Perhaps I suffered a record-long bout of writer’s block; nothing of interest to expound upon, years older but not wiser, apathetic with life’s daily events.
More likely, however, life threw me for a loop. We did, after all, move away from sunny Santa Barbara to the Rocky Mountains, eventually landing in Laramie, Wyoming. Yup, the wild, wild west at its finest, where the winters are long, the wind is incessant, and the people are few. Along with the new environment came new challenges: a new job, new friends, a new (old) house, and as if a metaphor fall all these new challenges, new athletic pursuits.
(Now brace yourself because I’m about to say something that might shock you.)
I’m not a runner anymore. I no longer fall asleep at night reliving each corner of the running track or wake up each morning to lace up my shoes with the goal of making myself more quick and agile on two feet. My calluses have faded, my hamstrings have weakened, and my running shorts are out of style.
But I am still the same Annie, perhaps more Annie than ever before. I’m still mentally ill in the minds of many, sensing pleasure in what most perceive as suffering. I expect the worse only to experience the best, and I still dream big.
Perhaps that is why I caught the cycling bug. Certainly years of running made me susceptible to it but I think it goes deeper than that. I’ve always needed an outlet of some kind, a non-verbal way to express feeling of frustration, anger, love and joy. So from here on out, or until I sell myself to some other sport, my blog entries will most likely be about cruising around on two wheels. Or, more accurately, powering up mountain climbs, cornering at high speeds, or descending gloriously down mountain passes. Ah, the thrill, the freedom. Will it never end?