Last night was meant to be routine, just another winter ride with Hendrix, my trusty mountain bike. I’d outfitted him with studded tires, those sharp little metal teeth designed to bite into ice and packed snow. Yesterday’s attempt at a “spring” adventure had left me soaked, so I figured winter biking was still the way to go. Simple math, right?
Wrong. So wrong.
What awaited me wasn’t the familiar crunch of packed snow but something far more treacherous, deep slush. That in-between state where nothing works right. Not winter, not spring, just… shoulder season limbo. Turns out even the most aggressive studs are useless when you’re essentially pedaling through a 7-Eleven Slurpee. With each rotation, my tires spun and slid, finding no purchase in the soft, wet mess. My usual trail had transformed into a battleground where momentum died and balance went to die.
I stopped about a mile in, sweat already soaking through my base layer despite the chill. Leaning against a pine tree, I pulled out my phone, the screen illuminating with a notification, another automated memory from last summer. Perfect timing, universe. Just perfect.
These days, I can’t escape the memories of sun-drenched skin and dusty trails. Every time I feel even a hint of sunlight breaking through the clouds, something inside me aches. That deep, visceral yearning for summer hits like a physical pain.
What makes it worse is this photo project I’ve foolishly committed to, “getting caught up” on organizing last year’s images. Talk about self-inflicted torture. I’m sitting here in my cold house, surrounded by gray skies, scrolling through hundreds of photos from when I worked remotely from Homestake Pass. Those glorious days when I’d shut my laptop at 4:30 and be on the trail by 4:45, riding every single day like it was my job.
The images from my first e-mtb ride to Delmo Lake are especially brutal to look at now. The sunlight filtering through pine branches. That perfect berm on the downhill section. The way the lake reflected the sky. God, I can almost feel the warmth, the smell of pine and dust, the sensation of earned sweat rather than this damp, chilled discomfort that clings to me now.
Those were the days. NOT NOW, as my caps-locked inner voice keeps reminding me.
After my slush-fest disaster, I trudged back home, bike propped awkwardly in the back of the van for the return journey. My partner looked up from her book as I stumbled through the door, dripping melted slush all over our entryway.
“How’d your ride go?” she asked, that hint of knowing amusement in her voice.
I considered lying. Considered some elaborate story about how I’d conquered the elements. Instead, I just sighed and said, “Well, I got out into the woods.”
She waited for more, eyebrows raised.
“I guess some of my own words of wisdom might work here…” I mused, peeling off my soggy gloves. “This too will pass.” I couldn’t help the smirk that formed. “Haha, get it? Pass? Homestake Pass?”
The joke landed with all the grace of my bike in today’s slush. She stared blankly, then returned to her book with a slight head shake.
“Nevermind,” I muttered, but found myself chuckling anyway.
Later that night, as I hung my still-dripping gear in the shed, I realized something. This frustrating in-between season, it’s just a passage, not a destination. Just like that muddy, slushy trail, life has its transition periods where nothing seems to work quite right. But the beauty of a passage is that it leads somewhere. In this case, toward those sun-soaked days I’m so desperately scrolling through in my photos.
We can’t always be in the perfect season, with ideal conditions and epic rides to Delmo Lake. Sometimes we’re just slogging through slush, making terrible puns, and waiting for better days. And you know what? There’s a strange comfort in that shared human experience, the waiting, the yearning, the laughably bad attempts to make the best of things. This too shall pass, just like S L U S H.
This post benefited from the use of Claude for proofreading and structural input. The author remains solely responsible for the final content and its accuracy.
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