The boys were on their way to independence. No more shuttling back and forth between school, music lessons, concerts, friend’s houses etc. What did I like? I used the same method I used while raising them. Throw a bunch of wet noodles at the wall and see what sticks. I tried fishing, pottery, house projects, working more, but in the end I chose bikes, bicycles to be specific.

I had cheap mountain bike that I bought for family bike rides down the Centennial Trail in Spokane and the Hiawatha trail in Idaho, but the kids were busy, so it mostly just collected a lot of dust in the corner of the garage.  At that point in my life, I had also spent a little too much time watching the news and Dateline so I was risk adverse.

Still determined to dust off my bike, I asked around and found a “safe enough” route, the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes. I decided I would start with 5 miles, and as I headed out, I passed a family who were studying the trailhead map and pondering how difficult it would be to turn around and climb up the 3-5% grade to get back to the car. That’s when the worry crept in. I didn’t know if I was too out of shape to get back and as I pedaled into the seclusion of the woods it hit me that there were probably mountain lions and bears lurking behind rocks and trees. After about 3.5 miles I decided to turn around. It was starting to get dark; I wasn’t sure how long it would take to pedal back, and I didn’t know if my slow uphill speed would make me a more vulnerable target.

It turned out to be a fairly quick and uneventful trip back to the car. My next ride was 50 miles and I was sore, but I was also hooked on the experience and the challenge. It wasn’t long until I bought my first used gravel bike, Loki, yes, I named it, a peculiarity that I later found was not uncommon.  The God of Mischief, understandable since it was black, carbon and with my feet clipped in, had led me to fall over more than once.