cairns

deep in man's soul must be planted a desire, a need, a drive to connect with other humans.
we are not meant to be alone, and there is some little innate seedling inside our souls that sends out joyful shoots when it feels connection.

and like so many of our traits and drives, these inner workings are programmed at a cellular level and outside of or underneath or above or just simply out of our control. subconscious, unconscious, these are deep dark places we can't completely understand, and we are left to just accept that these drives exist, tame them when necessary, rejoice in them when they work to our favor.

my little connection-seedling sprouts when it sees cairns.

I have no idea who built the first cairn, or where it happened---it's been posited that the first came to be during the bronze age---but I can suggest that the "why" had to do with communication.
nowadays and around here they often mark hiking or mountain biking trails, or---as seen in emigration canyon---someone's mailbox.
but they can also be used to send private messages to friends, hey, this is where I turned, or yep, you're on the right path, keep following.

riding up big cottonwood last sunday I encountered a cairn on the side of the road, a small one of only 4 or 5 stones, an obvious message to someone.
and my romantic soul just blossomed.
although I was alone on the road at that point, it is a very well-traveled road with cars, motorcycles and bicycles flowing up and down regularly. but there's just something about this private message that said to me, ah, a fellow human took the time to create a small beauty in this communication to another human.
I was here, I thought of you, I'm sending you a message.

when I'm on a trail in the middle of nowhere (not truly, of course, for I'm not quite that much of an adventurer) and I see a cairn I feel that same tug, the message that a fellow traveler has been this way, and marked the spot for one reason or another.
they took the time to leave a message, to build a piece of art.
I don't try to be pleased by this; it just happens.
my soul sprouts green tendrils that tickle and make me smile and rejoice in the fact that yes, I am not alone,
yes, there are others who have been here,
yes, someone else finds beauty in the communion created by a neat stack of stones.

where I live

well, I had planned to write and post today, but I became distracted by the warm temperatures, the clear blue sky, the road that stretched before me . . .

and here I am with nothing more to say other than after a weekend of riding up city creek canyon, millcreek canyon (to within a half mile of the top before being thwarted by snowbanks), emigration and big mountain, under blue skies and with the warm air and sun on my skin . . .
I am one of the luckiest people on earth,

and I wish the same for you all.

was that today?

sometimes on days when I've gotten up and on my bike at 5 am for a ride by the time it reaches 6 pm I can't remember what it felt like to be riding that morning at 5 and it seems as though my ride happened the day before.

tradition

yesterday I rode up to brighton ski resort.

I had a (woo hoo!) tail wind on the way to the mouth of the canyon, and then a tail wind (woo hoo!!) almost all the way up the canyon.... these are always beautiful things.

until you turn around, of course.

but this story isn't about that.

this story is about the store at the top of the climb, the Brighton Store and Cafe which has been there since the first time I went to brighton ski resort, probably 23 years ago (and how long before that it had been around, I don't know).

an old, weather-darkened A-frame wood building, the Brighton Store and Cafe had a sign out front proudly declaring the elevation (8645'), sold awesome brownies, and had employees who would fill water bottles with ice for you, or serve you hot chocolate or tea by the fireplace as you tried to warm your core.

they sold t-shirts and nutri-grain bars, licorice ropes and silly what-nots with "brighton" painted on them. cold ice cream bars, big huge cookies, GU's and gatorades and mountain dew and popcorn balls.

there were benches out front, tables with umbrellas, on the asphalt of the parking lot, where we could sit and soak in the sun, munch our treats, rehydrate.

the bathrooms were clean.

and I write of everything in the past tense because it is no longer. when bob, andy and I rode up at the end of march, we saw that it was closed, but it wasn't until yesterday's visit that it became reality.

when I reached the top of the canyon yesterday, I rode past the no-longer-store and waved at two cyclists who were lying on the asphalt of the parking lot, their bikes propped against the thick wooden posts holding the brighton ski resort sign. they were soaking in the sun, sans chairs and table.

there was nowhere to buy a drink, a granola bar, a big fat cookie.

there was nowhere to use the bathroom.

there was nowhere to sit and savor the joy of being at the top of the hill.

there was only a sign that stated "child care" and another that simply said "closed for the season."

sigh.

a cycling favorite is gone; a landmark has quietly shut its doors.

a tradition---to eat, drink, rest at the top of the climb---has just been removed from the local cycling world.

it just doesn't feel right.

lucky me

this is one of the things I love best about my early, early morning rides this time of year:
when I get home, I appreciate everything more.
things we usually consider "normal," things we often take for granted, things we forget to notice:

• coffee tastes heavenly


• heat is luxurious


• the hot shower tops the list of my favorite things ever


• dry, sweat-free clothes are sumptuous


• wheat toast with peanut butter tastes decadent


• my grumpy teenage daughters are gifts from God

I appreciate every single thing in my home because I have it to return to.
I've been part of the world as it's awakened, I've been freezing, I've worked my muscles and heart and lungs until they ached, I've been filled with and enveloped in crisp, clean air.

and then---lucky me---I get to return home.

me and scarlett o'hara

my legs are tired this week.
and today is my day off the bike.
so I got to sleep in (yummy), and go to yoga (so good for me), and recover (I hope).

but what happens to me on days like this is that I start thinking about the weekend's rides, and a thought ribbon starts going through my mind:
it'll probably be a big ride on saturday with lots of climbing and oh my gosh, my legs are tired, I'm not going to be able to do it.

snap!
what the heck am I doing?
it's thursday, I don't have to ride anywhere today, in fact, I am resting my legs today.
susan, let yourself enjoy today.
stay right here, don't even go to tomorrow, let alone saturday.
snap!
knock it off!

the other night my almost-16-year-old daughter was stressing about her upcoming AP test, a spanish test, another project that's almost due, volleyball practice, her peer court commitment, on and on . . . I told her maybe she could think as scarlett o'hara does at the end of gone with the wind: tomorrow is another day.
I'll think about that, I'll create a plan, I'll tackle all of those issues tomorrow.
tomorrow.

today I'm going to just be where I am---right here, no thoughts of being anywhere else---then I'm going to go to sleep, and then tomorrow I'll wake up to a new day.
by saturday I'll be ready to climb hills again.

me and scarlett.

3's a charm . . . or something

I woke up to rain, a green and gray world, shiny black pavement.
but within a few hours the clouds began to separate and the roads reclaimed their mottled asphalt appearance, the gutters ran dry: time to ride.
a tailwind pushed me up the canyon, and fought me on the way down, but my music kept me cheered and the sun played hide and seek, shining enough to keep me from being coated in goosebumps.
all was well until I was a mile from home, when suddenly my back wheel did a little slide-y dance on me. huh? a few calm rotations and then it did it again. what? do I have a flat?
then my ipod died.
I pulled over, sure enough, flat rear tire, dead ipod.

it's possible it was a message from the universe. or more accurately, from my bike.
I'm not sure what role the ipod is playing---possibly just to tell me to stop singing and pay attention---but I'm quite certain there's a message in here about my rear tire:
I've had 3 flat tires in the past month.

yes, I am buying a new tire today.
I might be a slow learner, but I eventually get it.
the ipod is charging, the new tire will go on tonight: I'm ready to take on the rest of may.