"While many wait for the end of the year to start taking stock of what the preceding calendar months have meant, for me, the end of summer always marks a shift—in season and mindset—that seems to catalyze reflection."
I’ve always lived in a place with four distinct seasons. I love the shape and tone that the natural transitions lend to a year—winter’s dark temper and quiet beauty, the ramping up of Spring followed by the surge of Summer, and then Fall’s fade before the cycle restarts.
While many wait for the end of the year to start taking stock of what the preceding calendar months have meant, for me, the end of summer always marks a shift—in season and mindset—that seems to catalyze reflection. A slow unwinding and reconnection with home after the breakneck pace of maximizing the longest days of the year. I love both the hot frenzy of the high-energy season and the cool, relaxed relief of Fall in equal measure.
In many ways, it was a great summer. From June through August, I was able to enjoy some rewarding days on my bike and on foot in Colorado’s alpine—terrain that feels wildly majestic, the possibilities for adventure inexhaustible. I took my first trip to the San Juan Mountains for a three-day mountain bike tour, and I continued to expand my repertoire of high-mountain experiences on peaks closer to home.
Then, in September, I ventured to the Northeast for a totally different, decidedly New England, taste of the season. My mom and I celebrated her birthday on the coast, in Portland, Maine; a friend and I spent an awestruck 36-hours in Acadia National Park; and, I managed to take the (very) long way to lunch at famed Blue Hill at Stone Barns via a bike-to-friends-to-farm cycling tour through New Hampshire and Connecticut before reaching my destination in the Hudson River Valley.
My next stop was Virgina, where I supported my longtime partner at the 100-mile ultra-running trail race, Grindstone. My crewing duties included some impromptu pacing at the end of his ~22-hour effort—and second-place finish—but that extra bit of chaos thrown in made it all the more gratifying to witness him realize a big goal. In the following days, as we meandered down to Western North Carolina, celebration ensued over many a big breakfast and second (and third) rounds of coffee.
Sadly, the devastating impacts of Hurricane Helene severely curtailed the early October plans we’d made to spend in North Carolina, my home state. As the rain, that would turn to horrific flooding, set in, we high-tailed it home. It rained for the first 15 hours of the drive. The level of destruction wrought by Helene still feels surreal, but my hopes for the area’s future regrowth have been buoyed by the outpouring of support and fundraising initiatives.
My partner and I will be returning in early December for one such fundraiser, the Old Fort Strong Endurance Festival, to race a 12-hour mountain bike event.
Returning home to Boulder, Colorado is a feeling I never get tired of—the many mountains enchaining the Continental Divide make for a dramatic distant horizon, while the more immediate skyline composed of Boulder’s five in-town mountains and flanked by its distinctive Flatirons feels as familiar as a favorite sweater.
Over the past few weeks of being home, as the leaves blaze and flare, I realize that I’ve been relishing the small things, feeling something like nostalgia for the present: catching up on my writing work and getting back to regular reading over late-day cups of tea; making trips to the farmers’ market and puttering in the kitchen; reconnecting with climbing in my backyard and riding my bike wherever the mood strikes.
"I realize that I’ve been relishing the small things, feeling something like nostalgia for the present: catching up on my writing work and getting back to regular reading over late-day cups of tea; making trips to the farmers’ market and puttering in the kitchen; reconnecting with climbing in my backyard and riding my bike wherever the mood strikes."
"In a sense, these little-life moments have lately felt like a different form of escapism: a short reprieve from the more goal-oriented mindset I like to maintain most of the year."
In a sense, these little-life moments have lately felt like a different form of escapism: a short reprieve from the more goal-oriented mindset I like to maintain most of the year. Rather than feeling the constant tug to be going and doing, I’ve been grateful for this time of being firmly planted; not dwelling on possibilities but keeping my world more beautifully closed around each day.
For me, listening to music that matches my mood is as regenerative as daily movement. Here’s what I’ve been tuning into during this Fall Reset.
