In my driveway, I always run the same conversation in my head. Am I wearing enough clothes? The temperature drops ten degrees driving to the trailhead. The most rapid drop occurs on what appears to be a flat portion of roadway on the last few miles of the trip. The thermometer-display at the bottom corner of my rear-view mirror clicks down every thirty seconds. Forty-seven, forty-six, forty-five… I always wish I brought an extra layer.
Saturday’s ride was iffy. On Friday, as I drove home from work—my seven-minute commute, a mile and a quarter from the center of town to my close-in suburban neighborhood—I realized I had a headache. After dinner, the ache became deep enough that when I thought about it, I wanted to throw up. Best not to think about it; I binged a show and went to bed. Saturday morning, my headache remained.
After coffee and cereal, I returned to bed. Caffeinated, sunlight bright in my eyes through the light-filtering shade, Tommy, my brown tabby purring in my ear, I couldn’t sleep. I binged my show some more. Containment: A virus appears in downtown Atlanta, possibly of terroristic origin. The Feds react quickly, first with an electric fence, then with shipping containers stacked three high, they surround the epicenter of the outbreak. They isolate the four thousand people unlucky enough to be trapped inside the quarantine area behind a forty-foot steel wall. Possibly this isn’t the best show to watch while feeling ill.
By afternoon, I felt good enough to ride. When Eli and I got to the trailhead, just forty-three degrees cold, he noted that up in the mountains, winter had arrived. No leaves on any trees. No red or yellow or brown. They were all on the ground. I hate mountain biking at this time of year. Southern-central Pennsylvania has got to be the rockiest, root-strewn mountain biking in the country. When the trail is clear, I need to carefully pick my line, make sure I don’t hit any rocks or roots at odd angles that might swipe my wheels out from under me. On Saturday, I couldn’t see those obstacles, they hid beneath the leaves. In truth, I could barely tell when we were on the trail. That lay hidden below the leaves as well.
After a mile of riding—typically a relaxing downhill where we travel fast enough to bounce over all of those uneven bumps, but this time a slower white-knuckle stress-fest where I expected to wipe out on a loose, hidden rock at any second—we started to climb. This is when I realized I was sick. My head pounded; my body felt as strong as a wet, limp napkin. Hyperventilating, I tried to keep up with Eli, but he kept edging farther away. Riding uphill is my strength. Riding with kids, I always know they’re going to kick my butt on the downhills—they lack the common sense to be cautious—but I always catch them on the ups. On Saturday I lost ground on the downs and even more riding up.
When we popped out onto a fire road, we had to make a choice. Ride a steep mile to the top of a ridge to hook up with a long, twisty downhill trail, or go straight back to the car on an easy, flat path that’s only satisfying after you’ve completely used yourself up with ninety minutes or so of hard riding. I apologized to Eli and opted for the easy trail back to the car.
Over the next month, my neighborhood will take the final steps towards winter. The trees, without leaves will seem barren and bleak. Dusk at 4:30 will simply be depressing. But weekend days will still offer opportunities to ride bikes with my son over trails that increasingly become free of leaves, and will, not so far in the future, rejuvenate with spring.
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Previously Published on jefftcann.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
