Bleeding Time

I am hemorrhaging Summer. It is spilling onto the linoleum of time. I am dizzy. Woozy even.

Last winter, Summer was an abstract concept. It slowly stretched before me and faded into the vast continuum of all Future. My plans for Summer were primordial. Ill formed without regard for timing or work or family or a single shred of reality they danced before my mind in a silly, childlike, muppet way in a magical land where the sun was locked in a soft evening sky, the singletrack was an infinite treadmill of hero dirt. I am never late in this mythical paradise and there is a beer commercial waiting for me at the bottom.

Like so many dreamers I have failed to complete most of these plans into something real. Left out too many details. Didn’t get them penciled into the calendar. Been too damn busy.

Before I even realized it the noose of my suburbanite existence has tightened around my Summer. Yard work. Oil Changes. Regular work. Swimming lessons. T-ball. Block parties. Family vacations. Concerts. Barbecues. Home Improvements. The M-Fing Boulder Ironman that stole 2 hours of my life waiting in traffic because the race organizers decided to route the race across as major highway. Twice. Soulless A-holes.

I’m not complaining. I love my life. I love the pace of my life. But I want June back. I miss June. I miss May too for that matter. Here we are already, knee-deep in July with August a weekend or two away.

August. (Pours another 3 fingers of rye and shakes head). Already.

Tomorrow I leave for Crested Butte. For the joyous vertigo of the 401, the wicked ups and downs of Reno/Bear/Flag/Deadman, and the blinding rush of Doctors Park. I’m going to get up early and ride. Every day. I’m going to instigate every bonus shuttle I can. I’m going to tempt the weather and the darkness, shake my fist at dark skies and burn back down the mountain like a scrawny kid who sucker punches a bully.

I’m taking my stand, and I’m starting with Crested Butte. I’m coming for you too Steamboat, and Jackson, and Miller Fork and Jones Pass, and I’d watch-your-back Durango. I’m taking back my Summer.

Here’s the challenge for myself, and to you, dear reader: From now until the snow drags us into fatbike territory, every time you have the “We should ride sometime” conversation with any other rider you meet, make it happen. Make a plan right then and there. Nail down a day. A time. A location. If you hesitate. If you vacillate. If you blink, this will not work. Your fledgling plan, the time your dreamed on stealing will be gone. You will shake hands and part ways and something will come up. Do not let that happen. We are all hemorrhaging Summer, and all bleeding stops eventually.

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