He sat back into the chair, the pillows almost swallowing him, and took a sip. "So tell me, my friend, about love."

"Love? I'm afraid I can't tell you much about love. I can only tell you how I felt.

I felt reassured by the way she said 'hi' when we first met. I felt silly for being nervous when she was so totally at ease. I felt young when she curled her feet up underneath her in public places, when she explained the reason for it so matter-of-factly. I felt amused by the way her hair got in her eyes, how it annoyed her, how she swore at it, and then how she blew it away from her face with her mouth pouted. I felt like smiling when she said 'ooo, isn't that cool?', and then grinned. I felt touched by the way she spoke with pride about her father. I felt kinship when she saw little details that everyone else ignored, but that I had also noticed. On the topic of smallness, I felt protective when I looked at how tiny her hands were. Without imagined importance, I felt flattered when she told me how much she respected me. I felt impressed by her stubborn, hard-earned independence. I felt responsibility when she asked me for help, and frustration when I couldn't. I felt joy when she laughed, when she smiled, when she admitted the mischief contained in her smile. I felt strangely comforted when she tiptoed around in her socks. I felt alive when I experienced the way she smelt, the way she felt, the way she hugged. I felt humbled by her knowledge of the world when she told me about places she had explored. I felt saddened by her sense of disheartened pessimism about mistakes made. To my own detriment, I felt challenged to in some way affect her sense of indifference to possible mistakes. I felt thrilled when she got a twinkle in her eye, and greatly expectant when she added a comment that made it even more alluring. Once or twice, I felt nearly disheartened by her tendency to see joy shared with her as inconsequential. When she patronised me, I started feeling insulted, but then realised that comical amusement was better. When she ate, I felt at home because of the way she did so with obvious enjoyment. Every time she messaged me at arbitrary times with arbitrary questions about introspectively interesting things, I felt important. Every time I replied, I felt appreciated.

I felt something I'd wondered about up until then and had never felt before. I loved her."

"And now?"

"Now, I just miss her."

Sometimes, when you think about happiness, you think about things you've enjoyed in the past. Enjoyed in a way which, when you remember them, gives you a warm fuzzy feeling. Memories like these are good to keep around.

A few years ago, I stood looking down at the vineyards below me. I could see cars moving around like ants a little further, where the outskirts of town began. The sky was totally cloudless, that shade of blue you usually only see in high-budget photographs of expensive properties. The air was hot enough for a drop of sweat to form on my chin, just waiting to drip onto my arm. There was very little sound, I was above the pine forest and the animals in it. I was alone at the top of a very long climb.

At that moment, I looked down at my bike, lent onto my handlebar, and smiled.

Happiness can be selfishly attained, I thought. Without wealth, without romance, without any large degree of material success. Without relying on anyone but oneself.

As I turned around to head back down into the valley below, I thought about what I'd just accomplished. I thought about how I'd reached the top of a hellishly steep and high climb with nothing but my own motive power, how the bike below me converted every ounce of energy I'd given it into forward motion. How the meticulous attention I paid to drivetrain setup and the proportionate adjustment of my seat, my pedals, my handlebar, was affecting how quickly I could get to the top (and the bottom, after that). I thought about my suspension, about how much time I'd spent tweaking the spring and dampening rates, about how my tire pressure was affecting how I was drifting sideways across the pine needles below me.

Cycling - in all its forms - has always made me happy, ever since I rode without side-wheels for the first time when I was 2. Everything about it thrills me, from pushing further and harder than I thought was possible, to setting a bike up with the ridiculous attention to detail I'm regularly mocked about, to the way I feel completely drained and hungry for muesli and yoghurt (strange, I know) after a long ride.

And so, a little while ago, I decided I was going to spend more time, money and effort on stuff that I know makes me happy. Mountain biking, and my serious return to it, is the start.

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