Reelin' in the Years

Well, not really. The years are gone. The song was running through my head today as I put about 14 miles on the old odometer. A beautiful spring day and my first time on one of Madison's many bike trails, the South West. I followed the trail downtown, past the stadium and capitol. The sun shining, birds being birds, little breeze; it's an old railway, and at one point it follows a high berm, from which I looked down into backyards filled with the deitritus of winter -- brown gardens, covered grills, dead Christmas trees, and a few hardy gardener types already at work. Quite a few people on the trail too, walkers, joggers, cyclists.

Too bad it's going to snow again Saturday.

The song came to me, I think, because old cycling buddy Paul used to talk about reeling in riders in the distance -- the apt image that every turn of the crank drew us that much closer to the target, as though actually drawing in a line. A good psychological ploy for highway riding. But I also felt as though maybe some of the time was coming back too, just so damned good to be out there again, wondering why I put it aside as easily as I did. As for the years themselves, I know that those that are gone, are gone, no matter how much I'd like to have a few of them back. And change a few decisions, undo a few choices, as probably we all would. But not all. I was also missing some of the good times, too -- we all have, paraphrasing James Thurber, a few things in life we'd like to live over if we could. But we can't.

But I digress. Fourteen more miles and my legs are but moderately tired; my seat is fine. The bike worked wonderfully, and I remembered, again, why I like this sport -- everything seems so different and more real than when glimpsed from a speeding car. There is indeed hope.