The dust had long since settled on my frame, forming a little brown ridge at the bottom of the head tube. Little speckles of dirt, little ghostly traces of a mountain road a month ago. I’d been meaning to wash it off but there was always something more important to do – kid things to do, house things to do – so the traces lingered.
The ride that had left them there had left some traces of its own. We’d been staying out in Healesville over New Year’s, camping at a holiday park. For three nights our tent nestled in a little fold between valleys, and when the sun sank down and the kids were asleep Marie and I would sit out in the cool night air, listen to the distant shouts of other kids up way past their bedtimes, and watch the stars come out. We laughed and made shapes of the outlines of trees – a ghostly-looking gum as an arm, branches coming out as its fingers, waving to us in the gentle breeze as we waved back.
I’d had the vague idea of going for a ride on New Year’s Day, and in my quest to be a healthier and more productive member of society I didn’t have a hangover to overcome. The night before I’d mentally mapped it out: up the back of Donna Buang, down the other side to the O’Shannassy Aqueduct trail, along that as far as I could go and back down to Healesville. It’s the kind of ride I’d used to knock out on any average weekend, but in my current fitness it seemed a bit of an ask. I’d be riding uphill for 21 km (13 miles), much of it on gravel, and there’d be a sting in the tail after the descent on the way back, too. But this was a new year: a chance to try and shake off the sickness and the slowness of the year before and, at least for one day, do better. Dream bigger.
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