Sunday morning I just couldn’t connect with anyone regarding the wheres and whens to ride so I cruised up to Forest Meadows for a little solo spin. Redbug and Overstreet, one crunchy, one smooth, equally delicious. I rode with my tunes cranking on my nifty I-shuffle, a gift from my socially advanced California relations. Deep inside the sound tunnel, I detached from the world just a little bit and became a 235 lb woods missile (bike and rider included- my bike weighs 70 lbs.) Occasionally a hiker’s wall-eyed mug would flash across my screen, but I paid them no mind. Does the tornado consider the needs of the tree? Besides, it is a bike trail, and I was letting my inner viking have his way. 10 miles of full contact singletrack and I load the bike, still smoking a little, into the truck. (Yeah, I drove out, what are you going to do?)
The transition area is my garage and I am in and out of there lickety-split.
Hour and a half later and I’m loading clubs into the truck and headed for Jake Gaither Municipal, with Bushy and Ham in the truck. Crack! Crack! Crack! Off and away, the dust from the trail still ringing my lips as I waggle and bear down before sending another ball into the drink. And another. And maybe another.
90 degrees and nobody on the course, just a long lazy walk with the fellas interrupted by hacking and slashing.
But really, who cares what I did this weekend?
Did you do anything exciting?
I’ll take my answers on the road, the red clay of Georgia is calling my name.