This has been such a strange year, hasn’t it?

Between fires, pandemics and protests, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way; it’s like the whole world is up in my face and I can feel its breath against my cheeks.

Maybe it’s because we can’t escape information - our phones, tvs, computers, conversations, the radio in the car, every sign in every business and every public place feels like there’s a shouting match over my head.

I work as a musician, and with gigs effectively cancelled for the foreseeable future, I’ve been working from home on a bunch of things - some band stuff, some freelance design work, renovating… I live on a small property outside a small town about halfway between Newcastle and Gosford and while I love the quiet, it’s made the last few months feel a bit isolated. I work, cook, relax, eat, sleep, work some more, watch tv, clean up in the same two or three rooms all day every day for weeks and it’s been making me feel pretty on edge. I think they call it cabin fever.

I used to find comfort in my phone; it was a controlled stream of information that I could take in at my own pace. Some of it was fun, some of it made me think, some of it made me laugh, and some of it just passed the time, giving my mind a few minutes’ pause. But lately it just feels like there’s just too much information streaming through this little window to the outside world, so my comfort has become just another bit of chaos thrashing around with the rest.

So I ride my bike. There’s some fantastic trails near my house and it’s a good way to escape the noise for at least an hour or two. The thing I love about mountain biking is that when you know a trail well, there are infinite microchallenges to set yourself. Go just a bit faster. Find a different line through a turn. Clear that gap. Try using that rock or root to kick the bike towards where you want to go. Explore that other trail, you know, the one that splits off just after the bridge that you never actually got around to before. It’s just enough focus that you have to dedicate yourself, but not so much that you don’t have mental space to breathe and embrace the experience. It’s a chance to be free and exist for a single purpose. Just keep moving.

It’s not going to fix anything, mind you. Eventually my legs give out and it’s time to go back home, shower and pick up where I left off. I don’t think I’ll ever roll back down the driveway, bringing with me all the answers I needed.

But that’s not what comfort is about, is it?