Adventure Unpacked

Last week, I rode a bike for the first time in seven months. It feels disingenuous to write that, since I’ve leaned heavily on my indoor trainer to cope with this Year Of Injury. I rode through January while I was recovering from frostbite. I rode through February and early March after I hurt my knee because pedaling was the only motion I could accomplish without significant pain.

The air at home is different somehow. Almost rarified, with a lightness that leaves me feeling warm and a little bit woozy. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the tenuous feeling of floating through different versions of myself, every one that’s ever existed — at least as far back as I can remember. I walk down the street where I walked my little sister to school, clasping her sweaty hand when she was a nervous kindergartner and I was a world-weary third grader.

What is it that we do with our time? Injury day 106 I miss Mama Moose and Little One. Like most of our wildlife visitors, they waltzed in for a few days, made themselves completely at home in our garden and driveway, decimated a few of my favorite plants, and then moved on to greener pastures. We’ve had everything from black bears to turkeys to mountain lions establish this sort of presence within sight of our house. But this is the first time I’ve seen a cow moose with such a young calf.

Digging into my roots for inspiration. Injury day 99. Here in the foothills at 7,200 feet above Boulder, Colorado, during a single week in mid-May, we’ve received more precipitation and nearly as much snow as the entire winter of 2025-2026. After a March that was so hot it would have qualified as one of Colorado’s warmest Aprils on record, and an equally disappointing April, it’s heartening that spring decided to make at least a little splash before the horrors of fire season are upon us.

The drive to Brainard Lake was way more emotional than I’d expected. It’s the sort of thing I used to do almost every weekend — load up a big backpack, throw my trekking poles or mountain bike in the back of my Subaru, and head west for a little adventure. But it’s just been so long now — 13 weeks — and the last time I was here, I was on foot, running toward the dark clouds of a gathering winter storm. I gawked at the bright green buds sprouting out of the aspen trees. Summer?

First outdoor walk in 11 weeks It’s International Workers’ Day, and I’m stuck in another long service appointment at the Subaru Dealership with my long-suffering Outback. Killing time. I’ve been pondering the ways the different generations deal when confronted with the universal experience of orthopedic injuries: The Silent Generation does not think it’s a big deal and does not want to have it looked at.

Beat unloads bikes from the car on our first day in Boulder. On April 24, 2016, Beat and I finally arrived in Boulder after following a spring storm east for nearly 1,300 miles. We packed up our Subaru Outback with five bicycles and a few duffels and bid goodbye to Bay Area traffic. We swerved through several inches of icy snow over Donner Pass, fought hurricane-force winds through Nevada, a “salt storm” in western Utah, and more snowy whiteouts across Wyoming’s Great Divide Basin.

I couldn’t get a good photo of a hummingbird, so this post gets a selfie. A rectangle of warm sunlight stretched across the hardwood floor, so I scooched my yoga mat over it. I lay in Corpse Pose, mentally preparing to move my leg in uncomfortable ways for 45 minutes. As the golden glow warmed my skin, I extended my limbs to Starfish Pose, spreading my fingers and toes as wide as they’d go. Streeeeetch.

For the first time in perhaps my whole life, my arms have some muscle definition. I will take the little wins where I can. It was the day Betsy forgot who I was, or perhaps the day after that. A hospice CNA dropped by to wash her hair. The CNA was not who I’d expected — a woman closer to our age, tall and imposing with tattoos across both arms. She liked motorcycles, specifically dirt biking, and we quickly bonded over the trails we’d both ridden near Buena Vista.

Sunday morning, we had a visit from the Easter Moose. He leaves small oblong pellets around the yard instead of eggs. Yes, Anton, I can see you. “Have any fun plans for Easter?” PT Jana asked as I strained to move a yoga ball back and forth with my calves. “Um … “ I sputtered, stumped by the question. “No!?” “I get it,” she said. “Staying home, keeping the legs up …” “Some friends are planning a long run,” I offered as something. I don’t know why.