beer

I was sitting on the patio at Telluride Brewing, beer in hand, happy as a man can be after a huge ride. My son was still up on the mountain, ripping the park. My wife and daughter were out shopping with the dogs. Everything was perfect — except I knew, deep down, something had to change.

I’m 54 now. I’ve been riding bikes since my twenties. I’ve never really taken a break, but I’ve also never been the guy at the front of the pack. Consistent, yes. Fast, no. I didn’t race for the trophies; I rode for my soul. I was never the skinniest guy, but I was always out there. I grew up on Colorado’s Front Range — riding Matthew Winters Park, the odd weekend in Moab, long days pedaling from downtown Denver with my partner in crime: Bill, to the foothills and back. We even raced the Cactus Cup once or twice. Nothing spectacular in the results, but mountain biking was my life.

In the ’90s, I moved to the Bay Area and kept the streak alive — Marin, Angel Camp, Mount Diablo, endless weekends in Downieville, and Skeggs Point on the peninsula. We rode everywhere. Abani was always up for a ride. Sometimes John would join, or my brother, or Michael. We weren’t chasing podiums; we were just chasing.. I’m not sure, something. My wife was/is a saint never asking why it took all day to ride, just patiently knowing I needed it.

wheelie

Then life did what it does. Kids, companies, responsibilities — all good things, but they eat at the edges of your time. I didn’t love riding any less; I just did it less. When we moved to Austin in 2013, I made a deliberate choice to live near Emma Long Park so I could ride from the house. But the cadence never stuck. Some months I rode ten times, some months none. A few years like that and it showed — the weight crept up, the legs got slower, and the young guns started dropping me.

Which brings me back to Telluride. Every year our family goes to Colorado — Yeti Tribe rides, park days, the usual mountain rituals. But this time was different. I was there, surrounded by everything I love about bikes, and I wasn’t in shape to enjoy it. It bugged me deeply. I knew I could be better. I knew I was better. That afternoon, staring at the mountains with a beer in hand (I’ll admit a few in at this point), I decided it was time for a change.

singletrack

Fast forward three months: I’ve been riding three times a week and I’ve dropped twenty-five pounds. I’ve signed up for two races — one done, one coming. The first was Doss Gravel, and I finished it. The second is the Austin Rattler. I don’t even know if I’ll finish the Rattler, but that’s the point. Keep riding. Keep pushing. Make the change. Turn the corner. Put in the effort. Finish the race.

I don’t know exactly where this goes from here. I just know I’ll keep writing, keep taking pictures, keep making stuff — and I’ll keep riding more. I’m waking up in the dark, rolling out with my buddies before the sun, and yeah, they’re still faster. But it doesn’t matter. This is where I need to be. This is my spot.