Neither the forest nor the trees

This is us before we found ourselves riding in complete darkness.

Forest Park had been going dark for miles and my perception of speed was going funny on me. We were pedaling slowly, but felt as though we were flying. As the last light disappeared, we slowed down even more in order to make out pieces of the trail in front of us. We couldn’t bring ourselves to stop and put on our bike lights.

That would have broken the spell.

The trail was no longer ahead of us. It was suddenly under us, around us, and everywhere.

I have often told myself during hard efforts to ignore my body’s distress signals. After all, pain is just a message that you body sends your brain. My mantra is “It’s just sensation.” And it is a reminder that I don’t need to feed or validate my pain with attention. This works disturbingly well for me. I suspect I’ve always had a knack for willful disembodiment.

But night riding in Forest Park, “It’s just sensation” took on an entirely different meaning. As my vision grew dimmer my focus receded from the next horizon, the next corner, all the way back to my own body. I felt the air gradually grow colder on my skin. l listened to the sound of gravel beneath Austin’s tires noting when he seemed to roll through a wet spot on the trail. I felt my bike more as an extension of my body than a vehicle. I relaxed my limbs to better feel and respond to the terrain. This too was just sensation. It was just sensation that found me and held me exactly where I was.

After pedaling four last incredible miles, we popped out of the trail onto the road. We stopped to put on an extra layer, dig out our lights, and reconnect with a familiar sense of the world. But ever since, I’ve been itching to go back.