One of the joys of Fall in northern New England -- at least for those of us who pursue crazy aerobic sports -- lies in leaving the world of clean, open spaces for the tightness which comes with the forest.
Gone are the open roads. Gone are the bike climbs upon hot asphalt, the swims in the warm, open water (much missed), and the running on steamy roads and byways. Now the wind is howling. The temperature has dropped precipitously. Snow is predicted. Being in the open ain't that much fun anymore.
Now it's time to head to the hills. The woods beckon, the dense forest where deer and chipmunk and flocks of turkeys and geese abound. Here, the wind disappears. Here, the sun still shines and the ground is firm. Here, there is light and opportunity, and you can still wear biking shorts.
In the past three weeks, as the weather has changed, I've also got a new (used) mountain bike. After biking up and down hills on a 20-year old bike, literally a mail-order special, I'm happy to report a happy change in equipment. It's like I died and went to heaven. Hills that I could never climb before are covered in an instant. Downhill charges that left my bones rattled and my brain addled are now sweet events with rolling encounters over a severe landscape. That muddy patch? I take it without a concern. Need a really, really low gear to navigate a tricky path? No problem. I'm a semi-god on the dirt trails of Lyme, New Hampshire.
Amidst the fun which comes with jumping, turning, and twisting on this new bike lies the realization that writing -- my salvation -- has been ignored for far too long. There are a host of legitimate excuses why I've stayed away from this blog, but none of them really suffice. Over the last year, as I've written less and less, I've also realized how much I need to write more and more.
Just as a new bike brings me new joy to a cool season, the prospect of writing (indeed, the act itself of writing) brings joy to me in a troubled time. I'm not a perfect writer. I'm not much of a public writer. But I've learned to accept my fate as a writer. Every word, every letter, every sentence that I commit -- all of them bring me hope and solace and insight.
So, here's to more mountain bike rides and here's to more writing. It's the least I can do.
