The heat has rolled into town and the call of the hammock (and Netflix) is great, and yet, each day, I say to myself, “You either are an athlete, or you’re not.” And then I ride.

For me, as short as fifteen minutes counts (although I usually keep going, and it ends up being four or eight or twelve miles, which may not be a lot to die-hard competitive athletes but it is plenty to the athlete in me). An errand. A ride around the block. A little investigative journalism. A casual ride at the river where I stop and watch the turtles, or a jaunt around Atlanta where I meet Today’s Nice Stranger and take photos of art.

It doesn’t have to be a biggie. I just have to ride (and then I go in the hammock). Because if I don’t, I will rot away here at the bottom of the hill in suburbia, and that is an option I simply will not accept.


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