There’s nothing quite like the crunch of fresh snow under the wheels of a fat bike, the world around you muffled by a thick, white blanket. That was the setting of what started as an epic Sunday ride. The air was crisp, and my breath came out in puffs like smoke signals from an old Western. Mo and Karen, decked out in their winter best, were tackling the trail on foot, their laughter punctuating the silence of the snowy landscape.
But as the ride went on, the invincibility began to fade, replaced by a creeping malaise that seemed to leach the warmth from my bones. Mo and Karen, still full of energy, waved goodbye, unaware of the battle waging inside me.
The journey back was a blur. Each pedal stroke was heavier, each breath shorter. The familiar landscape seemed to transform, becoming a bit more daunting with each mile. By the time I reached home, I was a mere shadow of the warrior who had set out that morning. Collapsed on the couch, I gave in to the sickness, and the adventure of the day gave way to the hope of a swift recovery.
It’s funny how life throws these little curveballs, isn’t it? One minute you’re on top of the world, the next you’re buried under a pile of tissues, nursing a hot lemon drink. But hey, if every day was a victory, we wouldn’t appreciate them half as much. So, here’s to the unexpected adventures, the trails yet ridden, and the health to enjoy them. Get well soon, self – we’ve got more snowy trails to conquer.
Boneshakerbike 