I’d somehow forgotten the joy of mountain biking, of cycling along in the cool evening up through the woods. The steady rhythm of the bike as I climb a dirt track leaving my mind free to marvel at the peace of the woodland around me. The buzz of insects, the patterns of dappled shade, the occasional shaft of evening sunlight striking through the canopy to turn the base of a tree as brightly orange as a camp fire. Whippet has taken to the rides far better than I’d hoped. I need to pay attention to where he is, pausing occasionally to let him sniff around the undergrowth, sometimes calling or whistling him to keep up, but he could outdistance me on the climbs if he wanted. Going down the other side, where the path runs close to the border with the golf course, the path is much rougher, sudden dips and the many rock and tree roots protruding from the earth making for a pleasantly technical descent. I time my rides so there are few people around, and head down the path at a good speed, the 29-inch wheels and front suspension making light work of the bumps and obstructions - providing I concentrate. My body seems to remember the way to shift weight to keep the bike moving, while the higher brain functions that would try to inappropriately analyse the problems and cause a crash are suspended. Both ascent and descent are oddly zen-like activities, both involving existing entirely in the moment. There is the bike, and the hill, and the rhythm. There is the bike, and the path; the wheels and this rock, this root, this sudden sharp climb. Whippet seems to realise that my faster pace means he hasn’t time to dawdle, which is just as well; I can spare scant attention to make sure he stays close. Still it’s an easy run for his small form, as I glimpse him through the trees on a parallel path, or crashing through the ferns or springing over a collapsed dry stone wall. I accelerate down the last part of the path - more open, so I can be more sure I’m not causing a nuisance for anyone else - skidding around a couple of open corners and lifting the bike into brief flight over rocks and roots. At the bottom of the woods I pause, not to let Whippet catch his breath (I’ve never seen him lose it) but to allow him to wander and explore and smell around for a few minutes before we gently trundle down the road home.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Jun 2013 20:38:58 +0000
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