Dirt Line

As the sweat dripped from the end of our noses onto the trainer mats today, we watched the Tour. Don't ask me what year or what stage. I really don't find it that interesting. You must be saying to yourself, "How could someone who loves to ride her bike not find the Tour fascinating?" To which I would respond, "How can I pay the least bit of attention to hundreds of men in leotards who are too tall and too skinny to be on bikes anyway?" Many of them have over sized heads as well. And the polka dots? What is up with that?

Not that there's anything wrong with road riding. I do it myself when it is absolutely necessary. I don't hold anything against those who prefer it. I kind of view it as a different denomination of the same religion. It's just that a girl like me prefers to worship on dirt. Various kinds of dirt. Hard packed, loose, sandy, rocky, dirty dirt. I prefer it under my tires, on my skin, in my hair, in my nostrils, on the back of my throat, and yes... even in my eyes. When I am done riding I love to peel off my socks and look at the dirt line. The darker the line the better the ride. So this is what I contemplated as we watched the Tour. I could almost smell the dirt as memories of last summer danced through my imagination and I knew it had been far too long.

It is when I am the sweatiest, dirtiest me I can be that I feel the closest to God. I hope all this time on the trainer will help get there faster. I need to get back to that place.