miles and then never went back.
The reasons, or lack thereof, have been discussed ad nauseam, so I will refrain from doing it again. I will just say depression is a ruthless bitch, but it’s a bitch that can be defeated. For me, it’s an ongoing battle, but one that I feel closer and closer to being rid of.
Anyway, I parked, mounted up, and soon found myself riding one of my standard lumbering loops, but free of foot pain and with a huge smile on my face. Outside of B or Wifey, I can’t remember someone or something that made me as happy as being back in the woods on a bike.
I did my standard loop, then went back for more, and finished with 11 miles of riding, only stopping because it was a beautiful day and getting towards mid-morning, and I knew the Dog Shitters and sun-starved Michganderburghers would be showing up soon to get some outdoor time in, and I wanted to avoid them.
I had my Fuji x70 in my pack pocket, but I only took one photo (the one at the top of the page) when I stopped to move a tree from the trail. I was too busy having fun riding my bike!
I’m looking forward to getting back to lumbering in the woods, but I’m also looking forward to more time on my bike for the first time in years.
Oh, about The Mustachioed Bastard. Growing up, my dad’s temper and offensive, colorful language were staples. While driving, if someone pulled out in front of my dad, he could zero in on the look of the person and immediately let loose with a string of descriptive curse words, no matter who was in the car with him.
One particular vehicular offender to my dad was a man with a mustache that I clearly remember him calling a “mustachioed bastard.” That was probably 40 years ago, yet to this day, if I see someone with a mustache, that is the first thing that pops into my head. So, Stache, Mustache, Mustachioed Bastard. I can’t see the nickname sticking here, but just know it’s in my head every single time I ride, see, write about, or photograph my Stache.
Later.