When I set to write about a small adventure, I like to pick out one singular moment and work back.
For April 19th, the day of the 62-mile Daffodil Classic, this is the moment.
My best girl, youngest daughter, and baby niece... finding a patch of sun just big enough to spread out some toys on one of the first really nice days this spring. Everything that came before was merely leading to this snapshot.
Oh, the ride? It was great. Really, it was. The are few things I enjoy as much as turning the pedals with my dad, playing our tough-guy cat and mouse games, stopping to pose for another in our ongoing series of "see, that's me, and that there's my bike" photos.
We had some spectacular views of Mt. Rainier, bringing back all kinds of great memories from our ride around the big fella last summer.
About 45 miles in, we had a cold one at the Blue Moon, a biker bar in tiny Eatonville (and pit stop on the aforementioned Rainier adventure). But when the bikers and their old ladies started piling in, cursing all the cyclists on the road that day, we thought it best to skeedaddle. We briefly considered tipping over the row of hogs outside, Pee-Wee Herman style.
Dad rode his usual, steady pace throughout and finished strong, while I (true to form) started out too hard, then blew apart at the end. We climbed, rode hard in the drops on the flats, and bombed a couple outstanding descents. We laughed, took shots at one another, and tried not to talk about cancer.
Another great day on the bike. But I couldn't wait to get to the house.
The sun was out, the beer was cold, and the barbecue was hot. It was time to come together with family and put our collective pasty-white legs on the deck railing. Time to cook, share stories of the day, and enjoy the kids before their inevitable decline into teenager-dom. Time for three of my favorite girls to find a little patch of sunlight and spread out some toys.
Yep... a lot of what makes an adventure memorable is the after.