History, part I

In the middle of my liquid fast, after discovering some healthy new hobbies, I was looking for an alternative to the gym. One thing I couldn't shake was all the memories I had as a teenager on my bicycle and how much fun those memories were. One Saturday I decided to go to my parents' house and see if any bikes were left. Sure enough there was, an old "Mount Shasta" mountain bike that previously I'd had many an adventure on. To say I was thrilled was a gross understatement.

I immediately went and bought new tires and tubes for it, stoked to be riding it. That evening I was already slated to go out transmitter hunting in rural Lancaster county so I threw the bike in the back of my pickup wondering if I'd get a chance to ride.

As I rumbled along those country roads that night in my old, beloved, red 1992 Ford F-150 that bike was calling to me in the back. Literally. Like some sort of siren of the seas, it was just itching for me to get the itch again.

Later in the evening it was the chance of I and another to "hide", and hide we did so in the north west corner of Lancaster county. It was going to be awhile before anyone had a trace of us, so I decided "oh what the hell" and got the bike out of the back.

We were hidden next to a nice gravel road, Ashland road, one that didn't see any traffic. "What the hell" I thought, as I got on the bike and started to pedal. Immediately I was laughing hysterically and smiling, 29 years old and acting like I was 12 again.

6 years ago, that ride up and back down that gravel roller was the spark of something that I've not yet been able to get out of my soul. "It gets in your soul", often you may hear, and it's true. Wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt I had no idea what I was doing.

But damn if I didn't like it.