Wheel-side down.

I was able to ride after work, finally got my wheels back in the dirt and out and away from pavement, debris and noise.

There's no adequate way to explain the feeling of despair that sets in as you madly flail at the pedals, hoping against hope that the endorphins will kick in soon. The approach to the mesa trail that is my daily escape is several miles of gradual uphill, winding between prairie dog colonies and cactus, scrub oak and rock.
Then, as unwelcome as underwear for Christmas, there is several hundred yards of steep scree, gravel and watermelon-sized rocks on the final, and steepest hill... I try and ride the hill clean
(no stopping to rest, push, or occasionally, throw up) and usually end up just shy of the dry heaves and with a heart rate somewhere around 'hummingbird.' Yes, I do this for fun.
Once you get past thinking too much and reach the state of mind where you no longer have to consciously direct your breathing, your arms, your legs... there's a powerful moment where you lose the little voice behind your eyes that constantly natters away, and there is just gestalt existence. If you can maintain that between-thought state, there's no arrangement of mere words that will convey the sense of flow, of reading the curves and leaning in, pushing against the earth itself... and feeling it kick away beneath you, leaving you free to float for a moment before gravity catches you.

Somewhere in the rush and flow, everything that has weighted me down throughout the day is... gone. Sweat isn't generally thought of being an aid to gaining perspective on life, nor is dirt, and yet, they are my catalyst.

The only thing that makes a good ride sweeter is looking back and seeing Tammy and the kids stretched out in a train of happy noise and tumult. It's proof that the very best things in life are not diluted when shared among family and friends, only multiplied.

Life is awfully sweet.

- Ryan