< ![CDATA[  I can't believe the summer is drawing to a close. As we cycled past an old maple, blushing in the twilight, alone in a sea of his still green brothers, Ezra announced: "Oh no! You know what that means? School time is coming." And so it is. One more week of desperate, wild eyed freedom before we dive back into the books for this last, abbreviated, school year before the big adventure. The kids are excited. Some about new math books. Others about it being their "last year" of "real school" (what is "real school" when you home school?) No matter how you slice it, we are all ready to be put back on our more regimented schedule and get on with conjugating our new Latin verbs and find Myanmar on the map... or is that Burma... while Mama reads about George Orwell's life there and how it influenced his young life, and later his writing, when he was stationed there as a British colonist. But, that's another story. For me, the beginning of this "last" school year before we depart on our tour is like adding a liberal layer of grease to the already slippery slide that is rocketing us toward blast off. I know that by November we have to have this house ready to go on the market. By Christmas we have to have all of our gear prepared and packed, should the house sell quickly. By February we have to be ready for the spring conventions, which means Year Ten has to be written, country packets have to be polished, a booth has to be designed and we have to be ready to live out of a camper as our transitional home. In addition to that, we have the whole house to sort and pack, the mother of all yard sales to hold, our entire library to catalog and parcel out to eager friends, and, oh yes, another year of school to pack neatly into our kids' heads. Yikes. I know we'll make it, but I'm breathing into a paper bag. Today we escaped the kitchen walls, waiting patiently for paint, mounted our trusty steeds and rode off into the hills to the north. It wasn't much of a ride; twelve miles or so, punctuated with dinner at the B-HOP (Bristol House of Pizza) but it was exhilarating. We were delighted to learn that the six weeks we have NOT been riding has not caused the 480 miles of hard earned muscle tone to go completely to waste as we powered up the big hill into Bristol without any breaks (it used to take us two or three and Gabe and I would end up pushing the last 30 yards!) In fact, we didn't have to stop for breaks anywhere on the ride. This is hugely encouraging progress, especially for the children. It was rest for my soul to glide through my favorite little valley, the one with the corn fields and the farm stand that always holds the morning mist like clotted cream in a spoon. Today it was dancing with corn tassels in the wind, surrounded by sleeping giants whose trees are beginning to go the way of Ezra's maple. We still have many days of crisp riding ahead of us this fall. No more big trips, so far as we know, until we pack the bikes in boxes and send them on the plane. I'm looking forward to watching the trees change from my bike saddle as we enjoy our last fall on this lovely mountain. Hannah said it all as we pushed up the last kilometer of slow ascent to our home: "Dad, thanks." "Thanks for what, Peep?" "Thanks for the bike riding." "You're welcome... do you mean today's ride, or in general?" "Thanks for the bike riding in general Dad. We love it. I know sometimes we make plans and then can't do stuff, but we really like doing this and we're glad it's happening." "Yeah, Dad, thanks!" chimed in Gabe at the end. And there you have it. To which I add my hearty. "Thanks Dad" for all of the hard work and sacrifice you put into making our everyday life what it is, but also for dropping it all like a hot rock to lead us out into the world for a grand adventure. T-minus eight months.]]>