In cycling, any given time of year provides its own trials and pleasures. In this part of the world, it is early in the Spring. So far, riding has been a bit arduous but very exhilarating. I think both have to do with how little riding I did this winter.
The ice and mounds of snow and slush are gone. Some trees, bushes and other plants are budding now. They fill me with hope, but do not yet distract me from the ones that are still bare, the ground that is barren from now and the buildings and other structures that bear the patina and show the wear and scars of the season we experienced so recently.
So I am not surprised to see a kind of tentative energy in the steps and body language of people, some of whom I had not seen in months. I guess I ride that way, at least some of the time: Even though the signs of a new season are around us, something in my body--and mind--still has not quite attuned to its rhythms. At least not yet. It's almost as if I--and, perhaps, the people I see--still need to be convinced that it is indeed Spring, and we're not going back.
As long as we're moving forward, I guess it doesn't really matter whether we're pushing through mud or promenading along a path lined with cherry blossoms--or pedaling around potholes in the streets. There is a ride, a season, ahead.
The ice and mounds of snow and slush are gone. Some trees, bushes and other plants are budding now. They fill me with hope, but do not yet distract me from the ones that are still bare, the ground that is barren from now and the buildings and other structures that bear the patina and show the wear and scars of the season we experienced so recently.
So I am not surprised to see a kind of tentative energy in the steps and body language of people, some of whom I had not seen in months. I guess I ride that way, at least some of the time: Even though the signs of a new season are around us, something in my body--and mind--still has not quite attuned to its rhythms. At least not yet. It's almost as if I--and, perhaps, the people I see--still need to be convinced that it is indeed Spring, and we're not going back.
As long as we're moving forward, I guess it doesn't really matter whether we're pushing through mud or promenading along a path lined with cherry blossoms--or pedaling around potholes in the streets. There is a ride, a season, ahead.
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