Matching Tracksuits

This weekend, we went back home — back to the southwest Virginia/northeast Tennessee area in which I grew up. Dear family friends invited us to spend the weekend with them for a few reasons, but most important was to give Papa a chance to meet with people who had been unable to attend Nana’s funeral. That was what Saturday was all about — spending time with folks who’d been like family to us. Most of the people I’d known since I was E’s age. It was just what Papa needed, and in fact, the laughter that generally filled the house that day was a balm for us all.

Sunday was for our immediate family: a bike ride down the Virginia Creeper Trail, a 34-mile multi-purpose trail built on the old railroad line that ran through the area.

We went along the first half, from Abingdon to Damascus. The longest the Boy had ridden to that point was about ten miles; this was to be about seventeen.

But seventeen miles through probably the most beautiful route any of us have ever ridden through, over fourteen railroad tressels, some of which towered probably 200-250 feet, some of which were surprisingly long.

The Boy powered through it like a champ. All our riding this summer has sculpted a seven-year-old with more endurance than I had at his age, and he pushed through the ride at a fairly impressive speed of 6.8 mph (according to my Fitbit).

At one point toward the end, he began complaining that he couldn’t make it. “I’m too tired!” he fussed, but we took about a ten-minute break and he was willing to push through the final miles.

During the last two miles, we got a challenge: a pair of riders called “on your left” and passed us. They looked to be in their sixties but dressed in cycling gear and riding fairly expensive-looking gravel bikes, they were experienced. They encouraged the Boy as they rode by us, and then as they pulled away, I suggested, “Why don’t we try to catch them?” I anticipated a laugh that the suggestion was ridiculous, but E clicked into a higher gear, stood up from the saddle, and powered ahead. “On our left!” we called out as we passed to the gentlemen’s cheers. “But can we keep this speed?” I thought. At one point, we slowed, and the riders neared. The Boy stood again, pedaled as fast as he could, and pushed through the last half mile or so to our stopping point. Our competition caught us, congratulated him, and gave him enthusiastic high-fives. “I guess you showed us, young man!” one said.

On the way home, though, there was only one thing to do…