Crystal Meth High
16 Miles Later
I rolled the Toyota into Crazy Canyon... Hendrix clung to the tailgate like a restless dog... I dropped the post, spun up the Sammy Bee in reverse, lungs and gears arguing about pace while my mind day‑dreamed loops the way kids doodle dragons on math homework, each sketch bigger than the last, the evening air tasting of pine needles and maybe mischief...
Yet right now I ride alone, alone with this beautiful obsession, memory riffing back to last Christmas on Orcas Island when bikes were scarce but laughter was abundant, when mossy woods muted every worry and a lake mirrored two idiots grinning like bandits... tonight the trail is mine, but the campsite laughter is only an echo...
The pedals answer... I push past the trail sign and stitch together a rampage of climbs, cresting 3,255 feet, pin‑wheeling through secret singletrack I once christened Crystal Meth, carving descent after descent until Strava finally coughs up its proof... 16.41 miles, third‑fastest on Tumbleweed, a red loop on the map that looks suspiciously like a sly smile...
And somewhere in that looping grin I remember I was never really alone, just temporarily unsupervised... the woods listened, the bike understood, and the ride wrote its own permission slip.
Hope hides in motion... keep moving and it rides shotgun.
Disclaimer: this story was turbo‑charged by an AI sidekick who never even broke a sweat.