I meandered off of the trail onto a narrow etched-out path, aiming towards the river. My shoes plunged into the mud step by step and the bottom of my skateboard grazed against the overgrown weeds. I looked above and the tree branches were swaying back and forth, dancing in the wind. The only sound was the drops of melted snow plummeting onto the scarce leaves. Besides that, the scene remained silent.

As I fell deeper, a black sign, posted on one of the trees, declares the upcoming area as private property. Therefore, I don’t push any further; it’s a toss-up on how owners approach trespassers. I rather not test it in these parts. With that, I spin around and trudge back to the original trail.

Nothing mystical or magnificent occurred on that short quest. I was hoping to intersect with an animal, or at least discover a superior view of the river. Instead, it was a minor detour off the original trail. Nonetheless, it was peaceful back there, being more integrated within nature.

I emerged out mid-way up the steep, paved hill. On an impulse, I dropped my board and strapped on; I was about to pick up speed. I bombed down the hill, swiveling back and forth. The board isn’t as steady as I thought. I attempted to dodge pebbles and twigs, preventing any disaster. I’m flying at this point, stretching my arms out as wings but also for balance. Then the path levels out and I cruise forward, carving in and out in complete control.

There’s a point at the end of the ride, when the acceleration declines and your body remains motionless, waiting for the board to stop, with no apparent urges to push forward or jump off. One just holds its ground, reeling in the final pieces of exuberance. There’s something mystical or miraculous about that sensation: the satisfied feeling of coming to an end and delaying a beginning. With that, endings shouldn’t be rushed.



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