The Magic Words Are “Bike Ride”

Ripley whines, hopping side to side, taking big jumps with her front feet toward the garage door. The second carabiner clips to Colby’s harness with an audible click, indicating that the twist spring gate mechanism is closed.

I hit the button on the garage door opener and the device hums to life, shockingly quiet compared to the openers I grew up with. The door rumbles as it is pulled up the tracks, but the sound of the wheels is almost immediately drowned out by the excited yelping and high-pitched growls of excitement let loose by Ripley as she tries to dive under the opening door.

Colby stands by calmly.

I firmly, with frustration in my voice created by 9 years of trying to get her to calm down when we go on bike rides, try to get Ripley to relax. I kick the kickstand up on the bike and roll down the wooden ramp I built off of the lifting platform that has taken over my entire garage. Ripley spins around, growling playfully as she grabs the leash behind her in her mouth and tugs on it.

Almost 10 years old and she still acts like a young dog who has to walk herself on the leash.

You wouldn’t guess that she’s as old as she is from her behavior. The gray on her snout is spreading, she’s got a lipoma on her back leg that causes random cramps, arthritis in her wrists from jumping out of vehicles with reckless abandon, and other signs of aging, but she doesn’t let it get in the way of her favorite activities.

The 10-year-old beach cruiser creaks across the lawn as I prod at Ripley with my feet, trying to get her to let go of the leash.

It doesn’t work.

It never works.

We pop off the curb and onto the street and take off. Colby lags behind a bit, trotting contentedly behind Ripley, who is running now, her head turned as she uses her jaws to pull the bike, Colby, and me by the leash. Finally she gets uncomfortable enough to let go, turns her eyes forward, and we’re off properly.

The Lumineers play lightly on the speaker mounted on the handlebars. The sounds of wind, dog nails clacking on the roadway, and the hum of rubber on pavement fill my ears as I pedal calmly, trying to maintain the pace that keeps the long-limbed Ripley appeased, but doesn’t start dragging Colby and his little legs by his harness.

Every push on the pedal makes the unmaintained chain creak. The out-of-true rear wheel appears to wobble aggressively. A 10-year-old beach cruiser seat suffers under my weight, the springs, worn from age and use, bottoming out every time we hit a small bump.

This continues for the next 20 minutes.

A few years ago, the first mile of these rides was done in 5 minutes, with the dogs sprinting full power, towing the bike faster than I could pedal. We’d wrap up 5 miles in 40 minutes regularly. Those days are gone, transformed into slow cruises to knock out 2, maybe 3 miles in 20-30 minutes.

Still pretty quick, but mostly just trotting.

Trotting and potty breaks.

Ripley is a 90lb sable German Shepherd Dog. She’s lean, muscular, and athletic, and was frequently mistaken for a malinois when she was younger because of it. She is my second trail dog. Dakota, a stray who appeared on our porch in Virginia, was the first dog, who would go into the mountains with me and run for hours.

Ripley has been a faithful adventure buddy from the start. We’ve driven across the country three times, mountain biked and rock climbed in the snowy desert of Utah, summited 14ers in Colorado, roamed the streets of Detroit and Columbus, kayaked the French Broad River, rucked in almost every major Florida city, and logged more miles running, rucking, hiking, and biking than most dogs will ever experience.

Colby is a Shepherd-Husky mix. He’s got a short body, short legs, a fuzzy curled-up tail, and floppy ears. He fell into Ripley’s and my life when we met Madison, who adopted him from a Craigslist ad. Ripley was also a Craigslist puppy. They met when she was a little over 1 year old. She immediately terrorized the very calm-tempered but somewhat standoffish Colby, whose main animal interactions were with a cat.

They are best friends.

Forced friends.

One of the quirks of the two on the bike that’s changed over the years is that Colby used to sprint out of the gate, leading the group at full speed. He’d run with reckless abandon until he had nothing left. At that point, Ripley always took over, her consistent trot always at a faster pace than Colby was comfortable with. He’d run to keep up with her while she walked at a pace that was fast even for a person to run at.

But now Colby’s happy to stay in the back the whole time. He doesn’t enjoy the heat much, and it takes it out of him much faster than Ripley. The (almost) 2 extra years of life he has on Ripley definitely shows up when we’re on walks or bike rides. He doesn’t always come with us. Sometimes I say the magic words “bike ride” and he just crawls further onto the bed away from me.

It just depends on how he feels.

Ripley though, when you say “bike ride,” she’s immediately in go mode, even if she’s exercised relentlessly that day.

Zero chill.

Zero ability to stop.

Her heart and her mind have more energy than her body can support, and tempering her or leaving her behind on hot trail runs or mountain biking is one of the harder parts of watching her age.

Time will take all of this eventually. I know that.

The gray will fill their faces. Their joints will slow them down. The rides will get shorter.

But for now, they’re still here.

And they still need exercise.

And like the saying goes, they may only be here for a short period of our lives, but we’re their best friends for their entire life.

We owe it to them to do it right, even if it takes us away from our quiet morning coffee time.