The Cycle of Life, Idiocracy, and True Friends

Following a night of debauchery minus the promiscuity, I had decided to stay home and enjoy a day on the couch. I promptly received a text from a close friend asking me to meet her for a mountain bike ride on Chilhowee Mountain, an old stomping ground. Despite feeling a bit groggy from being up past my bedtime, I felt great. I felt ready to ride! If you have been following this blog or simply keeping in touch with me regularly, you know damn good and well that my lack of motivation has reached an all time high. My thoughts have turned to perhaps relinquishing my fitness goals to join the circus and be the Amazing Cat Juggler or the World's Largest Midget. I don't know, but things were looking bleak. I eagerly accepted my friend's invitation and quickly texted Sara, my partner in crime. She too was excited to hit the trails despite a 5 mile run she had just completed.

* * *

Let me rewind and take you back in time to a place all of my biking friends know and love--Tsali Recreation Area near Bryson City, NC. I began biking there at the beginning of time in a galaxy far, far away in a land riddled with hobbits and trolls. Okay not really, but it sounded good. We lived, ate, breathed biking. Each morning was like Snow White waking up after the spell had been broken; birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and sunshine seemed to glow down from the heavens. We did not own fancy biking gear. A good pair of blue jean shorts and a retro T-shirt filled our biking attire needs. Sidi what? Break out the tennis shoes! The soundtrack for the day consisted of the Stereo MCs, some Deee Lite filtered in along with a little Cake for desert. (Feel free to sample below.)

The trails are fast and flow like water. Rhythm abounds. The best part is that the trail system lies within a campground that is mostly inhabited by bikers. The only thing that would make this more perfect is if a brewery were placed smack-dab in the middle of the campground. I would never leave. 

Before the days of cell phones, people actually called each other like on REAL telephones that existed in our homes--crazy I know. We actually showed up when we said we would and didn't have the ability to shoot each other a text at the last minute saying we would not be able to make it due to some ridiculous reason like we had been attacked by a giant squid in the middle of town. Or we would not be able to make it because aliens decided to capture the family pet for testing. WE WERE RESPONSIBLE-- a concept that seems to have fallen to the wayside these days. It would be nice to point to the Miley Cyrus/Justin Bieber generation, but every generation has developed some level of inadequacy when speaking of responsibility. I blame technology; coming from someone who's livelihood depends upon technology that says a lot. If you need a glimpse into our current status as a people, please watch Idiocracy. 

 

Where was I? Oh yeah...Tsali. 

Each trip consisted of the same players for the most part. As time wore on, the players switched up and out and some left for good. It was simply the "cycle of life." Ha! Yes, a pun was intended. That group has now evolved into a totally different group of riders and has grown much smaller. Unfortunately, life and responsibility kick in at some point (for most anyway) and the euphoria must come to a stop or at the very least slow to a sloth-like crawl. The days of gritty teeth, mud in the butt crack, and beer in the Camelbak are over. Or are they?

* * *

Back to Chilhowee...

My riding buddy, Rhonda, is waiting for us. We all arrive within minutes of one another and begin to put our bikes together, pop a quick snack, and finish getting on our bike gear (no more tennis shoes and blue jean shorts). However, I notice Rhonda is wearing a T-shirt. All I could think is that is cotton and will be soaked in minutes and you will be so uncomfortable. Then my ADHD kicked in . . . what was I doing?

We hopped on our bikes with Rhonda in the lead. The estrogen train was off. We bombed down the loose, rocky trail as though it were the yellow brick road and we were off to see the wizard. Occasionally, we slowed down enough to chat and discuss how rough the trails had gotten, warn each other of upcoming spider webs, and to be on the lookout for a bear as Rhonda has never seen one in the wild. Rock, root, tree, sinewy single-track...annnnd repeat. Like the good ol' days, we rode simply for the enjoyment of riding. There was no judgement on who had the best bike. There was no pressure to beat each other. There was no complaining about lap times, too many rest stops, or hikers on the trails. 

At one point, we passed Benton Falls and headed down Clemmer trail when we passed a group of tourists. I overheard one of the women exclaim admiringly, "Oooh lady bikers!" I smiled. Yes, we are, I thought. But more importantly, we are more than that--we are friends. True friends. 

As the heavy hand of time passes over all of us, only true friends remain. And for those, I am eternally grateful.

And as for Rhonda's T-shirt...

I removed my jersey that felt like a 20-lb weight tossing it into the trunk and thought this jersey is soaked and so uncomfortable.