It’s mango season, and it’s delicious.

A few years ago, I ate my first mango. Ever since then, I’ve been hooked. Trouble is, it’s difficult to find good mangoes in Minnesota during most of the year. They tend to either ripen poorly or be quite stringy. That’s not how I like my mangoes. I want ’em soft and juicy, full of mango flavor not mango fiber. They don’t even need to be too sweet; in fact, I’m not fond of cloyingly sweet mangoes.

This time of year, stores in Minnesota begin to stock my favorite readily-available variety of mango, the ataulfo. This golden-yellow variety is smaller than the more common redish-green varieties seen in stores year-round. It has softer flesh and better flavor, too. If you find ripe (soft) ataulfo specimens in a local store, I recommend that you give one a try.

I discovered the joy of mangoes in one of my periodic trials of new-to-me foods. I wonder what else I haven’t yet tried that is as good as or better than a mango?

Summer has returned to Minnesota, and with it, a prime opportunity to explore new things. I wonder what I shall learn this summer…

I am in the process of setting up a new server to recover from a break-in. No data was lost. I have re-enabled this site first as a test.

I checked the air pressure in the tires. A little low, so out came the pump. The sun drenched my body with warm light as I added compressed air. Above my head, a stately old elm tree was beginning to leaf out. The breeze was gentle and carried the faint scent of rebirth, the kind of aroma exclusive to springtime. A car drove by at a leisurely pace, the top down and the occupants smiling. A glorious Minnesota day.

The gauge indicated 110 psi, a reasonable value for the situation. With the pump back in the garage, I was ready to go. After days of setbacks, it was finally time to set out.

I put my right foot on the right pedal and likewise for my left. The cleats snapped into place as I began spinning my legs. As the wind rushed by my ears, I found my cadence. I tapped the shifter and heard the rear derailleur move the chain to the next smaller sprocket. The houses lining the road flew by.

I glanced at myself in the mirror just before I left. If nothing else, I looked the part of the road biker. I must admit that I initially felt silly being out in public in such a getup, but those concerns melted away once I got on the bike. On the bike, I fit in with the other bikers. On the bike, I would have looked foolish dressed any other way.

My LeMond Tourmalet proved a trusty steed as I ate up the miles. It was last year’s model, new but being closed out at a significant discount by Penn Cycle. It’s a high-tech piece of machinery made of aluminum and carbon fiber. Quite a step up from my childhood mountain bikes.

I’d wanted a nice road bike ever since I borrowed one for the triathlon in 2004. I would research bikes but could never muster the will to buy one. After realizing how long I’d gone without riding, I finally decided to take the plunge. I’m glad I did.

Up and down my legs went, and round and round the wheels spun. Every so often, I encountered a group of riders at a stop light, and we would ride together for a while until our paths diverged. I made my way along Summit Avenue in St. Paul, a wide boulevard lined with stately mansions from the early 20th century. Bike lanes are marked on the street, which terminates at a paved regional trail that follows the Mississippi. It’s a beautiful ride.

Eventually, I navigated back home, my mind blessed with the clarity that exercise brings. I had fun, and I wanted more. It was a good return to the word of bicycles.

I just realized that it’s been two years since I last rode a bicycle and four years since I last rode a motorcycle.* Where does the time go?

* But that’s no longer true…