Bags of Bran

April 15, 2015, 10:24 pm
Filed under: Biography

Today I went for a real live mountain bike ride. No, there were no mountains to speak of, but I don’t generally let my fanaticism about orderly use of modifiers interfere with my enjoyment of mountain biking, even if I’m incongruously riding a “mountain” bike in a place that is probably a thousand miles or more from the nearest mountain. We all live with tensions.

At any rate, it is spring here in the Wisconsin woods, so things are still a bit squishy. Tax Day *ptooey* is rather late in the year for the trails to still be as squishy as they are, but we’re still getting frost some nights. I was prepared for leaves, sticks, and rocks, maybe a few spots of sleaze on the otherwise-wonderful trail.

The trails were officially open, so I was not ready for a wheel-slurping abyss of mud obscured beneath an innocent-looking pile of leaves. The left hand side of the trail was evidently just fine in this particular spot, evidenced by the observation that my rear tire didn’t even get wet, and no other riders had seen any such trail feature during their adventures. But my front tire sunk halfway up the spokes with a sound that was somewhere on the spectrum between BLOOSH and GLORRP, and the whole affair took on a note of ponderous intensity. Somehow I made it out alive and upright, if shaken, suffering only an anointing of thin, black mud on my right leg for the ordeal.

I stopped and looked at the mess I had made and thought about life.

Yup, life. I have one, I tell you, and it’s punctuated with episodes like this one to keep me marveling at the variety of episodes that can punctuate one’s life. Providence, theologically speaking, is as colorful as the Imagination behind it.


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Your mother is happy that you got out with nothing more serious than a little mud. Love you, son.


Comment by Mom

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