Freshly fallen leaves crinkle as we coast our bikes along the mouth of the canyon.
The highest peaks have a light dusting of snow, but everything else is still bone dry.
Were in the middle of one of the most saturated autumns Ive ever experienced.
We stop for water at the trail intersection, and I look down the draw.
Ive stood here on skis countless times.
Ive ridden out of that butter four or five times in as many years.
Usually it stalls out on the too-flat slope, and I flop to the ground.
A couple times Ive leaned forward and double ejected.
Im riding every day, trying to make the most of it before mud season.
We drop into the canyon as the valley I live in slips into shadow.
Well barely beat the light back down to the car.
When we get home I wash my bike and put it in the garage.
I love, and hate this period of anticipation.
But every fall my old injuries flair up.
And of course, its also psychosomatic.
Skiing hurts my feet, a lot.
My corns and bunions flair up, and every summer it takes longer for them to heal.
Ive started having ski dreams again, and sympathetically, Ive started waking up with aching feet.
No avalanche, just a spoiled hound.
Mud season dreams are weird
The smell of woodsmoke is heavy in the air as I ride through town.
Our neighbors are firing up the woodstoves.
Ive already scheduled an appointment to have my snow tires swapped over.
The ski resort sits empty, save for a few employees running inventory for the mountain shop.
This is the last season Ill be able to check my home hills snow status from my back porch.
Tonight it will freeze.
I need to drain the garden hoses.
I need to find the snow shovels.
But for now Ill breathe deep as we cruise between the aspens.
I used to be desperate to jump from one cycle straight to another.
Now though Im a little more ready to let the changing seasons take their time.
Winter is on its way, but it neednt rush.
It will be here soon enough, and well be ready.
