The day that we arrived in Truckee, California from Belize, my sons Brendan and Chris and six-year-old grandson, Brody, decided what I needed most was a mountain bike ride.
Me, at 67 years old. After flying up through the Yucatan to Mexico City, to Los Angeles and, finally, Reno. From sea level to nearly 6,000 feet….
A mountain bike ride.
So, somehow I found myself gasping in the thin mountain air and desperately trying to keep up with the boys on the Sawtooth Trail. And, I kid you not, Brody was leaving me in his dust. And rubble. And turns. And climbs. And, yes, even the straightaways. I could not keep up. This kid is fearless on a bike. And even more so on a snowboard. Which is how kids grow up in the mountains of Tahoe.
Finally, at one fairly steep incline, Brody stopped to walk his bike. Right behind him, I sought to encourage the little fellow.
“Wow, Brody. You are doing great. Some of these hills are hard, even for me!”
Brody stops and turns to me, a tender and encouraging look on his face: “Grandpa, I’ve been biking for a long time. When you do it more, it will get easier for you, too.”
His dad, thinking Brody might need an assist, walked down the hill and offered to carry his bike to the top.
Brody leaned into Brendan and whispered, “I’m OK, Dad. But I think you better help Grandpa.”
Brendan almost rolled down the hill laughing as he came up to me and relayed the message.
I got through it, though, and Brody and I had a great ride down the fire road to our car while Brendan and Chris tackled another more-challenging segment of the Sawtooth Trail.
Afterward, Chris and I spent the afternoon splitting and stacking his firewood pile for the winter.
Honestly, I don’t know whether to be flattered that these guys think these are age-appropriate activities for an old man or if they are secretly trying to get their hands on their inheritance … of which they must know by now, there is none.