it's my friend holly who first suggested early-morning workouts, and although she followed a schedule of 3-4 times a week, leaving home around 6am, I somehow discovered that what worked best (?) for me was 6 times a week, leaving home around 5.
and it's that beautiful time of the year when it's dark at 5 but lightening by 5:30, with fully bright skies shortly after 6. the air is filled with bird chatter, the world is fragrant with green growth, and critters scamper through the underbrush on either side of the road. yellow daisies have burst forth on hillsides, and it's just a darn amazing time of year for us early rising cyclists and runners.
at the mouth of the canyon I look before and behind me, my eyes searching out other headlights and taillights, and it's a rare morning I see either. monday morning a cyclist passed me about 5 miles up, but for most of my upward climbs I am alone, absorbing, thinking, glorying in it all.
this morning I passed a cyclist at---interestingly---about that same 5-mile-up spot, and as I pulled alongside him I noticed his graying hair and the upward lift of the corners of his lips.
good morning, I said, smiling.
it's a beautiful day, isn't it? he said.
oh yeah, I returned, pedaling, grinning.
and therein lies the gist of this post.
I limited myself; he didn't.
I tend to say, it's a beautiful morning, isn't it?
he said, it's a beautiful day.
he didn't stop at the present moment: he carried the beauty forward, he projected, he determined, he chose. his day was beautiful.
and thus I've resolved to start thinking like him. those incredibly beautiful mornings I'm fortunate enough to participate in are not simply mornings. they are the beginning of days, and they will no longer be segmented for me. I will acknowledge them as entire days, carrying the joy and wonder with me, not letting that early morning experience escape, become lost, get left behind as the hours move forward.
it's a beautiful day, isn't it?