When Brett was killed, I rode my mountain bike in Forest Park.
When me and A broke up, I rode my mountain bike in Forest Park.
And, now, today, I rode my mountain bike in Forest Park through a few inches of slippery rutted mud on fire lane 5, giggling as I almost went over the edge a few times, fishtailing my rear tire around, bombing down through the muck.
I went in a ball of fury and tears. And I left with a renewed sense of peace and understanding (and a big muddy grin on my face).
I don’t know if it’s the bike or being outside or being with myself to think or the fun of just fucking bombing and bunny hopping and telling everything to just fuck off, but goddamn. Forest Park, mountain bike. Every time.
