Sometimes I get going on my bike and I think I am a superstar athlete who should be able to handle a 30 mile or so ride.   All is well until the return trip home, probably with about 7 miles left, when I start to feel a wee bit saddle sore.  Still, when I’m fresh on the bike, I pedal like an Armstrong and delight in my speed.  Always make time to notice the moments I’m grateful for:

• making it up all the hills without having to get off my bike as feared (even though my lungs were burning)
• discovering that you can ride right next to that lonely campus horse who I’ve only ever before seen while driving down University avenue
• remembering how to connect the arboretum ride and the Capital City Trail
• friendly bikers who make jokes at the stoplight, giving me enough oomph to keep on keeping on
• the unspoken feeling of solidarity between me and the old man who climbed up the Seminole Highway hill together
• The following dialogue with a cute, shirtless man with his white hat turned backwards and a fishing pole in hand
  • Man: “Uh, so, like…which way to the Lake?”
  • Me: “Lake Wingra?”
  • Man:  “Uh, I guess so.  Sure.”
  • Me: “That way,” pointing.
  • Man walks off in opposite direction.
• Military Ridge Bike Path going  by Park Printing in Verona (probably the only landmark I’d recognize.)
• all the Tom Turkeys in the arboretum