Rain Check

This morning dawned cold and wet. A glance at my watch confirmed what my body had been telling me for the past 20 minutes; it was time to get up. I poked my head between the bedroom window curtains to find light snow falling outside. The forecast called for a mix of rain and snow for the better part of the day, and it seemed as though, so far at least, the forecasters were spot on. With check marks already placed beside most of the items on the weekend to-do list, I had most of the morning to myself before having to get ready for dinner with family in the afternoon. As I make my way towards the kitchen to arrange some breakfast, my bike, gleaming in the dull light of the living room, catches my eye. For a second I entertain the thought of throwing on a few layers and going for a ride into the river valley, but a second glance at the now heavier snow falling outside allowed the less adventurous, some would say, more rational part of my mind to be convinced that finding something to do inside would probably be a better idea. Sitting down at the table to some toast and milk, I leafed through a mountain bike magazine left there from the previous evening. It's glossy pages told stories of everyday people, trails ridden and adventure found. In the days of my youth , I would live for mornings such as these. Logging trails entwined in the woods around my house with which I had become quite familiar, would take on new personalities under a thin blanket of spring snowfall like today's. I wondered what the 17 year old me would think of my sitting inside on a day like today.

On one of my early trips home after moving west I can remember while driving with my Mom, a country song which professed the benefits of living ones life as though they were dying, came over the radio. After the song finished, Mom nodded in agreement, and remarked that we could all do well to live our lives as though each day were our last. I have thought about this song a fair amount since that time. I don't completely agree with the statement that we should all "live as though we are dying". If this were truly the case, there would be a great number of people who would not go to work, pay the bills, or do the dishes and would end off the day with quite a bit less money in their savings account than they did at the start. In all likelihood though, they would wake up the next morning to find that they were not only still very much alive but that there were still dishes that needed to be washed, bills that should be paid and a job at which they would be expected to show up. I have since come to the conclusion that a more sustainable goal would be to live each day so that if you were so unfortunate as to pass away at the end of it, that you would pass away happy. I suppose in either case the root message is the same, and that is to simply make the best of each day. Looking at things from a bigger perspective, its odd that more often than not, it is death that motivates us to make the most of our days, and not a general desire to make the best of any given day. Maybe that's an oversimplification or maybe on some level, we all require that period at the end of our life's sentence in order to drive us to live our days to the fullest.

With that thought fresh in my mind, I finish the last bite of my toast and head to the closet where I pull on a long sleeved shirt and my snow pants. Pushing off from the front steps of the apartment building, the snow crunches underneath my tires as I pedal out to the street. I spin my way through the light Sunday traffic of the dozen blocks which lie between me and the river valley. The river valley is shrouded in a mist this morning, and as I begin my descent into the tree lined trails below, wet snow starts to collect on my glasses. With each successive flake collected, my view of the world ahead becomes progressively smaller. I navigate my way down through a maze of roots which are doing their best to throw me from my bike. I clamber my way up the next uphill section while my wheels become heavier with the mud that is now sticking to my tires. Building speed on the next downhill, the mud gradually losses its grip, and flings itself up unto anything that is in the immediate vicinity. I stop at the bottom of the hill cold, wet, covered in mud, and smiling. I am sure the 17 year old me would be proud.

Back at home, under the soothing heat of the shower, I again pause to think about this business of making the most of each day. Whether or not I have lived this particular day to the fullest so far could probably be debated, but whether or not it should be debated is another matter altogether. Helen Rowland once said that "The follies which a man regrets the most in his life are those which he didn't commit when he had the opportunity." Maybe we could all be so lucky as to only regret the dirt garnered when we have dared the cold, muddy, adventure laden trails and came back smiling and not the trails avoided for fear of coming home dirty.