She was a steady ride without chattering on the downhill and comfortable for the long rides I once did (including my first century). Many years of feeling free and alive filled with gratitude that my legs could still pedal. Ruby taught me to be less fearful on descents and to trust my speed on long flats, and she was a comfortable friend on long climbs like the one from Lyons to Raymond.
But Ruby and I haven’t spent time together since around 2019 or so. After I broke my wrist in 2018, I lost confidence on a road bike. It took some time before my left hand had the strength to pull the brake when I was going too fast, and accident after accident on the roads around Boulder scared me. Drivers were getting more and more inattentive, impatient and angry. The risk started outweighing the reward.
Stopping cycling was not an option, so I bought myself a gravel bike. The love of riding returned. My rides were different: I didn’t go as far or explore as much as I had on my Ruby, but I wasn’t overcome with fear either. Bonus, I only had to attend to the trail and other cyclists, not cars. Rob and I also began to head out on our tandem for longer rides. I adapted.
Yet, I’ve been holding on to Ruby. She was a symbol of a time I didn’t want to end. Ruby reminded me of my more recent youthfulness. You might laugh when I say my 50’s were youthful, but then you haven’t begun to inch closer to 70. Awareness that any fall now carried the potential for a long road to recovery sapped some of the joy out of my road rides.
The woman who purchased Ruby was younger, kind and lovely. She was so excited to ride the many trails of Boulder with her son. Ruby was going to a good home and I received a good price for her.
I knew I would feel sad at this good-bye, but didn’t expect to cry.
As an adolescent, like many of my era, I rode my bike everywhere I wanted to go. No helmets, headlights or lights beyond reflectors. Big heavy bikes with kick stands and chrome that rusted after one too many times out in the rain. I’m 66 now, but the sensation of the wind in my hair, as cliched as it sounds, remains magical although today only the hair along my ears responds to the wind; my helmet covering the rest.
Still, I think the cause of my tears had more to it than saying good-bye to my trusted wheels. There is no denying my outdoor endeavors have changed. I can’t hike as far as I once did without a bit of pain in my knees and hips; I am more hesitant when making tight corners on my gravel bike, and the contrast of light in tunnels makes me pray another cyclist doesn’t come in hot on the other end. My life is filled with immense love and I still enjoy grand adventures, but they are no longer the epic rides and hikes of previous decades.
Only a fool would pretend that nothing is changing, that our aging won’t bring us closer to more good-byes. And it is only the dishonest among us that refuses to acknowledge our moments of fear.
Rob and I hiked 11 miles to Georgia Pass on Sunday, up and down the same way. From roughly 10,000 feet to 12 and back again. Yes, I did it, but the hike took more out of me than hikes once did. Incorporating rest days are a must in order to continue to enjoy my deep love of hiking in Colorado.
I wear compression socks to lessen the swelling on my lower legs on hikes but also on long plane and car rides and I hike with poles. I’ve been seeing a physical therapist for a few months to work on vestibular issues, things that amplify my lack of confidence with speed or tight corners. I work hard to care for my body, but there is no denying that some things will just become my new normal. My eyesight is not as sharp as it once was and eventually, like everyone else, I’ll need cataract surgery. The only good news on the horizon is that I only need one more colonoscopy (if all goes well)!
My fifties were a most excellent time. My sixties feel like a time of unwrapping and letting go, of self acceptance and love. Of self care so I can better care for others. Hours spent painting and writing. These years are wonderful, but they include awareness of impermanence. That awareness makes my days feel far sweeter and I don’t take them for granted.
In my experience, the good-byes to activities once easily undertaken are often replaced with things cerebral and selfishly, personally satisfying. Instead of backpacking, I day hike. Instead of tent camping, we spend nights under the stars in “Beluga” our small camper. Instead of going full throttle with intensity, sitting in the garden listening to the wind and speaking with the squirrels makes me feel most alive.
I miss the me that once flew up mountains and rode her bike on regular 30 mile rides all over Boulder roads. I miss the me that once wore form fitting clothing and pretty underwear, who could wear stilettos and cowboy boots and stayed up past 9. She was a wonderful person to be around.
She still resides in me, but I’ve grown into a different woman. I wear clothing that tends to flow and swirl, have let my hair go gray, wear Birkenstocks and spend hours engaged in cerebral conversations or painting in my studio. I believe I might even be more interesting in this phase of life.
Still. These tears remind me of the sweetness of the fleeting moments we have on this earth. Like a bike going 25 mph down a hill, so, too is my life.
Hiking Georgia Pass
