Babies in Cross Training

Saturday morning I woke to the sound of Timi huffing out back as he stuffed a garage full of equipment into the boot of our Toyota Camry: crash pad, adult bike, child bike, toddler balance bike and off-road stroller. The plan was to head out for a couple hours before Parker’s midday nap.

With a belly full of Smartstart, and a couple luna bars in the pack, we set off. Our program commenced with a bit of bouldering and biking along the Uberfall in the Shawanagunks. Peter ticked off his first “highball.” His little brother expressed his eagerness to follow by pointing up and yelling, “Parker’s turn; Parker climb up.” Maybe next year Guppy.

The boys followed up their rock scrambling with a bit of trail riding, while I chatted along the carriage road. (Timi was still bouldering.) Around 12:45 I loaded the wailing toddler into the stroller, piled the balance bike on the handlebars and headed home. Timi sprinted back to the car with me to grab his bike so he and Peter could travel the 10+ miles back to our place on Clovewood road the honest way.

Timi was mounted up on our friend's hand-me-down bike (front shocks only); Peter's mechanical horse: an all-city, all-mountain, specialized-hot- rock with 16-inch wheels, no gears, no shocks, and no frills. Their route: The Trapps bridge, to Undercliff Carriage Road, to the Rhododendron Bridge, to Laurel Ledge Rd, to Cope's Lookout, to Cope's Lookout Road and past the tennis courts of the Mohonk Mountain House.

Just behind the Mountain House stables they discoverd a wide, yet steep carriage road called Mossy Brook that took them all the way down the back side of the mountain. I can imagine them yelling, "yeeha" in utter revelry, as they soared down at a speed, which if not illegal for four-year-old bikers, certainly should be. They were spit out at the start of the hairpin turn just above the Red Barn (corner of Route 6 and Mountain Rest Road in High Falls), a mere ten minutes from home.

Meanwhile, I was back at home about to sink into the Sunday NYT, when our friends Stephen and Silvana called to say they’d be at the swimming hole in the afternoon and suggested I meet up with them post-nap. Ah well, the book review and Frank Rich could surely wait.

On my drive over, Timi texted that they were just ten minutes away and starving! I texted back: 'meet as at the swimming hole on Towpath, I’ll have provisions.' I wheeled the car back around to cobble together some nourishment and set off again to meet our friends. I arrived at the swimming hole and had no sooner navigated the slippery rocks between the mini- falls carrying the Guppy and our enormous swim bag, when Stephen spotted my lot pulling in. Peter, muddy and exhausted, was still at least still smiling. Timi, soggy as old corn flakes, loped behind my son's bike, unencumbered by his own. "Aren't you down a wheel or two?" I asked, once I'd checked over my oldest offspring and made sure he was still in one piece. Timi, thanks to a flat along about the red barn, had stashed his bike in the woods run the final three miles. If I know my husband, it was of course the perfect conclusion to a glorious adventure, and he was, indeed, euphoric.

A quick dip in the icy waters on Towpath suggested the day, however, was far from complete. Next stop: the Moriello pool in New Paltz. We caravanned with our friends and their daughter Kiara, 3. Now it was time for the tykes to show off. Kiara bolted for the water where she stayed until, with chattering teeth and lips darker than an Oklahoma sky during tornado season, her mother heaved her out for thermoregulation. Not to be outdone by his intrepid friend, Parker kamikazied into the pool, refused floaties, and squawked, "myself” as he pried my hands off of him while in 3 feet of water. He sank. I fished him out, and, his head barely out of the water, he yelled “Parker swim again!” With the swim and fish routine over, Kiara, Peter and Parker dashed over to the playground for their final act: a bit of sliding, swinging, see-sawing and climbing at the pool playground. Finally, it was time for a round of salmon tacos and bed.

At 8:30pm I pulled Call of the Wild off the bookshelf for Peter. Ignoring Timi's pleading that reading chapter books at this hour was totally unnecessary, (he was understandably furious) we read until Buck’s doggie friend Curly was savagely eaten to death by a pack of wild huskies. Poor Curly. Poor little Peter. Our perfect day was ending in giant sobs. I looked at his little weeping face and hugged him close to me thankful that for all his tough exterior and eagerness for adventures he still just 4 at heart. "Mama, no I'm not," he yells. "I’m 4 ¾ at heart!" How could I argue.