I've got to admit it; I'm bummed. This last trip I didn't even ride my bike, but ever since I got back from North Carolina I've been in this funk, and I can't seem to shake it. If I had come home from a ride the funk would have been even greater.
An inevitable part of any tour is coming home. Usually that homecoming is to a life much more drab and monotonous than any moment on the road.
After care-free days of swimming in mountain streams whenever the mood struck me, I came back to long days of sitting here at the computer and perusing e-mails, flagging junk mail, and replying to legitimate ones and dealing with whatever business crisis had arisen while I was gone. "Damage control" being another of my duties (aka household and business accounting), means a return to constant vigilance and juggling of various accounts to make sure the power bill gets paid and the kids get fed.
Add to that having two young kids at home, where my office happens to be, for the entire summer vacation and all the trouble and turmoil that goes with two constantly competing children and, well, you get the picture.
So, I get out the bike and do a couple rides to blow out the cobwebs and clear my head, but instead I am reminded how great the riding was in the mountains. Not to say the riding around here is not fun, but you have to look hard for those good riding roads in central Florida and once you've ridden the same ones within a day-circle of the house numerous times, well they don't hold the thrills and chills they once did. (I wonder if anyone ever tires of the "monotony" of NC 215.)
Now that I've mentioned "chills" I am also reminded how un-"chilled" it is here in the summer. I fondly remember how I considered zipping my thermal liner in my jacket up on the Blue Ride Parkway not that long ago, while here before I have finished putting on jacket, gloves, and helmet and rolled the bike out of the garage, I am soaked in sweat and my eyes are swimming. Ah, mid-summer in humid central Florida.
Maybe its just me. Maybe other riders come home to a life of continued excitement and familial bliss. Maybe they come home to a business thriving in their absence, maybe they come home in time to send the kids off to summer camp, maybe they come home to a canyon carving paradise. But not me.
For me the question is: What do I do about the post-trip blues?
I might have found the secret, and it may already be working to de-funkify me. I pull out the atlas or now days more often I visit Google Maps. I survey at all those squiggly lines in areas away from cities, a sure sign of good riding. I look around Birmingham, to the north and east. Looks good. Friends from north Florida have once again invited me to ride with them to Barbers Vintage Festival in October. I'm in; let the planning begin. There might even be time before then to get in a ride to Key West on the thumper. A fellow rider from I know from Fuzzy's wants to go, too. I'll have to check out places to stay in the Conch Republic.
I'm feeling better already.
"Ride Your Own Ride."