Missing the race

Could be I’m a tad on the grouchy side today. There’s a fair chance of that, seeing as how during my entire ride, I found myself pining for the solo race I’d ambitiously penciled into my weekend plans. On paper, today seemed ripe for a bike adventure. That’s what I told myself as I bid farewell to Lincoln Hills, setting my sights on conquering the Rattlesnake. And for a while, it was all sunshine and rainbows, or so I thought. Even as I pedaled through mud and slush, optimism had me believe I could emerge from this challenge with both my dignity and bike intact. However, as I ventured further into what I’ve now dubbed “the trail of mandatory single-track sorrows,” it dawned on me that I was in for a soaking of epic proportions, with my bike likely to suffer a fate akin to a battle-worn chariot. I managed to dodge the grim reaper on what felt like a slushy slope designed for ice skating rather than biking, but by the time I was homeward bound, the day’s ride had officially plummeted from “adventure” to “misadventure.”

Missoula, in its whimsical way, seems to have a talent for humbling the human spirit. Today’s escapade put more wear on my bike than six months of daily rides in Bozeman could ever dream of. Such is life around these parts, it seems. Today felt akin to bouncing back from an injury – moments of deceptive progress suddenly undercut by petty setbacks, grounding you once more. Yet, deep down, there’s that flicker of hope that enduring these trials will somehow steer you back to a sweeter slice of life. Or at least, to what one imagines that sweet slice to be.