Sunday morning’s light pried my eyes open with a bit of reluctance, urging me to get out of bed and smell the bacon. My body gave that little bit of hesitance to getting up, a bit like a car engine at first crank on a frigid winter morning, bones and muscles a little sore from the punishment I imposed on myself the evening before. I rolled out of bed any way, the soreness working itself out as I took the short walk inside the cabin to the shower. What fog existed in my head disappeared as the hot water soaked my head and soothed my bones. Ahhhhhhhhh.
Thank goodness for hot water and Irish Spring. I emerged from the shower feeling as good as new, the only other requirement to prepare me for the rest of the day the necessary caffeine rush.
Saturday afternoon/evening was a literal thrill ride. My son, Nate, and I rented jet skis, running them full throttle for close to two hours on Lake Michigan, chased off of the lake by a fast moving thunderstorm. We flew over the waves, blurs hidden amidst tall sprays of water. The ride was punishing, the wake beating on my legs as the boat I was driving hit the water at full speed. At one point I jumped a wave at full speed but sideways, the force bucking me off of the jet ski to drive me deep into the water.
Thank good for hot water, Irish Spring, and life vests. That was the strangest feeling looking up through deep water. All my body parts were intact, although I did not think to check certain vital parts (they are still there).
Nate’s heavy breathing from his cabin bunk told me he was still in a deep sleep as I pulled my cargo shorts and tshirt on, slipped my flip flops under my feet, then took a step outside the cabin door to hear the sweet chirps of greeting from the woods around the cabin. Except for a pleasant soreness in my thighs, something I am accustomed to from riding bicycles, I felt very good. I walked across the campground to my parents’ trailer, where my brothers and their families would gather for breakfast and coffee.
I had finished my second cup of coffee when the trailer door opened slowly and a groaning teenager entered.
“Dad, I can barely walk. My thighs are so sore.”
You would think that I could not pass up the opportunity to remind my son that his 54 year old father felt real good. My 72 year old mother jumped right on this one.
“What’s that you say, young man? I haven’t heard a single complaint from your old dad. Must be all that bicycling that he does.”
I just sat sipping my coffee with a big smirk on my face.