Last night was the first true frost. This morning it feels too cold to be on a bike; winter is imminent. I pedal upwards, past quaint homes, through the Cemetery and up into the trees. The old railroad tracks are painted with leaves. They sweep into the air as I pass. Cold wind coaxes tears from my eyes, stealing my vision. I shift into my big ring, picking up speed.
I catch a glimpse of the buildings below. This town is tucked into the hills. Leaves fall in earnest; the trees are bare and cold. The lake below is frigid and smoke rises from many chimneys. The sun is low, but light has spread on the mountain across town. A golden frill of larch trees runs up its shoulder.
I have spent many years here. Home is where the heart is. There are many people I love. Bike trails spread throughout these mountains like a network of veins. Time has passed here. It has been good.
As I skim along the old rail grade my tires crunch against the gravel. Frost brings friction, there is no longer the soft sandy surface of summer. The deep snow of midwinter is yet to come.
The roastery below sends its scent into the thin, cold air. I catch a whiff of coffee beans. The distant whine of a chainsaw wafts in the nearby hills. My tires smash a thin glaze of puddle ice into smithereens with a loud crunch.
I climb uphill with the familiar sensation of what lies ahead. My legs, still cold, are heavy sticks of wood. I stand, rocking the handlebars side to side, feeling a sudden stretch in my hamstrings, mashing my pedals downwards. It would be so easy to drive up this hill.
Yet, the air no longer feels cold. Yellow leaves drift from the sky like pieces of art around me. The smell of the season is difficult to describe. Smoky? Yes, that fits. There is a smoky smell to autumn.
Small pebbles clink against larger stones, dislodged by my churning tires. Ahead of me the trail turns sharply upward, obscured by wet leaves.
I shift to a much easier gear. My pedals turn circles. I am in the forest and have left the last houses behind. Every puddle is icy. My breath: a steaming cloud. I ride here often, and it is always difficult. Gravity pushes against the rotation of my wheels.
This ride has transformed over the years. In the early days the climb was entirely deep in the trees. Now much of it has been logged. Trees too close to the trail now have handlebar scars dug into their bark from wide handle bars. The tight, narrow little bridges are obsolete, rotting, returning to the earth. The slow, challenging teetor totter is gone; now riders favour speed and flow.
There is a spot that remains unchanged: a small clearing at the top of the climb. The lake is visible, far below. Town is hidden, but traffic and the everyday clang of civilization waft upwards, foreign sounds amongst the surrounding wilderness. There is a wooden bench fashioned by a halved length of tree laid on top of two stumps.
I arrive winded and sweaty, despite the cold and elevation. The air is thin and clear. Across from me the huge rolling ranges are frosted with white. Snow has been falling, and soon the bench will be covered. The trail will be buried for a long winter sleep. Autumn will surrender to change.
I sit, feet resting on my tire. Today could easily be the last day this trail is ride-able. Not until early July will it be returned to bare earth again. Life could be different by then. Heavy clouds hang above, pregnant with moisture that will certainly fall as snow.
With my helmet back on, I lower my seat, drink some water, and make my way down the trail, easing into familiar corners with as much grace as possible. I glide down the smooth sections and bounce my way down the rough parts. The thick rich earth that carries the moisture of last night's frost yields to my tires.
I flow along a strip of perfect, tacky soil. Trees stand like solid sentinels all around. The smoky smell of autumn fills my senses. I hit a steep section with too much speed and fight for control as roots and rocks, the teeth of the earth, rush toward me. At the bottom, my tires bite and I am awarded all the traction one could hope for. Dirt flies, I suck air into my lungs, my hands grip the handlebars.
Perhaps tonight the bench at the top will become blanketed with snow. This trail will certainly change in the future; but it will never vanish. It will be there when I return.
