I’ve written about my love of mountain biking before, but I feel the subject warranted a few more paragraphs.

I saddled up again after a two-week hiatus.  My two-wheeled machine was in the shop for a tune up and I had a wonderful visit with my daughter which, for me, outranks any other activity.

So, I ventured out early in quest to beat the heat as the mercury was to rise to some ninety degrees Fahrenheit by early afternoon.  The sun was doing its utmost to burn off the cloud cover when I pulled to a stop in lot already burgeoning with vehicles.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one watching the forecast.  There were nods and greetings when other trail goers walked past as I readied bicycle and self for the ride.  Ready you might ask?  I transport my bike with front wheel removed and I never setout before stretching legs, back, and neck.  With wheel remounted and my body prepared, I locked shoes into peddles and began my journey.

These days I prefer intermediate rated single-track—coded blue dot in my neck of the woods.  I’ve ridden many black scored trails, but I now enjoy a more moderate ride and there are still roots, rocks, ravines, and rises with which to contend.  Today’s path requires that I first travel roadway, I’d say about a mile’s worth which further allows joints and muscles to wake.  A smile graces my face as the sun makes its debut and the breeze freshens.  As road ends, I enter another world, pavement gives way to dirt and a lush shifting canopy creates an ever-changing portrait of gold, reddish-brown, and green.  Winged creatures of all manner caw or cry from camouflaged perches.  The humid air carries with it the aroma of vegetation now mature, sagging under its own weight.  Instinctively, hands tighten on grips as the rocky terrain, even on fire road can twist handlebars.  My eyes look for trailhead which, in a dozen paces, will appear on my right.  My heartrate quickens, not by way of exertion, but in anticipation of the adventure that awaits.  The trail isn’t new to me, but like a unique fingerprint, every time I traverse its undulating terrain there is something new: rocks uprooted with last downpour, limbs fallen from overarching oak or pine, or fallen trees that have given their last measure.

The previous time I wrote of mountain biking I used the word magic to express what I experience in the forest, and I stand by that adjective.  What word would you use to describe the life that thrives in each cardinal direction.  I’ve rounded corner to see sow caring for three cubs, a group I gave wide berth.  Deer have leapt in my path and acted as guide for a hundred feet before disappearing in the underbrush.  A kaleidoscope of butterflies displayed their splendor at tree’s base and exploded in a blast of moving color as I passed.  Wildflowers violet, yellow, cream, and pink dot the floor of the wood.  A brace of black Arabians stood trail side one Saturday morning, their riders happy to talk about their remarkable mounts.  A great barn owl once swooped so close overhead it created a breeze but was so stealthy no sound gave its flight away.

One more bit of magic that accompanies my excursions is the enticement of the present and being one with a machine that brings me as close to running like Antilope or Malibu as I will ever come.  There aren’t many activities I can think of, short of meditation, that holds you in the present moment—at least for me.  Yes, my mind wanders at times, but oh so briefly, else I can find myself involuntarily disconnected from my bicycle.  Focus on next bank, next gully, next stump, and how body, peddle, and momentum play together is imperative.

I don’t claim this to be scientific fact, but it seems to me there is healing power in shedding the past and future in deference to the now.  For a brief time, there is no regret over ancient decisions or worry about what is to come.  There’s just the dirt, the wind, the sun, and the next turn.