On extra long days, we'll sit and watch the cars and trucks roll by on the sometimes busy street outside our back windows. We cheer as the big rigs and dump trucks struggle up the hill, shifting gears almost painfully. Occasionally, we'll spot a motorcycle gang out for a Saturday spin, or a group of bicyclists speeding by over the open road
Today, as the rain fell in symphonic movements, we spotted a lone biker trudging up the hill, head down, body raised high as the puddles splashed up around his wheels. I couldn't help but stare at him as the water rushed furiously on his face and I wondered why he'd made the decision to ride on an utterly miserable day, all alone on a long and difficult road.
It pelts us in the face, this mothering. Sometimes hard. Like bullets. There are no fans cheering us on along the way. Many of us are often without a team member there, forcing us to ride full speed ahead with few chances to fall back and grab water when we need it.
Like the biker, we make our choices, and own them, knowing that every day is not going to be the best one.
We'll have those moments, those perfect snippets of wonder, where the road is smooth and the sky is bright, and the warm soft breeze on our face reminds us why we stepped out for a ride.
But then there are days, so many days, that we're forced out into a cold wet rain and there's just no helmet hard enough and no visor thick enough to protect us from the inevitable bumps and bad weather that are bound to happen on this journey.
We forage ahead, not slowing down for fear that we won't be able to start again. And the only thing keeping us from stopping is that we know what lies on the other side -- the downhill rush, our legs free from pedaling and our faces lifted up to feel the air as it skims across our skin.
The good days.
It is that feeling and the memory of those days that keep me moving when I have no earthly business being anywhere near a bicycle.