I came to Vermont convinced that the place would cure the persistent malaise that had settled over me while we lived in the moderate climate of Pacifica, California. I hoped that the rigor of the terrain and capricious New England weather would demand my attention. I wanted to be in a world that forced me to appreciate the opportunities given. Nice days could not be taken for granted. I hope that I can be forgiven for misdiagnosing the sickness given that the cure was so profoundly effective. 

The deeper lesson was revealed only though the patience of this land and the family that inhabited it with me. What began with an obsessive (neurotic?) quest for precisely the right conditions slowly widened into an appreciation for the conditions at hand. Okay, we can’t get everyone out for a ride, but at least we’ve got this walk. When I was outside often enough, I found thin regret in cowering before a cold rain. There was a different flavor of fulfillment revealed on the couch in front of a fire. With enough movement, rest was equally nourishing. 

I had started by counting my days. Days of skiing, days of riding, days of running came into focus. Many, maybe most, were magical moments of personal and family joy, but, beyond their intrinsic delight, I turned them into markers of truth and proof of virtue tallied on my personal score card as evidence that I was leading a good life. 

Though the exact number is unknowable, finite hours of movement remain in my life. This truth grows heavier as I age. Those Vermont days taught me to see movement as a celebration of abundance –– time, strength, space, weather, and support. For every hour I put on my absurd little score card, I learned to give thanks for all the other hours that made it possible. The grace that had come so naturally to me on the river, that discovered me in deserts around Sandwash, and that led me into depths of the courage that made my marriage possible, finally found its home in the exponential complexity of family life. I stumbled, once again, into re, re-learning the joy of living in the moment––the stupid simplicity of something that had slipped away from me so many times without my even catching on to what was taken from me; what I took from myself.   

As I write this, my self-imposed exile from the Green Mountain State is entering its 15th year. I miss the magic of winter, but I have never suffered the least shadow of the malaise that drove me out of California. I finally saw that he deeper sickness had nothing to do with the environment in which I lived. I had visualized Vermont as an oasis of abundance in a barren world only to realize I had fabricated a completely gratuitous personal exile from the richness of the world around me. The celestial alignment required to find the perfect moment is entirely internal. 

Neither had I expected such a profound development in my marriage. We were approaching twelve years together when we entered Vermont and 18 by the time we left. As of this writing the last time we were together on HAHA was just over 10 years ago. Our goals over those three days were fractions of the times and distances we regularly logged in in Vermont, but the magic was undiluted. 

The currents of our married life have conspired to take us places that are not conducive to HAHA. I had taken for granted that burning through miles in the great outdoors was going to be a permanent fixture of our coupledom, rather than the brief, intense affair that it has (so far) turned out to be. 

Even now, out at dinner, or in the rare quiet moments we have together, our conversations come back to HAHita1 and all of those fabulous, quiet or thrilling moments we shared together. While endurance has become an ever more critical part of my life, Daysi has chosen to tackle other, much heavier, obligations. When HAHA comes up in our conversations, I see the fear in her eyes. I know she is afraid that we have lost that gift forever. I disagree. I refuse to let go of that hope. I don’t need epic passes or century rides to be fulfilled. Together, on some bright day, thirty minutes out and back on the flats of Route 2 will suit me just fine. 

You can tell by now that I love life’s ironies. One of the most profound is how all those miles on the front of the bike prepared me to drop back. It was time for me to hop on the stoker seat of this family enterprise. I finally found the sense to follow the signs: Vermont proved that my career options were no longer dictated by where we lived, my obsession with finding the ‘right’ conditions dissolved in to a problem of perspective, and, most critical, I was enmeshed with a partner I could trust unconditionally. Through almost twenty years our relationship had passed through so many shapes and flourished in each of them. The unlikely cycling partnership had surprised us both and suggested that many more surprises remained. Little did I know how accurate that was.

1. "-ita" is term of endearment in Spanish that is especially prevalent among Peruvians. HAHAita would translate as "our dear little HAHA".

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