Wanted to post this to everyone...I met Jenny a few years ago at cycling event in Michigan. She has a great character, is an amazing cyclist, and well SHE IS A SUPER WITH THE WRENCH...the only female bike mechanic I know really....
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| from a friend...but I am sure she does not mind I borrow this awesome photo.... |
The Time to Make the Memories is Now...
Arriving at the junction of the Gashouse Gulch and Baldy trails, I rejoin the group of eight women I have been riding with this glorious Sunday morning in the Buffalo Creek Recreation Area. We have been out here for over two hours climbing, cornering and descending through the Pike National Forest. At times we pedal through a thick ancient forest under a canopy of mature pine trees, the earth blanketed by a dense coat of dry needles and decaying deadfall. Eight years ago, a vast section of this land burned to the ground during the Haymen fire. These trails carve across the land through hillsides exposed by the fire which are just now beginning to show signs of new life: blue-green spikes of Gamma grass, ivory Yarrow, slender red trumpets of penstemon, the pale purple flowers that are wild geranium, curl-leaf mahogany, currant, and tiny sprigs of baby pine trees. The beauty, although altered by the death of the old forest, has not been lost.
The gals are all chatting, making use of still time to get to know one another a little bit. Each of us knows at least one other and some of us were strangers until a few hours ago. I perform a silent equation in my head and compute the median age of the group is 44 years. The oldest woman has children now grown and starting their own families and the youngest has a 3-year old son who is at home with dad today so mom could ride with “the girls”. Some of the women race occasionally and all of us ride for the pleasure mountain biking can bring us. Every group of men we pass (we have yet to pass another group of all women) asks us if we race. We ride at a fairly strong pace and everyone looks super comfortable on their bike. I suppose when another rider witnesses strength in a group, a level of expertise typically associated with racing comes to mind. The reality is we are a collective of people, a temporary tribe, who share the same skills, have been riding for similar lengths of time, and who love it to the point of embracing cycling as an element integral to the quality of our existence.
A few of us sit on the ground and stretch. Two men from another group join us in the shade. One of the men is obviously fatigued. “I have to make time to ride during the week. This weekend warrior *#@~ is killing me.” We smile politely but say nothing in return. Every woman in our group has a career or runs a business or has a family; we all face the challenge of establishing a hierarchy of priorities. I think about what this man has said, about “making time” and I realize that we do not make time. Rather, time is a word that describes the flow of life. In every moment something is born, grows, peaks, fades, and dies. The cycle is always moving, never ending. In the eight years since the fire destroyed the old forest, I have been married, divorced, single, and am now deeply involved in a wonderful relationship with a terrific man. The married me died, the divorced and single versions of me were born, lived, and died, and now the newborn me is beginning to grow. In eight human years a person can go from college to job to married to parent. In geologic time, eights years is barely enough time for a pine seedling to be born and grow eight inches!
The gals are all chatting, making use of still time to get to know one another a little bit. Each of us knows at least one other and some of us were strangers until a few hours ago. I perform a silent equation in my head and compute the median age of the group is 44 years. The oldest woman has children now grown and starting their own families and the youngest has a 3-year old son who is at home with dad today so mom could ride with “the girls”. Some of the women race occasionally and all of us ride for the pleasure mountain biking can bring us. Every group of men we pass (we have yet to pass another group of all women) asks us if we race. We ride at a fairly strong pace and everyone looks super comfortable on their bike. I suppose when another rider witnesses strength in a group, a level of expertise typically associated with racing comes to mind. The reality is we are a collective of people, a temporary tribe, who share the same skills, have been riding for similar lengths of time, and who love it to the point of embracing cycling as an element integral to the quality of our existence.
A few of us sit on the ground and stretch. Two men from another group join us in the shade. One of the men is obviously fatigued. “I have to make time to ride during the week. This weekend warrior *#@~ is killing me.” We smile politely but say nothing in return. Every woman in our group has a career or runs a business or has a family; we all face the challenge of establishing a hierarchy of priorities. I think about what this man has said, about “making time” and I realize that we do not make time. Rather, time is a word that describes the flow of life. In every moment something is born, grows, peaks, fades, and dies. The cycle is always moving, never ending. In the eight years since the fire destroyed the old forest, I have been married, divorced, single, and am now deeply involved in a wonderful relationship with a terrific man. The married me died, the divorced and single versions of me were born, lived, and died, and now the newborn me is beginning to grow. In eight human years a person can go from college to job to married to parent. In geologic time, eights years is barely enough time for a pine seedling to be born and grow eight inches!
The man on the trail recognizes in his own way that time is always on the move. I think what he recognizes that he needs to prioritize his life so he can dedicate time to the things he loves and that nourish his body, mind, and heart. He knows what cycling can do for him. In a way, he is experiencing regret because he is out of shape, and he is out of shape because he is filling his time with things that take him further away from fitness and wellness. He knows he cannot reclaim the time that has passed.
We have all experienced this, I think. When I was asked to join this ride a couple days ago, my first thought was “I’m too busy. I have things I could be doing at home”. Fortunately, my good man reminded me that nothing could be more important than time spent with the girls riding our mountain bikes. Why didn’t I think of that? It took ten seconds to recognize that chores and shopping can wait – my health and happiness are more important than a clean bathroom and a stocked fridge. When death comes, I’d like to share my final breaths with the memory of forests and trails, flowers and sunshine, feeling the bike flow lightly over the earth with the sounds of friend’s whoops and laughter filling my ears. The time to make the memories is now.
Jenny
http://www.giantforwomen.com/blog/entry/the_time_to_make_the_memories_is_now/
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