Colorado calling.

Had a dentist appointment first thing last Monday morning.  And groceries, and laundry, and...

But it's January, and I wouldn't have tried to get in an early ride anyway. Just get the indoor chores done and look forward to afternoon sunshine. That's winter. (And the plus side of unemployment.)

But chores snowball.  Late afternoon. The fourth load of clothes, and my long sleeved bike shirt, are still rumbling in the dryer. My vest is… well, somewhere, I’m sure. And my full fingered gloves have disappeared as quickly as the time.

Finally. Tires pumped and out the door.

A block later:  Jeeze, it’s after five o’clock. Duh. Go back for lights.

Nearly night. I am on my own. I have no agenda. There is no wind to dictate direction. On Tropical Trail, the llamas will probably be in their little huts for the night, but I might as well go see.

By the time I reach Mather's Bridge, the sun has already set.  Time to switch on the lights.  I expect full dark before I reach the north end, five miles away.

But it's January. Two months in a north facing townhouse and I've already forgotten. On a clear winter night, the sunsets here go on and on.  The colors intensify long after my turnaround at Pineda. The river is mirror still, and still pink, even after I turn my back on it to head home.

Tropical Trail

But just as I lose the sun behind me, I see the moon.  Dead center between the red and green lights of the swing bridge, full and huge, and edging up into the sky.  The turn toward home forgotten, I become a two wheeled moth, on an eastern heading, drawn to the light of the moon.

The beach is spectacular.  Waves crash gently, and recede.  Light treads a wavy path straight from the moon to my feet.  It follows me down the boardwalk and on my way up the road.     

Tail light - boardwalk rail - full moon.

Tuesday morning, another bright day, another drive to Vero.  The second time this week.  A1A is brilliant with winter sunshine. Even so, the drive seems to take forever. 

Out the car window, somewhere south of Sebastian inlet.

Why is it that 42 miles on a bike is easy-like-Sunday-morning, and yet driving 42 miles to the next town feels so darned long?   

TriLady is sorting out and packing up. She's sold her house, researched jobs, and renewed her Colorado contacts. She's about ready to go.

I am driving down to help.  

Years and years in the same house. Memories, mementos, dust, and STUFF. 

She has to be out next week.  There's no going back now.

I really am the right person to call. When regret comes slithering in across the bare tile floor of all those empty rooms, I'm the one who will say (as often as it takes),  "You're going the right direction. You're doing the right thing. You have very-good-reasons."

Who hasn't made an irreversible life decision and not panicked, asking, "What on Earth have I done?"

I know the feeling. I also know, as long as you immediately start ticking off all your very-good-reasons, you will feel better before you get to the last one.

(Even if I don’t feel so good. I’m losing a friend to the distant mountains of Colorado. Where she will surely spend her weekends having really cool bike adventures without me.)

But TriLady is a seeker. The long quiet highway is not her path. She has lived here long enough, and is wise enough, to recognize her need for a place to really call home.  She isn't the first of my friends to desert the flatlands, but she just might be the first since I decided it's not my place to give anyone grief about it.

Somewhere along that long road south, I realize the difference. 

Even the longest bike ride leads me back home.  But what if it didn't lead to a place with which you have made your peace?  Every ride would seem as endlessly long as a trip in the car.  

Nah, no regrets allowed, at least not on my part.  

The same moon follows you wherever you go, beating the same path, straight to your door, wherever you are.  

It's only fair to let people go.  Even the longest rides of your life ought to lead you home in the end.