Bikin' to the 'Bu

I guess it started about a year ago when I realized I really missed riding bikes.  My friend Jeff and I, who is coming to Vegas in March and I'm stoked about it, would, on the rare occasion we both weren't working, take our bikes to the trails and ride them.  He was always much more adventurous than me, going faster down the hills and hitting all the  biggest of the tree roots bulging from the ground with full speed.  I kept up though.  It was a fun time.  One day we went to the trails on a mud run with a friend of ours, Bennett.  Now, THAT, was something I could do everyday.  Pouring down ran, just truckin' it through the trails.  We were soaked head to toe, mud was clenched between my ankles and the backs of my shoes, my hair was full of the sand grit that flew from our feet to our head, and the bandana I wore ingrained quite a few pieces across my forehead.  

In my imaginative psyche, we were the exact scene from Apocalypto, only we were clothed.   Ferocity engaged in every footprint we left running through the dense forrest.  It seemed we were speeding but never losing air or feeling fatigue.  There was a bridge at one point, which had broken and was utilized as a ramp that we jumped across, almost missing the opposing ledge at one point.  It really was great, something about the outdoors is revitalizing to a guy's demeanor.

I have a friend, Richard, I go to school with out here and he was wanting to bike to Malibu.  I haven't used my bike since I left Oxford, and I had been craving a venture like this for quite some time so I told him I'd join him.  Six o'clock came early, because apparently I have a sleeping problem close to insomnia that I feel only an occasional dose of NyQuil can fix, but I got up and rode to the pier to meet my friend.  It felt good to be back on my bike.  My balance and center of gravity was definitely questioned my first few miles but in no time it returned.

It seemed almost instantaneous we reached the city limits of Malibu, but we weren't that far.  Zuma Beach was another twenty miles away.  The sun was rising and my iPod was blaring a variety of new music on iTunes Top 100 songs, keeping me at a great pace.  The PCH, Pacific Coast Highway (at one point I had no clue what it was so I deem it necessary to specify), was having a slow morning with traffic so we weren't distracted by a plethora of cars or red lights.  Finally, we got to Pepperdine.  The ride wasn't difficult except there were many other bikers on the road that day, using road bikes, which apparently are 100% percent easier to perform on rather than a mountain bike, and passed us constantly.  They also wore proper attire such as helmets, under armor shirts, and biking shorts with pads.  As a side note, if you're going to bike great distances, get biking shorts; every place I sat today I winced like a baby getting spanked.

After Pepperdine we continued down some trails in the Malibu Hills that led to the beach.  After parking the bikes we decided to walk a little ways to stretch our legs. Mine kept trying to make the same circuitous motion when I got off my bike, so the walk would be good.  The tide was very high on the beach, which makes sense because I've only ever been there during the afternoons.  The waves were bigger than usual, and the beach was desolate aside from the occasional fisherman or two.  After the lax time of walking and talking about our careers and what we wanted to do the rest of our lives and how we would attain it, we started the journey back home.  Of course, we were starved so the quick stop at the Malibu Kitchen for a shmeared bagel seemed a necessity.  

At some point the traffic began to increase and my wheels gradually sped up and I realized I was tired.  I stopped to watch the surfers; some clashing on the waves losing their boards, faces covered with chagrin, and some gliding on top of them like it was the icy capades.  I rode my bike as a kid all over the neighborhood and all over town, but the sudden idea hit me.  As a kid, I never got tired riding my bike.  I didn't look at hills as an obstacle that would be hard to get up and I wasn't tired when I finished them.  I didn't go through the trails behind the neighborhood nervous about hitting a log the wrong way and crashing or going to fast downhill that I might lost control.  I was so much more fearless in those days.  Was Jeff's mentality different than mine?  Is that why he traversed more eagerly than me?  Now, I was looking at what I was hoping to be the high rises of Santa Monica and I immediately termed each hill or distance as an obstacle.  However, it wasn't the fact I was challenging myself, it was more so I was questioning if I could finish.  Maybe, from now on, I DO need to think like I did as a child.  I need to look at everything in front of me as fun and to just take advantage and do it, not worrying about failure.  Maybe, if I don't question my ability and don't think about the reality of "tired" then I can do more than I think.  

We finished around noon at the pier and watched the tourists pace back and forth over the darkened wood going to restaurants, playing arcade games, riding the few rides it encompassed, and I headed the few short miles to my house.  Ironically, my body was exhausted, as well as my thoughts, so I took a nap.