Chris Wilcox:  

t he is watching over me. While this idea is closer to why I ride I still don’t think that is wholly indicative of my love of the open road Out west this summer I was leading a group of seven guys. We were sitting at a stop sign waiting to make our turn into the Big Horn Mountains. The traffic in front of us pulled out and thankfully went the opposite direction that we had in mind. We pulled out and ran hard through the gears as we built up speed to begin our assault on the huge incline before us. We rode the switchbacks and short straight-aways like a sporting event as we charged up the mountain. Upon reaching the summit we stopped to take in the majesty of the view and the miles of twisting road beneath us on the other side of the mountain. It snaked through a lush valley of every color imaginable. We shared knowing glances as we grinned and bristled because we were all excited about what lay ahead. We roared our bikes through the valley, laying them from side to side as we worked the curves of our magical descent. Then I started to notice the mountain itself. I thought of the mountain as a guardian standing sentry for millions of years. I thought of my Dad and his buddies making this same trip over fifty-five years ago. No matter how much the world changes the feelings we were having and the sights we were seeing were locked in time. Like the riders before us we were awe-struck by the unfathomable beauty of the world around us. I think that is it. What I love about riding is that it not only creates memories by touching our spirit but it also links our spirits to those who came before us. The proof of this is in the dignified twinkle of the eyes of an old timer from a forgotten out of the way town, when he takes time to tell you the stories of “when he had a bike.” See ya, Wally