No, I’m not talking about the look I get when I tell Chenoa I am going away for another riding weekend.
Last week, my two-year-old son Regan rode past me on his run bike. He was obviously proud about riding with his feet up and balancing so well, and even more excited to be passing his dad. The look consisted of a huge grin, wide eyes, and a bit of a glare.
It sort of said, “Hey old man, I’m awesome and I’m passing you, take that!”
It made me laugh out loud, and rather than chase him down (I’m pretty sure I can still beat him in a race for another year or two), I just let him have his moment and revelled in the fatherly pride of having a competitive little dude to chase for years to come.
I kind of forgot about it and went on with my week. Thursday came and a group of us headed out on the weekly night ride. We left Swicked and rode up through the Pumphouse, across the dam, and over to Radar Hill.
After a few DH laps and a bunch of socializing, we were running out of light and decided to ride back down the road toward the shop. As always, the pace ramped up a bit and there were just two of us off the front as we approached the last kilometre of the ride.
Just then my buddy Paul came out of nowhere and passed me like I was standing still. As he flew by he gave me a look with a huge grin, wide eyes, and a bit of a glare. It sort of said, “Hey punk, I’m awesome and I’m passing you, take that!”
It made me laugh out loud, and rather than chase him down, I just let him have his moment (Plus he’s way faster than me, so I had no chance).
Regan is two, Paul is 52. Boys will be boys … no matter their age.
I’m James Durand and I’m Goin’ Ridin’…