When John gets to the phone, he sounds groggy and somewhat disoriented. “Law and Order?” I ask knowingly.

“Good episode, too,” he answers. “Which leads me to ask: why’d you get me up?”

I smile as I cradle the reciever. “We’re going mountain biking.” That elicits a groan from the other end. “See, there’s this thing called the outdoors, and it’s usually appreciated best with this other thing called sunlight, which is occuring right now. In, like, the first time in two weeks.” It’s true, for the past few weeks I’ve woken up every morning and whipped up the blinds to find a gray, depressing sludge clogging the sky. January. Ugh. The same disgusting weather as December, minus the giddy anticipation that comes with Christmas. No wonder there are so many suicides in January. You have nothing to look forward to but more ugly weather.

But not today. Today it’s in the midfifties, at least, the sky a cloudless blue and the few wispy clouds dappled with warm sunlight. It might as well have a big sign written across it that says “COME OUT AND PLAY” as far as I’m concerned. But apparently John, alias slug boy, doesn’t have the same innate need to bask in the glory of mother nature.

But I’ve known John for three long years, and, after a few patient minutes of pleading and cajoling, the slug agrees to change out of his p.j.’s, oil up his rusty bike, and ride on over. It takes another ten minutes, during which my excitement for a real, serious bike ride builds and builds, before John pulls into the driveway, drops the bike, and beckons for me to come out. I whip on a thin sweater and rush outside.

It’s even better than I expected. Warm, but not so warm that I’m going to have to ditch the sweater. It’s not cool either, though, but hovering in between at a kind of blissful, heavenly temperature. I turn to John. “Ready to go?”

John looks at me skeptically. “If this is anything like last time...”

I grin sheepishly. “Hey, I know where to go now. I think.”

John mouth cracks into a smile too. “All right, come on,” he says.

I grab my Hardrock out of the garage and soon enough we’re pedaling hard down the street, nearer and nearer to the woods at the end of my street. As we whizz down the hill, I glance down at John. He’s smiling widely, and I try not to think of myself as too much of a personal savior for dragging him out of his windowless T.V. dungeon. But in truth, in the three years I’ve known him, I think we’re on pretty equal footing in terms of saving each other from electronic brain melting. John’s the one who gets me to go swimming in the frigid water of the Exeter river right after it thaws, he’s the one who’s always up for some rock climbing at my dad’s. We made the move in September together, from the fluoresent lighting of the Cooperative Middle School to the red brick grandeur of Phillips Exeter. And it makes this mountain bike ride all the more special, because when you have classes until six getting any excersize in the outdoors is a serious rarety.

We turn at the end of the hill without even thinking about the idea of brakes, and after another little incline we come to the top of the dirt path that leads, beckoning, into the woods. My woods. I kick hard on the pedals and descend into the land of oak trees, gurgling streams, and undeveloped wonderment. John’s right along behind me, rubber crunching against the twigs. We come to a clearing, two ostentatious McMansions leering at us from the other side of the sparse vegetation. Okay, not completely undeveloped. We bike on.

Down another hill, our tires barely catching any friction in the dark mud that splatters onto our pants. Past gently swaying fields of tallgrass, the deep brown of the bark blending into the sun-dappled green of the leaves. John’s right next to me, and we’re standing up on the bikes, pushing hard as we cycle through the diluted sunrays. A bunnyhop over a deteriorating wooden bridge and we’re in too deep for the weak knees of suburban New Hampshire to even attempt to follow. We make another push through some hairy singletrack with thornbushes encroaching all around, ending in another clearing, if one could call it that. But that’s not what we call it. We call it the cathedral, a church of the soul. The sun’s warmer here, the birds more melodious, the gentle bubbling of stream even more relaxing. I set my bike down carefully, quietly, John doing the same. This is where we spread Dakota’s ashes after she died. John loved that dog as much as me, and though he wasn’t there for the funeral his sadness was more therapeutic than anything. We don’t say anything, but just stand there, her deep, rumbling bark replaying in my mind.

Then I turn around and look at him. “Ready to keep going?” I ask. We both know that up here’s where it get’s tougher, with skinnier trails and more sketchy upward inclines. After only a moment’s hesitation, he mounts his bike and we’re off again.

It’s only days later, outside the dining hall at Phillips Exeter after dinner, that he breaks the news: His mom doesn’t like her job. She wants to move to New York.

I’m incredulous, seething. “Why?”

Because it’s ‘the cultural center of the U.S.,’ apparently,” John says with ill-disguised sadness in his voice. “I’m trying to talk her out of it, I don’t think we’re really going... I hope not...”

I feel any words I want to say catch in my throat. “I hope not too,” I manage, biting my lip. But who knows? I look up at darkening sky, the first stars appearing within it. I hope...