It would seem that each year, as the snow melts and the dirt is slowly, slowly exposed that the horizons start to become more and more prominent. I cast my gaze from the here and now to the distant, possible, unknowable future. Whereas the fall is a time for reflection, the early spring is the time for divination and prognostication.
And so as I look forward to the heat and the dirt and the trees, a more clear picture is starting to emerge from the fog of winter and the basement. I am beginning to feel that competitive edge that has been so elusive for far to long. I feel that twitch in my legs and that impatient anticipation, both consorts to an ever growing desire to finally, at long last queue up to a start line.
How long has it been?
It was the fall of 2007 when I last had any serious proclivity toward moving quickly. And even then it was fading. Physical and mental entropy were crowding out the energy of accumulation, leaving me worn out and aching. And it would seem that the trouble all started when I hit the dirt on the Mid-mountain trail. Which leaves me wondering if it could really take 18 months to recover from a crash. Perhaps not. But there is no doubt that that crash lead to and attributed to the forthcoming decline.
By the time 2008 rolled around I realized I was hanging by a thread, clinging to the notion that somewhere inside of me was the rider I was used to being. And then I turned the wheels around on Sandflats road and floated into oblivion. But there is a perspicuous, unambiguous difference to the outlook I have today.
Indeed, horizons once lucid in their detail that became lost in the haze and brume of an obscure, indefinable sense of “off” are now, again, blessedly clear.
What does it all mean? I have no idea. Except that seeing what I now see is not so different than when familiar faces greet one another after a long and extensive absence.