Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Last night, I rode Munson for the millionth time this month.
I was on a completely different page than my riding buddies.
The lack of synchronicity was stressful.
The sweat dripping from my helmet was rancid, both in smell and taste.
When I was finally alone in the woods, I noticed the sky was the most beautiful, mottled, black and orange.
I wiped my face, and the woods smelled like Christmas.