A gust through the trees—
Not to rush you, but to remind you.
You were once fast. You still are.
It started as a simple invitation.
“Let’s ride Sunday morning, same route as the old days.”
I hadn’t clipped into a competitive mindset in years.
These days I ride slow. Leisurely. With a thermos sometimes.
I look at the horizon, not the stopwatch.
But that morning, the sun rose with a sharpness in its light. The kind that cuts away excuses.
And the wind—it wasn’t cruel, just honest.
A little jazz playing through my headphones, the kind where the saxophone spirals up like breath on a cold day, and I met my friend at the foot of the climb.
He smirked. “You ready?”
I nodded, pretending not to hear the quiet thrum in my chest.
It wasn’t nervousness.
It was memory.
The Return of the Rush
The first few kilometers were easy. Chatter. Pedals turning like metronomes.
But somewhere near the first hill, something shifted.
Not between us—but within.
He surged ahead.
I felt my legs respond before my brain did.
The old fire flickered on.
The game was back.
It wasn’t anger or ego.
It was joy.
The joy of chasing, of being chased. Of breathing so deep it burned sweet in your lungs.
Of letting the mind fall away and letting the body remember.
We hit the peak, not speaking. Just grinning like fools.
We coasted in sync—silent jazz solo, wind-sliced cheeks, legs humming from the climb.
Wabi-Sabi in the Gears
There’s a certain beauty in remembering who you once were.
But there’s grace in knowing you’re not trying to become that person again.
Just visit.
Just nod in recognition.
I don’t want to compete every weekend.
But I want to keep something wild in me.
Some space where the fire hasn’t settled into ashes.
Where the pedals still answer when called.
Where a friend’s challenge is a doorway—not to prove something, but to feel something.
Lessons from the Ride
- The wind isn’t just against you—it reminds you you’re alive.
- You can outgrow competition without outgrowing drive.
- Rest is sacred. But so is the rush.
- Some friendships are built on miles, not words.
- You can be both: the slow rider with a thermos, and the racer who still knows the way up the hill.
As we rolled back into the city, the sun was higher.
Shadows shorter.
Legs tired, but that pleasant tired.
The kind that doesn’t ask for sleep, just stillness.
The kind that feels earned.
We didn’t say much at the end.
But before he rode off, he looked back once.
“Same time next week?”
I laughed. “Maybe.”
But we both knew the answer.
The spirit had returned. Not to stay—just to remind me it never left.
life 
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