The physical reminder of the ride still lies in my bones, not because it was jarring, but because of the movements of the bike resonating along an uneven path have left their song in my memory long after we hung up the bikes for the day.
I wish there was a way I could just re-ride the 9 mile section of double track gravel over and over again. Not so much for me to experience again, although I would, but so I could instead just transfer the visceral experience directly to you reader, so as not to have to revert to describing it here in two dimensions of type face. Although the similarities between the ride and the type are the scrambling of the letters over and over again to form words form the story as the bumping and pedaling over new but similar sections of rock and dirt form the ride. And the story and the path, they parallel each other with beginning, middle, and end. Minor characters set the stage, main characters carry out the plot. The ride as metaphor for story, for life. No wonder we, humans, seek the parallel for meaning, and some of us find it on our bike.
That’s a long and rather romanticized description for a bike ride.
A simple thing, a bike ride on a planned route. A beginning, a middle, and end, but also with surprise twists and unexpected characters and adventures. I leave the remainder of the ride to the imaginative and the route to the curious.