My wife and I traveled with our almost-three-year-old son to Forsyth, GA for a weekend of camping with several families and folks from our church. There is much to discuss about the whimsy and oddities of church retreats, but such a digression has nothing to do with your visit to the BlinkPack blog today. It is worth noting that most are a smorgasbord of matching t-shirts, team-building romperoo, and saturated fats galore. As you can imagine, free time is usually at a premium.
Fellow cyclist John and I were determined to pedal the back roads around the camp property, knowing we would have to work our wiles to squeeze it in among the hubbub. Shaking off the dew (quite literally) before dawn, we departed our sleeping bag cocoons and sliced through the chilled air of the remote south.
Morning broke through the clouds casting a whitish, warm haze on damp tree limbs as we zipped over an asphalt ribbon of rolling arches, each subtle downhill propelling us effortlessly to the crest of the following upward grade. With every farm entrance, or horse field, or ramshackle gas station, a crisp autumn mile faded into memory as another greeted us around the next bend.
The odometer ticked past 30, and we found ourselves back at the camp’s carved wooden signpost, facing another round of eggs, grits, kickball, and trust falls. I sighed heavily as I lifted my bicycle back into place on the rear car rack. A stack of events stretched onward, but I had found two hours — and they were mine.