About two weekends ago Kathy, Sam, the bikes and I headed out for a frozen day at Skyline. With numb fingers and ice-blocks for feet, slurred speech and slow-jaws, we made our way down the switchbacks, allowing squeaks of joy to erupt in reaction to our snow covered surroundings. Upon reaching the lake we decided to join the confidence of two ice fishermen and test the frozen waters. Riding to the middle of the lake, an area never before traveled on two wheels, provided a definite buzz of energy. As we made our way across the questionable tundra, Kathy's laughter resounded over the expanse of white before us, as my hands clamped onto grips in nervous excitement. Not until water began to bubble over my tires near the center of the lake did we rethink the possible consequence of our actions; two people never moved so quickly across so slippery a surface.
Young, old, in between--actual age is irrelevant in relation to one's ability to feel alive. The point is that you feel it, you venture to the center of that frozen lake, to the edge of that cliff, and you are alive; you go there and you proceed without second-guessing, without dipping a toe in or peering over the edge. You jump and you feel--the consequences, well, you think about them as they come.
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