I talked to my Uncle a month or so ago. Whenever I talk to him he asks me if I am riding and always seems a bit surprised, maybe even disappointed when I answer no. He rides all the time, seriously. Like 90% of the days of the year. In the mid west. He's 70ish. What's my excuse?
I used to ride. a lot. I loved to ride, to watch, to smell, to listen. I had my favorite rides that I knew how to lengthen when I felt strong or shorten when felt tired or weak. I loved to climb, yes I did, because I knew I could coast downhill and rest. I was slim and strong.
I'm learning to love to ride again. I am learning the less traveled paths, sans dogs and that don't dead end into a body of water. I'm learning to ride in colder weather because that is the time I have. I'm learning to love the wind as it challenges me, strengthens me. And of course I love that wind as it pushes me home. I love to cross the water, it never ceases to amaze me and bring me peace. I love the smell of scrub pines. Yes, I'm learning to love to ride again but I will never, ever, ever love the smell of chicken farms.