Doing double duty

23 03 2016

Sometimes one ride a day just isn’t enough.

March has been a pretty crappy month. Lots of rainy days. Yet somehow I’ve managed to turn the pedals more than 430 kms so far. Almost half those kilometres came on a couple of back-to-back nice days last week, and included my second 100+ km ride of the year.

Otherwise it’s been a series of 45-50 km efforts between cloudbursts. Sometimes they leave your legs wanting more.

Tuesday’s ambitions were truncated by threatening dark clouds that moved over our intended destination, threatening to storm at any moment and dropping the temperature by at least five degrees. So instead we veered south where blue skies and less ominous puffy white clouds beckoned on the horizon.

There was no sun to be found on this particular route.

There was no sun to be found on this particular route.

But that meant less mileage and less climbing.

So in the evening I filled the exercise gap with a brisk bolt though the woods on the mountain bike.

The “double” is a rare achievement. Mostly because of time; there’s not a lot of days when you can turn your back on obligations or duties to hit the road bike AND the mountain bike.

Sometimes one ride a day just isn't enough.

Sometimes one ride a day just isn’t enough.

But if there’s one thing I have plenty of in my post-employment, it’s time.

The evening seemed balmier than the day; the threatening clouds that had rolled in through the morning were now like a protective blanket, trapping the city’s warmth. The full moon glowed faintly through the thinner patches.

The trails were soft, sometimes muddy, but still fast. The trees and bushes passing our shoulders smelled fresh with new growth.

Then, part way through our ride, just before the descent down to the beach, we stopped dead. All around us the air was filled with a loud steady drone.

We steered down a side trail, headed straight into the sound storm. We knew the source, and when we arrived we let it wash over us, like natures’ own Dolby surround tone.

Spring had arrived at the swamp flanking the trail; it had been transformed into a boggy singles bar for frogs and it was half-price shooters night.