Recently I did something that would make my younger self roll over in his wave. The wave being that of blissful ignorance and youthful exuberance upon which he surfed. After a particularly long and exhausting day at the shop, a nightmare kind of day of trying to make dreams come true, I went home and took a walk with my lovely wife. We held hands and talked and made our way to a nice spot where we sat down and watched the sun set behind the Adirondack Mountains like a giant electric cheese ball sinking into a wool blanket. My younger self would cringe and possibly throw up if he could have seen me sitting there, illuminated in the warm golden light of maturity, especially considering how content I was to be doing exactly that. Horrified, he would then rush back into his time machine and b-line it back to 1995.
My younger self, the single guy who worked at the bike shop, drove a beat up car, didn’t have his finances in order, and drank a lot of beer—compared to my current self, the married guy who works at the bike… well, let’s not get off track from the story here—would have no interest in pleasant strolls and all that lovey-dovey mucky-muck. As soon as he punched out from a long day of trying to keep dreams from turning into nightmares, he would ride his mountain bike until he was a sweaty, dirty, bloody mess. His only concern regarding the sunset would be trying to get out of the woods before it occurred, so as to avoid riding into a tree.
But quality time with my nice lady is something that I enjoy a lot these days, and if I don’t ride my bike every single night, then so be it. People change and things change and that is okay. My younger self was too dumb to understand that—compared to my current self who is… well, no need to get off track again—but these days, a pleasant walk with my lovely wife is not the only excuse I have for not riding my bike every night after work. There are other forces at play. One of them involves throwing Frisbees at trees, a game we call Frisbee Golf. The other, the thrilling game of Bike Polo, involves riding around on a clunker bike chasing a ball with a mallet. Even if it is a stretch, Bike Polo can at least be called bike riding, technically.
If you’re not aware of the exciting game of Frisbee Golf, it is played a lot like regular golf, only with Frisbees instead of golf balls, trees or rocks or the doorways of sheds instead of holes, and instead of a bag of golf clubs, a bag of beers. This is not to be confused with Disc Golf, where instead of Frisbees, they use regulation “discs,” instead of trees or rocks or doorways to sheds they use official looking structures made of chains and metal, and to further separate them from hacks like us and to further legitimize Disc Golf, or “Disc,” as a legitimate sport, they carry around much fancier bags for their beers.
The slightly more active game of Bike Polo was introduced to us by Bart, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, and has since become very popular with all of us and our group of hardcore mountain bikers. Only a few short years ago, we would all be racing to the woods to hit the trails after work. More often these days however, we are all racing to the beer store on the way to a parking lot to hit a duct tape covered ball around the parking lot with a piece of plastic tubing bolted to a ski pole shaft. Like Frisbee Golf, it may be viewed as a shameful thing to do on a glorious summer night, while the singletrack waits for action like a snowmobile buried in tall grass, but at least we are turning pedals. And as Chinch Bug pointed out after a game the other night, it is a good workout, especially when after two or three games you’re the one chosen to ride down to the beer store for more beer.
To Bart’s credit, although he is responsible for the Bike Polo craze that has swept us all off our mountain bikes, he is the most dedicated when it comes to riding bikes for real. But people change and things change, and it won’t be long before he is spending more evenings taking sunset walks with his nice lady. Only in his case, he’ll be pushing a stroller. His younger self would most certainly cringe, but his not-in-the-too-distant-future self may enjoy it, warm golden light and all.
No comments:
Post a Comment