Nobody knows how he is doing it, this riding every day, leaving wagon tracks so far back in the distance they disappear into the pillows of dust he plows with those knobbie tires. He used to be an oddity, a curio on the trail, like a Maurice Cheeks throwback jersey on an Abercrombie and Fitch rack.
Now he rides every day, splits cans of tuna with the cat (getting a head start on that plan) and never speaks of scabs or cramps, or aching muscles or too hot or too early or too late or too short or too long, because he just doesn’t care anymore. Munson 30 times? Why not 100 times? Why not on empty stomachs with flat tires? Why not during a thunderstorm, with sand in our water bottles?
He may not always ride with you, but never doubt he is riding.