Chugging up the gentle railroad grade of my latest favorite rail-trail at a rather brisk pace, I slow to cross a wooden trestle over the quiet highway to encounter three kids frolicking and laughing with their Golden Retriever in tow.
Their laughter erupts as the playful pooch decides to run shotgun with me for a 100 yards until we reach Mom and Dad, where he decides to get back to his regular programming.
My smile wanes as a pang of guilt lingers for the next few minutes as I push onward.
You see, I’m playing hooky today, enjoying a longer than usual four-hour ride at an accelerated pace on this paved trail.
There’s an art to playing hooky that primarily revolves around secrecy. It’s kinda like playing poker, where you never want to show your hand.
Then again, it’s a lot like finding a hidden immunity idol on Survivor: The ultimate challenge is squelching the intense desire to dance and sing Nah-Nah-Na-Nah-Nah at the top of your lungs.
With my wife it’s a simple case of preferring to beg forgiveness than seek permission. If you’re married, you know the drill.
With my best riding buddy, well, that’s a little more complicated.
Don’t get me wrong. I love riding with my buddy. More than 80 percent of my rides are with my buddy. That beaming smile and sparkling eyes enhance every ride in its own special way.
On the other hand, well, there’s a price I pay for those rides with my buddy. I have to limit the hours I’m out as well as my pace. I’ve always believed when you ride with a buddy, you ride to your buddy’s abilities.
I’ve never been one to bust a move up the trail, then sit and wait a few minutes for us to regroup. Not my thing.
So when the forecast showed that winter might finally be a memory, I figured it was time to put my cabin fever on ice for the riding season. That meant getting out and cleaning out the carburetor.
Thus playing hooky from my riding buddy.
I must insert here that this is my new-ish riding buddy. I had another buddy for years. We rode countless miles and savored endless adventures, always at my buddy’s pace.
Time, however, took its toll. Eventually my riding buddy had to surrender to the ravages of age. I had to ride on. Alone.
That’s when I realized the difference between my riding buddy fitness and that good ol’ real fitness.
I got spoiled by the long rides, hammering up climbs and raging down descents. Well, of course, raging being a relative term with my handling skills.
Still, I ascended to another level I hadn’t visited in years. Too many years.
Then, enter my new riding buddy, and I throttled back to my buddy fitness.
Again, I wouldn’t trade riding with my buddy for complete solitude. I do, however, occasionally have to scratch that itch that wants to get out and push my limits just, well, just to see. To know.
Thus, the need to play hooky.
Oh, my riding buddy wouldn’t have any of that. She knew immediately something was up.
I could tell in her sad eyes.
I could tell when she squeezed her way under my desk and laid her head on my foot when I attempted to make seem like a typical day by writing a little before busting my move.
I could tell when I bent down to put on my shoes and she poked her head under my chin and nuzzled her nose to my neck.
Eventually I finished my ride. Rolled back to the parking lot feeling surprisingly fresh considering it’s so early in the season. Good to know I have a little more than riding buddy fitness.
I opened the truck to put my bike in, and paused to see the emptiness without her crate in the back.
No victory smiles with her tail wagging wildly.
No quiet moment, petting her and praising her for another great ride.
As fun as it seems, there’s a price you pay for playing hooky: Everything else that you missed along the way.
Time to ride
