Greenhorn. In the parlance of the North American mountain men of 200 years ago, the term greenhorn referred to someone new to the mountains, maybe (though not necessarily) young and untried against the wilderness. Yesterday morning was shaping up to be a quiet one on the road. Other than a couple groups of long-boarders slaloming downhill I was beginning to feel lonesome. Then as I climbed closer to the saddle I caught sight of a trio up the road, shifted into pursuit mode, and began the process of reeling them in. Catch them I did, exchanged pleasantries, and then went on ahead. Well, a few minutes later, one of the riders, who by the way was wearing an awesome Above Category jersey (something like the ones pictured here - different colors), came up beside me and, like the proud dad I am sure he was, said that he was riding with his daughter, who was tackling GMR for her first time.
Now if that story isn't worthy of a GMR Friday post, I don't know what is. For a dad, that is a memory you never forget. Anyway, we only briefly talked, and then he fell back to rejoin his daughter, while I continued on at my pace. Well as the minutes went by I became convinced that this would be my story for the day, but I wanted a better photo than the one I took from way behind them. A photo capturing them coming up the road in other words, and I hoped that they would make it all the way up. I actually stopped at one point (just before the short descent near the top) so I could look back down the road to make sure they were on their way. They were. At the TOM (Top of Monroe) I settled down on the stone wall to wait, reached into my jersey's possibles pocket*, found some Gu Chomps and waited. And waited. The third rider, who I had assumed was with them came up and went past, but there was no sign of the father/daughter pair. Darn, so close, but they must have turned around. I descended with some moderate speed and caught up to them once again, at the very bottom of the climb, but the moment was done. The memory of the accomplishment wasn't mine anyway, though it was pretty cool to have played this little part in it. Slainte.
* a possibles bag, in mountain man lingo, referred to a leather bag or pouch in which various accoutrements necessary to survival were kept safe and secure. What we keep in our jersey pockets might not be quite as important, but the significance is much the same.