After having spent four winters and four summers chasing the same damn hobbit up and down mountains, one might think that I would have developed a profound knowledge about his folly.
Sometimes I think that I’m a goldfish. I must be a goldfish. How else can I explain that I, on two different occasions during the past week, found myself in situations such as these?
I really should know by now that I live with someone who is coo coo, not so much for cocoa puffs, but for the perfect “almost rideable” trail.
I mean, afterall I’ve had plenty of occasions to retrieve this precious knowledge…
But I apparently did not take any of those opportunities. Instead, I happily agreed to first ride down the steep side of Sørtinden, and then to climb and ride down Buren. On both occasions, I was very surprised: WHAT?! This trail? Nah, you’re kidding, right? Right? No? Okay….
I must be a goldfish. Either that, or I secretly enjoy carrying my bike up and down mountains.
Ok, I confess. I kind of like the feeling of my bike against my shoulders and the sting from salty sweat in my eyes.
I really really like the feeling of standing on top of a mountain that very few others have thought of riding down.
And I love nailing at least part of the trail down, even if I have to carry my bike down most of it.
So perhaps I’m not a goldfish. Perhaps I’m just coo coo for the perfect mix of misery and marvel. Perhaps I’m just as nutty as the nutter next to me.