41

I turned 41 on Wednesday.  When you turn 41, a lot of people ask you basically the same thing: how do you feel?  Old?  Sore?  Are you falling apart yet?

Answer is: sort of, yes.  I mean, things hurt about the same amount as they hurt before, they just hurt longer now.  It's livable, but damn.  I rode Death Star 6 days ago.

And it's Friday, lunchtime, and my legs still kinda hurt a little.
That's what 41 is I guess.

41 is having turned 40 about two weeks ago, and then bang, Wednesday, you turned 41 too.  And about 5 days from now, you have to turn 42 also, so get ready and good luck with that.

41 is realizing that all the best things you got for your birthday, and pretty much life itself, you found in the woods.

41 is realizing that the component upgrade that will really make you psyched to ride your bike is already sitting in your spare parts bin, you've just got to find an hour to bolt it on.  And then it takes you a month to find that hour.

41 is one poorly timed handstand by your daughter at the exact moment you were bending over to pick up an Easter egg, and it puts you right on the floor.  FAST.

41 is ruminating over beers at dinner why all of the best people in your life you met through bikes?

It's a great mystery, 41 is.

I'll let you know how 42 is next week.

Up, up, up.