April the thirteenth, two thousand and nineteen. It is a rarity that I recall the exact date of something, but having just gotten my first National Park passport stampbook earlier this year makes that easier.
The Sweetwater Preserve in the Tucson mountain district is where the locals go to get their mountain biking done. I follow the recommendations and ready my new fat tire bike and my body for the trails ahead of me. The temperatures are still sublime for mid-april.
I surprise myself with the agility and control I still have, conquering mile after mile of racing past Saguaro cacti and lightning quick lizards.
Then reality smacks me in the face. I take a corner too quickly and my tires slide on the gravelly rocks, sending me over the handlebars and into the dirt. I jump up quickly, hoping that no one saw the wipe out. Why I care I do not know…..
No worse for wear other than losing a little skin on the palms of my hands, I make it back to the truck and call it a day. No need to risk serious injury.
I find a nice little picnic spot in the Saguaro National Park, crack open a PBR, and relish in the memories of my morning.
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