The ground is crackled into a thousand small canyons, like a thousand city blocks, like dust canyon roads for spiders or ants, so hard packed and dry that it rejects the tracks of a bike tire. A squirrel red as rust stands attentive at the bank of gravel, the trail carved by rubber and sweat. I pump and I plead to those pedals to move me and they do.

Rock gardens prove prosperous to their bounty of dust and cacti, of dry as bone grit. A downhill, apprehension and acceptance. Bumps and speed and rocks rather than roots. Up the other side with a familiar burn in the legs and accomplishment so slight. Tap water through a blue tube on my shoulder. Eyes front and center. Legs cranking once more, flat ground as rebuttal and riposte.

The fork leads to something new and obscene in its unfamiliarity. In this world of flammability a creek bed lies with a trickle, faint and alien and unbelievable. I careen through it and my legs are showered with the brackish warmth of something like water. It mixes with sweat and dirt and makes a sheen of mud. Each action must have its opposite. That downhill so fast is coupled with its uphill brother, its face pock marked with stones smoothed by past days water. It’s been too long. That climb defeats me and I take that walk of shame with my bike slung over my shoulder. Next time, next time.

It’s easy to be both sound of mind and sound of body when there is nothing else. The trail is friend and foe. It takes and receives. To get just as much as you give and nothing more or nothing less. Is there profit? The profit is conversion. Conversion of physical effort to mental gains. Conquering the hill.

Sections of the trail have endearing names. Powerline hill. The Log Loop. The one that sticks to my mind was Endo Valley, an “endo” being where one’s back wheel lifts off the ground, usually leaving the rider to fall over the front of their handle bars. It’s a series of long drops smattered with jutting ledges of rocks. I rode Endo Valley timidly. I avoided the namesake calamity.

My lack of riding begins to catch up with me. The burn in my legs becomes more persistent. A dull ache in my back. Soreness near my loins. My breaths become heavier. My cranks come with less vigor. Groans at the middle of a hill. Panting, panting. Slow motion movement. Side hurts. Hands are numb. Have I been here before? Washed out maze of brambles and dust. How long have I been here?  Second wind. More speed. Follow the signs.

Parking lot. The labor of each revolution comes as a revolution itself. At my car, I stop with a force that surprises me. I’m off the bike. My helmet comes off. I inhale water. My legs tremble. My hands follow. Nausea. Dizziness. This is it. Get the bike on the rack. A burp. I fumble with the straps. Sit. Sit down. The motion makes me spin. Or the world spins. I gag. What did I eat? Nothing. This is it just let it be. Clear liquid that was bile or water. A sour taste. I close my eyes and the spinning stops. The nausea leaves.

I sleep for the rest of the day.