I peddled 50 miles on the dirt roads the last two mornings, which put me over the hundred-mile mark for the week. The weather is supposed to be cooler going forward, and after a week or two of temperatures around the century mark, I’m jacked about that. We got a nice thunderstorm yesterday that brought a good portion of rain, and the roads were softer this morning; the other conditions were nearly perfect though, with the thermometer registering 63°. The breeze was on the verge of starting the blades spinning on the hundreds of windmills at the Cheyenne Ridge wind farm; it takes an 8 mph breeze to get them started, and a little less will keep them turning.
A tractor passed me about 3 or 4 miles into the ride yesterday as he headed for the oilfield to do maintenance work. Then I came upon a beautiful little kit fox lying dead in the road, a vacant stare from its empty eye sockets. I reckon it met doom on the wrong end of a fast-moving farm truck or an oil field service rig. The little, dead fox reminded me that there are no guarantees; it doesn’t matter how beautiful life is, it can be snuffed out in the snap of your fingers or the snap of a neck in the little fox’s case. I went by him again today and the carrion eaters of the high plains had already turned him into an ugly, little pile of bones and sludge, flies feasting on what was left.
I seen another kit fox fifteen or so miles later, and he wasn’t lying dead on the road, he was running rapidly for the cover of a cornfield, to hide from my predatory eyes. I see plenty of wildlife on the morning rides. A couple of days ago I surprised two Badgers crossing the road. The female was out front and the male was covering her retreat as I came flying down the road. He looked like a short, fat, four-legged ballerino as he tried to run away and threaten me, at the same time. He was a fierce, little fur ball, spinning and dancing across the road.
Life & Death
Life is so precious and tenuous, yet we tend to waste it, struggling to achieve some goal or ambition that doesn’t even belong to us, as if we’re guilted into a life of debt slavery, by cultural beliefs that leave us craving for our true identity. At least that thought made its way into my Prefrontal cortex during one of the breaks in the action, when I wasn’t pushing the heart rate up to 160 bpm. The truth is tenuous I suppose, just like life and death.
Thoughts come and go “Out There,” in the dirt. Death isn’t something I spend too much time pondering, I prefer to ponder on nature and life, which is why I’m out there. It feels like life and nature exist on the same plane; a high plane, paved in golden gravel. Thoughts only get an opportunity to intrude when the going smoothes out and the heart rate calms down. So when a thought appears that I don’t want to consider in the present moment, I pick up the pace and it floats off, like a Cumulus cloud on a high plains breeze.
As I was having coffee this morning, looking out the open window and watching the sun rise in an explosion of color on the eastern horizon, I contemplated whether I should go for another ride. It occurred to me that I might be getting old because no contemplation was needed a few years ago. If the breeze was in single digits and it wasn’t raining, I was riding, every day, all summer. Not only for the exercise, it was just a good way to greet the day. I realized while I was out there riding today during one of those smooth sections with the wind at my back that it wasn’t about getting old. I just got a late start on the season, and I need to get out there and ride myself back into summer shape ;>)
