I haven’t been running, haven’t been walking, haven’t been exercising or eating well. I have been travelling, and it is killing me.
Here is what I want to do: ride bikes with my family through the lovely green forests of Minneapolis. There is a bike trail that cuts past Cedar Lake, and then curls a long lazy left handed turn through the city, before ending up at the edge of the Mississippi – the whole trail is maybe seven miles long. But for most of it you can’t see any cars at all; just a little brook of a path, winding through thickets of young trees, with the older giants bending their leafy heads over you.
Last summer I rode with Steph and Chrissy home after a long day of swimming and biking. It was late – nine, nine-thirty. James and Grant had stopped zooming ahead and were trailing the cargo bikes, starting to complain. Bode was sleeping on the back of Chrissy’s bike and Darcy and Lewis were nodding off behind Steph. I slowed down a bit to watch the whole caravan go; the sun setting behind the trees, and little red bike lights blinking in the half light.
If I could travel to any point of my life – just hop in a time machine and go; experience it all again, there are three times I would hit, over and over and over.
When I met Steph; when we crossed the Rockies at Cameron Pass; and that night, when we were riding home from North Commons pool.
Nothing too special about it. It just felt like family to me; like hope. Like home.
This is an old one of Grant. Like a time machine one.