In choosing to write this tale, I've had to go back into the annals of time. I've traveled the twisted circuits of my neuron receptors, and looked deeply into my subconscious. I've found that over the last 38 years there have been a multitude of experiences that would definitely qualify as ample fodder for the subject.

Should I regail you with the story of eight year old Cleyon hopping through the house singing the "Tigger" song? It didn't end well, because my Mother was preparing dinner and had left the freezer door open. I hopped up directly into the corner, and for my courage was awarded twelve stitches.

Maybe I should tell you about when tried to court two beauties at once, only to find out that they were half-sisters? No, ED and Tread would expect it to end in a much more salacious way then it does.

I've got it! I will share with you the story of 34 year old Cleyon when he first decided to get back in shape.

Due in large part to many years of riding a desk for my sustenance, I had seen expansion in my nether region. There had been expansion in other areas to, of note would be the area directly above my belt and in the front. So in order to correct this inequity of girth I hit the road on my trusty steed.

In my younger years I had been a rider of the bicycle. Though many fortnights had passed since my trusty steed and I had flown though the rocky and ravenous terrain of Colorado, he still stayed with me. I took him to a mender of bicycles to have his coat brushed and feet shod, and immediately upon learning of his advanced but serviceable state took him to the trails to reacquaint ourselves with the greatness of Mother Nature.

Texas by it's very nature is a far different place than Colorado. It's terrain is flatter and it's trails narrower, this is but a small difference for a seasoned bikesman like myself. If anything the navigation of this slower, flatter environment should be easier.

After two hours of riding through the scenic tundra I felt invigorated! The sweat cascaded down my face and back, and my heart pounded with the exuberant exertion! Earlier in the day I had seen boys of a younger generation going down the steed walls of a creek to launch themselves from a ramp over the creek.

This creek was a mere three meters wide, childplay for a rider who had tamed trails with names like "Slaughterhouse Ridge", 'Humpback", and "Mind Eraser". So I went to where I had seen the youngsters and waited my turn in the line. They marveled at my steed, astounded by the sturdy craftsmanship that had made such a machine. They voiced their amazement at it's ability to withstand the years of use with a Clydesdale such as me astride.

Ar last it was my turn and I looked into the drop. My perceptions may have been a little off the first time had gazed at this sight. For standing upon the precipice, I could now see that it was not a mere ten to fifteen foot drop. Ney! To move forward was to throw away your mortal coils and face the abyss!

As I gathered my courage, my younger compatriots shouted encouragement, and advice to me. Recommending where I should NOT have my head, and repeating a beloved Nike slogan. Finally my metal had cooled, and I put foot to pedal.

As the front wheel cleared the point of no return I transferred my considerable weight to the rear, and let the rush of acceleration pull me forward. Before I could breath I was back on flat earth, hurtling toward the ramp dug out of the soil. I put my legs into motion knowing that the jump I was about to make would garner me a permanent spot on Evil Knievel's guest list. The distance closed quickly, and before I knew it the ground had disappeared from below me.

To this day the gentle chirping of birds in the woods puts my body at ease, and brings my mind back to the moment that I looked down to see the raging waters of what can only have been the Mississippi river passing underneath me.

My eyes opened slowly, disoriented by the sounds around me. There were quiet beeps at regular intervals, and a his of some sort of gas being released. My bike! My trusty steed! Was that hiss the precious air escaping from her hooves? But no, beneath me was not the dirty rocky terrain of Texas, but a stiff rubber covered mattress. I felt around, noticing that not only were my shorts gone, but my underwear as well!

As my eyes opened, my surroundings started to make a little more sense. The rhythmic beeping came from a machine measuring some sort of critical functions in my body, and the hissing came from a hose rudely inserted and taped to my nose.

As I began to look around I saw that Mrs. Cleyon was in a chair nearby. Mapping moist eyes with a handkerchief of incredibly delicate embroidery. Her tear filled eyes widened as she saw me looking at her and her arms rushed to me. I was being welcomed home! The conquering hero returned!

I've never returned to the spot of that battle, as I do not seek the accolades of my peers. To do so without my trusty steed HardRock would be too callous for words, some have said that I went back there are still pieces of him to be found. But, no, I will not return. I will not try to find the memories that have been lost. For I have heard the tale told many times, mostly to my detriment.

The End.