Mondays are tough.
Refocusing in front of a glowing monitor is difficult after a great weekend of fresh air and complete freedom.
Relearning to sit still for 8 hours is not an easy assignment.
With the workweek in front of me, planning for the weekend seems distant and futile.
Pinned to the wall of my cubical are notes written on random scraps of paper from the people I love and photos of my nephew Max, my family and of bikes.
I dive into work, attempting to make a dent in the week's workload; attempting to shut off the part of my brain that wants to think only of smooth asphalt, flowing single track, and proficient cornering.
I work hard. I work efficiently. I work because it allows me to do the things I love.
I do not work to define myself. I work so I can find definition elsewhere.
I want to write. I want to ride. I want to feel the late season snow flakes as they hit my face and freeze my fingers. I want to dig in the dirt with Ben.
These are the things that I love. These are the things that fuel my passion for life. These are the things that I cannot shut off.