Sometimes the well dries up and there is just nothing to write about.
I guess that's not true. When I'm in the mood to write - I manage to write about most anything.
But when the well is dry I guiltily avoid the computer thinking I should probably compose something (because I have a blog after all) but just don't know what, or care to write.
Why do I feel guilty?
Do I suppose that those reading actually mind if I pause for a few weeks at a time?
Is it my obsessive side slowly draining the pleasure from my free side?
My cycling goes the same way.
I find great pleasure in cycling, and the opportunity it provides for perceived accomplishment. (After all, what eternal value is there in making it to the top of a mountain 4 times in one day?) I suppose the value is real. Physical conditioning and the opportunity for solitude are things that many Americans could do with more of.
Sometimes I just don't feel like going out.
No one else wants to go out at the one opportunity I have to put in some miles. I'll be riding alone. Again.
Often I ride anyway.
And then I remember why I ride.
Rock City - Out and back from Shell Ridge Open Space on a quiet, lonely, and spiritually refreshing Saturday morning.
The wind evaporates the perspiration from the waterfall that is my face as I bomb down the back side of the climb I just crushed. My muscles groan with agony on that first climb and then resign to their duties and power me to greater heights with no more than moderate discomfort. My lungs follow suit.
I've seen the sun rise on the road or trail I'm traveling, and I've seen it set. (And what motivation; the setting sun on a cyclist that has forgotten his lights.)
So I remember why I ride.
And I remember why I write.