A series of break-throughs occurred to me this weekend. It was enlightening and inspiring all at once.

First, I have no sports heroes. I guess I am finally realizing this. Floyd, Basso, you name the ‘cliche’’. I can not relate to them. I’ll never ride the Tour. I’ll never be tempted to cheat. My hero was…no…IS my dad. And he wasn’t killing it on a bike or with a bat and ball to make us proud. He was killing it with his 2 hour-each-way commutes to NYC. He was killing it with his lessons in how to detect bull shit artists and steer clear. He was killing it in leading by example: “…just get home to your family.” And so, I try to emulate.

The second break through was seeing this ALL in reverse. My son doing his best to be a son to me. To make me proud. To have a moment with me. And he succeeded. They both succeed in this, my sons, but my eldest broke through yesterday on his own terms in his own way and did his best. His absolute best.

I could care less if they ride. I just want my boys to be happy and healthy and motivated. But the joy was evident as Aiden and I…flowed.

And so I share. He was a hero to me yesterday.

She’s here.

Getting on the roadie today with friends took the thoughts of fatness and slug like existence away I seem to get my brain wrapped all up in when I can’t get out and torture myself.

Like the white bar tape that get’s wrapped on your roadie come spring,  the first couple of long rides are painfully sweet. Enough torture to remind yourself you’re alive. Vitamin D does wonders.

And so I will stay true to keeping myself rolling. When the shit comes down I will look at may anchor in the fall, cross, to pull me forward. Each ride a building block. Psychologically at a minimum, that I am not dead. Only moving forward.

Hup.

It's coming up fast. The Growler is right around the corner. An epic race put on by Dave Wiens and a crew of passionate Gunni-ites. So looking forward to this as The WB has been talking this race up to me for a dog's year.

There's two loops of 32 miles each. Participants can do the 64 mile original 'double lapper' or the single lap'er. I still don't know where my head and legs are at this time of year. My biz partner and are honored to have been selected to one of our country's most prestigious business incubators for the summer, which means hard hours and crazy schedules. Racing bikes (or getting out to train) is just less of a priority these days...taking a necessary second fiddle to earning money again (ahhh, startups...).

But alas, the call of the woods is a strong one. Just to be able to purge the soul for a weekend with friends will be more than I could have asked for, 64miles with gears...or 32 miles with none. That is the question.

You can’t wear matching kits.

The guy with the most form carries everyone’s spare tubes. In a plastic shopping bag.

If you mechanical, you’re dropped.

Pavement. Dirt. Narrow alleys and bike paths.

Cross bikes welcome. Just have a 53.

Don't talk much. Just suffer.

This is not a gentleman’s ride like you see in black and white in those fancy expensive bike catalogues. Don’t pose and come in your knit cap. They will ensure you are ejected for pulling a stunt like that.

The Crack ride. It may or may not exist. It will ensure your place is known and known quickly. Cat 1? Pro? It doesn't give a shit. You’re dropped.

If I wrote this post on Friday, it’d been all interwoven with fairly bad references to piano wire, depression, rainy days and woe-is-me’s. But alas, things change, don't they?

I don't write as much as I used to. I ride less. Every opportunity to is precious. The peloton that is life has just accelerated and I am pinned. Hoping I can stay with the group. But I did this to myself. I am in control.

But even with all that goes on these days, the focus on those precious times you can get out are so anticipated. I can not be one of those people who refuse to ride because they aren't as fast, or aren't as 'in form'. What the hell does that mean to a 40 year old husband and father anyways. Riding is my attachment to my youth. Me best memories.

So, I suit up. One leg at a time into the chamois. I throw my leg over my bike and rendezvous with my friends. Like kids. We ride and talk. Everyone is pinned with what life is throwing at us  I learn. Everyone is trying to do the best they can for their families. It’s what makes the people I choose to surround myself with beautiful.

The group ride is church for our set. Therapy at its purest. Some have the need to go off the front and put pain to the rest of us. Others  need to wheelie and table-top like little boys. We do these things and we all smile. We are alive and for the moment, the ‘real’ world is put in a compartment with its lid shut. No thoughts of deadlines. No thoughts of intervals. Just riding. Little reminders of why we commune in the woods.

We hit some intensely fun singletrack right by our houses this weekend. All from our garage doors. Deadly steeps up radically hard double track trail bringing us up to vistas that prove you really are in Colorado…and all this is available without getting into cars.

A short sneak peak at a slice of our day. The GoPro belies the steepness.

OHV Trail System Boulder (Scene 1) from Gregory Keller on Vimeo.

More of the goodness followed...

OHV Trail System Boulder (Scene 2) from Gregory Keller on Vimeo.

Commune with your friends as often as possible. For those that ‘do’, there will always be imbalance and the need to ensure not only you, but those that surround you are taken care of. It makes getting together for your penance that much more sweet.