memories and remembering

Way back in '14 life changed quite a bit.

Many reasons, many changes. An attempt to reboot and recover. From external and emotional injuries. With the blown bursa and recovery that led me to reform the pedal stroke and invent custom do it yourself insoles came not the power I wanted but the time off the bike set me back too far I suppose, an unrecoverable amount. But then it was also the beginning of the really non-stop drinking, the beginning of what might have been the end if not for the current new new.

More to the point though one of the biggest changes was moving my Dad out of his house in MD where I spent summers growing up in and many mid-year holidays at while in college and beyond. He and my then step mother were pulling up and moving full time to Colorado. To his place out there. He'd used it as a summer home base for the art shows he would go around to with his gords and weaving and art. It is what he did, what kind of defined his post retirement life.

The drive out was well documented, perhaps mostly on other social medias. He was already slowing down and had a slight tremor but was fully functional and in control but not quite his old self.

The town he moved to probably couldn't have been much more remote, and that was absolutely on purpose. It had a community, one he fit in with well. Mountain men, hunters, artists, tough souls right where they want to be. It wasn't a young town. But it definitely was his place. He won the Hollyhock contest year after year with his meticulous cultivation and variety in front of his place.

But that remoteness probably contributed significantly to his more accelerated decline. I only went back out once more before he left. My brothers went out and packed him off to Kingston WA last august (2018). Too far form the high end medical care he needed, the local stuff wasn't equipped for more complicated issues, so much so that his condition was mis-diagnosed and the drugs made it worse.

Once he left suddenly trips to the in-laws were just that. it meant not having to drive an hour + around the beltway, but it also meant not seeing him at the normal holiday times. it meant not going in Saturday to hang out with him at his table at the Alexandria Farmer's Market.

The San Luis valley is amazing. I'm glad I got to go back. I'm glad I endured the taunting of my brothers for taking so many damn pictures. Because I have the photos, not just memories. Photos of specific lines of mountains from a specific place. Sure I remember the drive in, how it looks. But pulling up one of the photos unlocks memories more vividly.

Soak in the beauty around you. Don't take pictures of everything some people say. And yes, perhaps I agree there is something to just being there, the pressure and reliance on just being there in the moment. But don't deny that having a visual cue, a snapshot, no matter how blurry, or crooked is a treasure not to be taken lightly.

The IG shots of the sunset on my bike path, for me when I look at my feed, it takes me immediately back there. I'm not just looking at the picture, I'm recalling everything about taking the photo most of the time. Over time though the memories blend, and perhaps I won't remember that one specifically but the merging and combination of similar memories all together.

When Gregory Alan Isakov's song San Luis pops up on a youtube video playlist, and even now on a Pandora playlist... the views and melody brings me back to the couple times I was in the high mountains of colorado. And the vanagon of course is a childhood icon, road trips upon road trips.



some memories get lost, and only found when you rewatch something like Pure Sweet Hell. And you listen to Mike F utter his perfectly crafted phrases, or Pineapple Bob ramble on drunkenly about DFL... and you're reminded of the good times.

And for the briefest flash, you have to recognize that you got one particular current pro into this crazy sport and that should be a bright spot. And maybe it could be some day. It will be.

I'm not the hero in my own story, I'm not a hero in anyones story. Kent's post about Sven's book, and one of the quotes about novels and why we should read them resonates a bit. Remember life is a journey. Being a guide is pretty selfless. And calling yourself one feels uncomfortable but sometimes taking a set back and recognizing those who've guided you here, and those you've helped along the way isn't the worst thing. To find out much later how big of an impact you had on students, the quiet students who I'd never suspect.

There are daily reminders to be kind, helpful and selfless. In both positive and negative...

I've got to remember what it really hooked me and made Mike's phrases resonate so deeply...

But I also need to make sure I hit the marks that Mayhew talks about. Racing tired is not fun. I mean it is better than not racing but triggers a bunch of bad shit. What does that mean? It means resting. Being fresh. Something I've been struggling with. A. Lot.

I rode hard in this morning. Made my legs hurt, pushed that big heavy slow singlespeed as hard as I could. paused for a bit then pushed it again. Might do something on the way home in the rain but then I might actually not do much else until the race. I did a ton of work on the bike on Sunday, and felt reasonably recovered by yesterday, the effort this morning felt good, not forced, not slow, there were some watts being made. It is a process. I have to remember to hit the marks, i have to be deliberate.

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