Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you. — Carl Sandburg

I doubt Carl rode sick all-mountain bikes on chundery Austin singletrack. But it almost seems like he did. As I ride these days, this sentiment is omnipresent.

Let me rewind a bit.

It was the last marg shack run. Typical radness. Ripping JB’s sweet trails down to the most expensive but also sweet sweet margarita shack. I love these runs. Low key, bikes, margs, Lake Austin. Bros.

As we were wrapping up, Z grabbed me. He had a text on his phone from my brother. I’d missed it. Z’s tone said it all. Dude, this is serious. My brother had a giant pulmonary embolism.

Ok, back further.

Anyone who knows me knows DG. Folks at work, neighbors, basically any and everyone I’ve crossed paths with has met him, and loved him. Shit, Mohan won’t shut up about him. It was DG who greeted me when I moved to CA with Bri. It was DG who was my best man when I met my wife E. DG lived in SF when we did. I can’t ever forget him running down Sutter Street with a Weber grill spewing ashes so we could cook chicken for Fleet Week, Blue Angels day.

DG and I raced cars, made desert trips, ran ranch campouts, ran the 25 Hours of Thunderhill together. We won 2nd place at the Mint 400 — the hardest race in America — in a five-year-old, semi-fucked-up RZR in the UTV class.

More than that, we’ve ridden everywhere. East Bay, China Camp, Skeggs, Northstar, Tahoe, Downieville. And half a mile from here he rode MTB at Emma with my kids and led the pack.

DG.

If I.. I can’t even write it..

So, back to the marg shack. Dude, to say the least, I hauled ass home. E was waiting and we jumped on the phone. DG got an ambulance ride, great care, expert care, and they pulled a clot the size of a small chicken out of his lungs. Jesus, mother Mary, and all things holy fuck.

So. DG isn’t dead. Nope. Dude caught it when others didn’t — and next time you diss “AI,” uh, Claude might’ve just saved him.

Warp forward. I sit here now at gate 25 waiting for my A320 to board, drinking an excellent IPA from Salt Lick, headed straight to CO to hang. Yep. Time for an “I’m glad you didn’t croak” beer and a steak, maybe a dessert old fashioned. You get what I am saying.

And here is where it comes back full circle. It’s those days out on the trail. Legs burning, arm pump hitting. Ripping trails. The peace, being alone, thinking, riding — it comes back to me.

He’s here.

Did you read my piece I Get To? Fuck man, it’s even more potent now. If you read that piece you know — Bill didn’t make it. DG did. We all have our time.

I don’t care if you ride or not. That’s just my journey. But find your journey. Cherish the trip. Smell the flowers. Love the feel of the click-in of an SPD pedal. Embrace the slight sickness that a 170bpm heart rate induces. Push yourself to clear that climb, or that tricky rock-drop bit. Find the flow. See the beauty, even in pain and challenge. Step up your game just a bit. This ride is better than the next. I’m better. I did it this time.

Because you are spending Carl’s coin. Tick tock.

Now excuse me, I’m off to rip an IPA and a medium rare New York with DG to spend some of mine.