I went mountain biking today north of Boulder, after a day of wildland firefighter training. Mountain biking is what started this whole crazy thing for me. I had a friend in high school who raced for Cannondale and he introduced me to cycling. He rode his shiny silver bike, I rode a Huffy. He cruised up and over some crazy climbs (you know, there's alot of climbing in Chicago), I huffed and puffed and loved every minute of it.
I got to college and hit the trails up along the bluffs of the mighty Mississippi River. I thought I was a tough guy for riding singletrack, tearing along at what seemed like an amazing pace. My buddy Rene was a big shot rider for Schwinn and I still remember the day he got his brand new sponsored mountain bike shipped to our dorm. Damn I was jealous!
The Winona State Cycling club brought me into contact with those darn road riders. Stuck up, snobbish, the Grand Prix of cycling, blah blah blah. Those guys rode fast and furious. Our club hosted a criterium in Winona and it was really sweet to see pros like Robbie Ventura taking those four corners at breakneck speed. I rode my first criterium on a mountain bike with slick tires.
The story continues as I raced my mountain bike in Minnesota, got dropped, fought back, bought a road bike to train for mountain biking and then soon after started racing road bikes. The rest as they say is...
As I cruised along the trail today, high up in the mountains, my past crept up from the ground, vining up the wheels, around the frame and back into my brain. I looked off along the trail and saw a huge hawk flying along the ridge, keeping pace with me, or I with him...
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