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I wake up and shake off the ache of the season,
Roll over and reach for coffee, the mornings’ ever present reason.
Sip slowly, a thick black cup. Pull a bike from the rack,
then watch the light push the shadows across the mountains and back.
Here we go again, deep in spring’s wonderful juggle.
The trail rolling smooth, free of any struggle.
The breeze paints the seen.
White brown and gold, soon to explode revealing the most glorious green.
Each chirping chickadee is another story told.
I’m in love with this world and it grows old.
I pinch myself sometimes to awake from the dream, but each and every detail is as real as it seems.
I’ll spend my day kicked back at the Cafe.
Coffee flowing, local stokers coming and going,
the stories they carry never slowing.
Sharing tales as long as the trails. Our triumphs and fails. They’re as excited to hear mine as I am to hear theirs.
That’s the heart behind why I’m here, to soak up the scene and all that it means,
until the clock ticks down the day,
taking me back to the trails easy sway.
So I roll through the park, hunting doubles and hard turns to the tune of a meadow lark.
Each passing turn flows with a snapping arc,
my presence and worry, two worlds far apart.
Next I roll down for a dirt jump session,
where every small kid rides with adult size aggression.
Each evening plays host to their limitless progression,
and their love for two wheels leaves a lasting impression.
While I make my home,
shadows begin pushing against the warm tones.
They walk the light out from the valley and up over the hill,
until all that remains are a pastel sky and the spring evening chill.
So I tip back a tall glass and turn in for the night.
This season is buzzing, and its one helluva sight.