this afternoon on my flight home from texas I flew over all the peaks and passes that I work so hard to reach on my bike.
I love to fly, and I love being low enough to visually segregate the landscape into "places I ride," "places I recognize but don't ride," and "unknown territory."
from the air, of course, everything looks much different, and what looks like a mass of brown from up above is in reality a patchwork of every shade of brown, gold, yellow, and orange there could possibly be. I know this because an hour after I landed I was on my bike and heading up to see what the hillsides looked like from a different perspective.
looking down at it all from above, all the myriad canyons and peaks and summits, brought a quote to mind,
no one regrets reaching the top of the mountain.
and in trying to research the origin of that quote I found a quote I liked even more:
those at the top of the mountain didn't fall there. (marcus washling)
and with those two thoughts I'll close, leaving us both to ponder what it is about man that drives him to scale mountains, and fills him with such powerful emotions once he reaches the top.