Planet Earth: Suburbia

Go with me on this one. Read it in David Attenborough’s voice:

As the golden rays of the sun stretch across the southern landscape, the great thaw begins. The long months of winter, where humans have huddled in their dens, wrapped in layers of protective fabric, are coming to an end. Slowly, cautiously, they emerge from their burrows, blinking into the warm light. It is a time of rebirth. A time of movement. A time to reclaim the outdoors.

We observe now a most fascinating phenomenon: the migration of the middle-aged male. This particular subspecies, known in some circles as the ‘Weekend Warrior,’ is distinguished by its high-visibility plumage, snug-fitting Lycra exoskeleton, and an unyielding determination to conquer the suburban terrain upon two wheels. They form pods, much like gorillas, moving in tight formation, a synchronized display of physical endurance and mid-life camaraderie.

With great precision, they navigate the streets, calling out to one another in a series of guttural exclamations, signaling hazards, turns, and—most importantly—the need for a post-ride espresso or IPA. Their leader, an elder male named Richard who goes by the hip nickname Ricky, possesses the most aerodynamic helmet, guides them forward. This group is not unlike the mighty wildebeests of the Serengeti, pushing ever onward, fueled by an invisible yet deeply understood force: the desire to be marginally faster than last week.

But the awakening is not limited to the cycling pod. No, across the land, another gathering begins.

In the flat, open spaces of carefully maintained parks and suburban recreation centers, a new species takes to the field. They are the Pickleballers. Agile. Territorial. Fiercely competitive. They appear in clusters, yet their interactions are both individual and communal. Watch as they engage in their ritualistic sport, their calls ringing out in high-pitched yelps and triumphant cries. The rally intensifies—a quick exchange of strikes—until one dominant figure emerges.

Ah, and here she is: Barbra, the matriarch. At 78 one would think her prowess would diminish, but she takes in all newcomers. Young buck financial bros to wiry boss babes, her forearm, a sculpted testament to years of finely tuned technique, demolishes them all. With a flick of the wrist, she sends her opponents scrambling, her eyes locking onto the bouncing plastic sphere with laser precision. She is a seasoned hunter, a force of nature, and the undisputed queen of the court. Those who challenge her may return home victorious, but more often, they will leave with only the sting of defeat and the quiet respect that comes from being bested by a true master of the craft.

Nature, too, is awakening. The trees, once bare and lifeless, now stretch their limbs skyward, buds of green beginning to unfurl. Flowers bloom in defiant bursts of color, as if to say, ‘We have survived the frost.’ And so too, the humans. Their hibernation is over. They step forward, searching for movement, for connection, for something greater than themselves. In these empathetically trying times they seek community over everything else.

This is the season of renewal. A time to shake off the sluggishness of winter, to breathe deeply, to embrace the pursuit of wellness in body, mind, and community. The humans have returned to the wild, their purpose clear. They will run, they will cycle, they will swing their paddles in the sacred courts of Pickle. And as the warmth of spring takes hold, they will continue their quest.

One step, One mile, One forehand smash at a time,

K