When I was a little girl, my dad would organize weekend bike rides. We would start from the house, bombing down Whitten drive's gravel road and out onto Lorraine highway, down past the local Dairy Mart, through the Friendly neighborhood and eventually connect to the Mackenzie river trail. My brother and I had twin BMX bikes - his was black and mine was red, with checkered foam handle bar sleeves and red bar ends. Our knobby tires absorbed potholes, glass and gravel and if we did flat, my dad was there to patch it up.
The thing I remember most is what a sense of adventure those rides provided - for I was often the last one in our pack of three and therefore on what felt like being on my own. Winding our way through the flat streets of Eugene, around Skinners butte and through the rose garden, our biggest challenge on the return, with an enormous mountain to climb.
Those rides fulfilled my sense of wanderlust - of going some where by my own accord, living in the moment and filing it away deep into my memory banks. It was there, next to the river bank, that I first fell in love with the bike. And it was there where I learned to capture and chase those endorphin filled moments of happiness.
(Rest week this week - time for lots of reflection and nostalgia. Lucky you!)
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