The mantra, “ride like it’s your last time,” is one I’ve heard or read many times. It’s a statement functionally equivalent to, “live every minute,” or “give’r hell.” But I’ve never thought of as more than just a clever phrase.

I have always enjoyed a mountain bike ride. No matter how difficult the trail may be, I always enjoy having ridden. Time and weather permitting, I ride my local trails as often as I can throughout the summer. Although the thought lingers in my mind that the summer will be over way too soon and the trails will close once more for the winter, even my last ride of the season is tempered by the knowledge that spring will eventually dry the trails again. The full impact of that phrase, “ride like it’s your last time,” hit me just this past weekend.

We had piled bikes into a couple mini-vans last Sunday and caravanned for a day trip to Kettle Moraine State Park, about an hour drive north. Chit chatting in the car pool on the way home, and planning another upcoming bike trip, my friend said next weekend would be his last ride. I did not immediately grasp the scope of his comment. I thought, well, ok, he won’t be joining us on the next day trip, but he’d make another one soon. After all, the next trip wasn’t planned for two more weeks.

He couldn’t make it, he said. Next Sunday would be his last ride because Monday he is having knee surgery.

While I lament my last ride of the season, my last ride is usually not until November. His season was ending mid-summer. No more dust in the mouth, no more leaves in the face, no more of the camaraderie of a group ride for him this year. With successful physical therapy he might be back on a bike sometime next summer, but no guarantees.

For me, “ride like it’s your last time,” is a phrase I now take literally.