So today it's Friday, the fifth of July, and I seem to be one of the few folks riding in to work today. But it's nice, because I realize there's a steady stream of sport bikes—onesie-twosie—heading the other way, towards the piedmont and mountains. On a typical commuting morning, I rarely see many bikes heading west.
Some of them are solo, some have pillions; some are ATGATT and some appear nearly naked. Regardless, it makes me happy to think of all these folks having a long weekend and taking advantage of it by getting some road miles in before the heat comes on with the full ferocity the day promises.
But it gets me to thinking...pretty much all the folks I've ridden with in my couple decade-long riding career have given up their bikes. I go back through the years, and can't think of anyone who's still with it. At this point, I only know one other person who even has a bike, and we're not riding buddies at this point.
I look back at pictures from the last three decades of rides, and can still remember most of the names and faces and the places and roads we traveled. But the only long group ride (Tail of the Dragon) is almost seven years past; the most recent long solo ride (Vermont) is almost three years past, and the last ride that wasn't solo was a year ago. That leaves a weird hole in my psyche. I miss all those people, I miss those places, and I miss that activity.