Over The River And Through The Woods, pt.2

Through the woods...

The Trace is teeming with history, and passing through her green gates and riding the twisting labyrinth beneath her looming oak and pine is to yield not just to another place but a separate time. From the Native Americans whose footsteps carved the first trail, to the Kaintucks who trampled a road wide and deep on their way home from downriver destinations, to the postal riders who continued using the Trace even when no others would, this road has stories. Armies have marched up and down her spine, and battles fought in her woods and fields; fortunes of people and nations won and lost. As I hum down smooth empty tarmac, I am aware of all this--somewhat. The fact is that this day and this road are just too perfect to describe, beautiful in a way no picture can capture. My every sense is pricking from (and for) the variegation of stimuli, each one in coming through in high-def crispness. And with my body alert and manning the helm, my mind is free to wander carelessly and easily. I'm riding the breeze with the frantic butterfly that has become my wingman. I'm dismounting my steed (cleverly named "Greeny") and exploring the overgrown path, hidden in plain sight from the eyes of speedier riders. Is this where de Soto buried his Spanish-claimed gold?

Just as my shovel sounds a glorious thud, spiking firmly into what can only be a chest brim full of heavy gold, I'm jolted back to the now. Greeny's steel limbs are alive and shivering steadily, his nostrils are flared. He has caught a scent on the wind, something reminding him of his freedom. We are starting downhill. I instinctively lean forward, slide my thighs back and squeeze the seat between them. My hands re-grip; I spit with intent. I'm ready. I slam on the shifter and bang into high gear, racing down the steepest section of track. As we level out I cruise through the valley, then--at just the right time--I pedal hard and downshift one, then another, then one more. All the while my legs spin feverishly, each muscle showing what it can do, thrilled to have the challenge it had been craving. As I slow to an easy push near the opposite peak a skylight opens in the foliage above me. I notice my legs don't burn. My quads are taught but responsive. I look down from high on the tunnel of dripping leaves and spanish moss before me, rolling rises and dips and delicious curves snaking infinitely into the distance. The sun is bright overhead, there's plenty of daytime left. I realize I'm smiling and wonder if I ever stopped. I place my palm on my helmet and slide it slightly forward. Then I lean in and once again begin to race, having no deadline or need to hurry, just because in this pure moment I've abandoned all control to my inner kid, and he knows a playground when he sees it. We fly down the Trace together, happy.

Thanks to my Granny and Gramps for their tremendous support of our trip, I am a very lucky grandson and I know it. The 9th was also my Grandma White's birthday, she passed away last April. If you are fortunate enough to have grandparents in your life, call them today and tell them you love them. Don't wait. That's your weekend homework assignment from two guys on bikes.
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