Rolling down my driveway the plethora of riding options ran through my head since I still hadn’t decided on the day’s course of action.
It felt comfortable taking it easy down the street, back home after seven weeks on our summer roadtrip. You name it, and we probably did it sometime during our annual escape.
We started with mountain biking outside of Bend, Oregon, at the Newberry National Volcanic Monument, hitting the trails and roadways.
We spent a week taste-testing various segments of the famous Palouse to Cascades Rail Trail, formerly known as the John Wayne Pioneer Trail, including the chilling darkness of the 2.2-mile Snoqualmie Tunnel.
The Centennial Trail in Spokane, Washington offered smorgasbord of options, including rolling through downtown.
And the Methow Valley trails provided the icing atop it all.
Now, back home, I wondered what my heart and soul desired.
A long road ride?
Gravel-grinding the vineyards and orchards?
Hit the logging roads of the Coastal Range?
That’s when it hit me, what home now means to me.
I cruised out a little on the highway out of my small town, where lazy summer days mean piles of bright green Granny Smith apples sitting roadside, free for the taking.
I doubled back through town, and hit the multi-purpose trail alongside Rickreall Creek, where my cadence remains slow and steady — mellow enough to engage with my fellow locals walking dogs, pushing strollers and just soaking in the warm sun.
“Howya doin?” I ask.
“I’m well, how about you?” she replies.
“I’m fantastic,” I respond, savoring an exchange that you just don’t get to experience everywhere.
When I hit downtown, I stop at the stop sign and drop my foot, waiting for my chance to cross Main Street. As usual, the traffic draws to a standstill, unprompted, to let me cross in front.
I ride through the City Park, seeing kids smothering the playground equipment, recognizing many faces I’ll see in a few weeks when school resumes and I pop into their class as a substitute for the day.
I continue over the short suspension bridge, past the disc golfers slinging their disc packs over their shoulders after zinging their disc across the creek.
Once again I hit a major artery and pause just long enough for drivers in both directions to stop and wave me through. I chuckle to myself that I’ve seen plenty of other types of gestures from drivers in other places I’ve lived.
I head up my cul de sac, noting who’s on vacation, who isn’t, and who, like me, has a shiny new vehicle in the driveway.
I park in the garage and peel off my headband, hardly wet since I barely broke a sweat.
Not every bike ride needs to be epic.
Some just need to be whatever your heart desires.
Time to ride
