If you could live your life over again?
No prior knowledge. Just go out for a long bicycle ride one day and return as your younger self? Skip over the diaper years and start with your first real bicycle ride.
In my case I depart Golden, Colorado at fifty-nine. At rides end I’m four rolling free on my crushed red-shale driveway in Bear Creek Village. First day no training-wheels. From that day forward I look to mother nature for salvation from reality. That feeling of control or freedom or both. It empowered me from that day forward.
Eventually the Peugeot PX-10 was my escape, and state of the art. Took this bike on a tour of Vermont. South to north. Stayed in Thelma Ricketts Youth Hostel the day Nixon resigned. Remember when presidential criminals knew when the gig was up?
Clear to me how fortunate I was growing up in a virtual nature preserve. Every direction outside my door thousand of acers with amazing new adventures in nature everyday. On foot or wheel winter, fall, summer, spring.
We walked, ran, hiked, hunted, climbed, built forts, tree-houses, ice-caves, camped, winter-camped, skated, ice-hockey day and night, skied, jumped over everything. Laying on an ice covered lake in a full moon. An orchestra of aquatics and fracturing ice providing the soundtrack for my galactic point of view.
Very fortunate are the children of this village. It was a paradise of nature and adventure. Attach a water-ski tow rope to a snowmobile. A pair of down-hill skis, a snow covered lake. Build a jump. You can jump over quite a few things with this set-up. A few barrels, a fire, your brothers and friends willing. Olympic Sport?
We’d take these roll up thin blue plastic sleds. Sold at gas stations and supermarkets back then. Roll it out lay on it an go. A roll-up bob-sled essentially.
Our sleds had a rope-handle on top. String three or four of these out behind a snowmobile on said lake. The rest was history. It was X-Games everyday for us in the seventies. No significant injuries come to mind presently.
A rope-swing off the island. Rivers, streams, creeks, brooks. Dirt roads and abandoned rail-road tracks. No tracks. Crushed gravel. Very nice. No gravel-bikes. A bike was a bike in 1970.
With fall endless amount of leaves to rack. Endless! A massive pile of falls leaves makes for tremendous napping. A mattress of leaves. Every breath I’d settle deeper melting into nature. Still one of my favorite places on earth. Auditory triggered memories are powerful.
“Rainmaker” by Sparklehorse takes me to those leave piles. If you don’t listen to Sparklehorse you need to. Sadly founder Mark Linkous in no longer with us. Preserving music history might be YouTube’s only real quality to date.
My Father and I cut down a sizable tree with a two-man saw. A bridge for hunting season. Still there I bet. Never did ride a bike over that tree. While hunting after heavy rains we would hand pick brook trout from puddles forming adjacent the overfilling hillside streams as water and slipped over the rail beds edge. Quail and trout for dinner!
Cycling farther from home on every ride. So many new roads out there. No goggle earth just ride the roads to find your destination. I got lost more in those times. I really miss getting lost!
Yes I would take this ride again. Looking back to those roads seeing more smiles, laughs and moments of sheer amazement immersed in nature then not.