Like all relationships, the way we feel about and practice a sport changes with time. Sometimes a sport done with extreme passion at the absolute limit ends up being a short-term relationship. Other sports weave their way into our lives so thoroughly that they can never be undone. Even when we are doing a different activity, the sports that have woven their way into our lives are part of our very fabric. There was a time when I thought my own relationship with cycling had come to a bitter end. Cycling to me was like a partner with whom the deepest, most powerful experiences had been shared over decades. Childhood love that stayed together until the apogee of my own physical peak. Just beyond that, she left me for younger, stronger mates. With the perception that no higher climax would ever be achieved, we parted. For years, we left each other alone. I would see her out on the roads, riding with groups of people. On the Tv, all over the World, sharing her undeniable triumph and grueling dark side. At times it was hardly bearable.

Suddenly, she was there again. She had dramatically changed form. Gained weight, added curves. I had gained more. She rode slower and more comfortably. She was a Bianchi Milano. We started to see each around town and spend some quiet time. We pedaled easy through the park, to the cafe or the grocery store. Sometimes at night we'd go to bars. In the winter we'd pedal through cold, Othello storms. Slipping, falling, laughing. Sprawled out on the ground in a panting heap of twisted metal, ripped clothing and bruised bone. We watched flakes tumble from a wickedly gentle sky. Reacquainted, we had had begun to feel again. We were sharing.

Of course, there were parts of her that I could not experience again. She is much too great for me to have all to myself. I'm ok with that, now. Astonishingly, parts of her continue to be uncovered. Layers upon layers. Depths I could not explore during the decades when all I cared about was flogging her for performance and results. Like a young man subconsciously swayed by looks alone, I knew nothing else. Finally, I could examine her differently. There were silly things, too. Things I had always found rediculous. Stupid, even. Singlespeeds, for example. The fact that singlespeeding was even part of her seemed akin to Salma Hayek confessing an affinity for guys like Newman on Seinfeld. An absurdity that, even if true, could carry no weight.

I thought that I would never need to see that small part of her that is singlespeed riding. This Spring, while the crisp North winds warmed and sun-drenched lava flows melted the snow carpeting my single track labrynth, we experimented. She beckoned me. I don't know exactly how she got me there. It had something to do with trust, dare, or possibly boredom. I don't remember. It doesn't matter. She offered a flickering spark, intentional or otherwise, that could flare my imagination into the forest fire of emotion that we once shared. This time, she came in the form of a Trek 69er. An oddball shape only a lover could find orgasmic. One orb much larger than the other, thickly shouldered, sloping into a tight, flat-hipped, wild boar-like fanny. Oh, but how she can dish it up, now. She's making me ride harder than ever through the most heinous rock gardens of our dirty eden. This time, experience pays spades higher than raw power. Smooth, well-timed precision is the only path to complete arousal. Anything less, and nothing is extracted but penalty.

Our act is a private one. The sound of my strained breath above her tenuous, clawing rubber is all there is. Everything is quieter on a singlespeed. Deer, elk, and the lone badger are often senseless to our approach. The sheer flight of our liquid wheeled dance shocks nature into an adrenaline bloated retreat. An explosion of snapping branches, pine cones, granite and flying soil. It would be naive to think that this is how it will always be. We've been through enough to know we are also part of this cycle. To try to make each other stay the same could only lead to another long period of seperation. It is what it is, today, and today only. Love, cycling, nature, and the 69er.