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Monday, February 9, 2015

A Warm February Century

 "When you love someone, it's never over," Dr.
Carruthers replied gently.  "You move on because
you have to, but you bring him in your heart."
Elizabeth Chandler




While I would not change the predicted weather for today even if I had the power, this faint breath of spring in the midst of winter is almost cruel, another reminder of what we have not. Goodness how I long for warmth and sunshine.  It is Saturday so I do not have to work and I have no pressing obligations,  the sun is supposed to shine, a treat in the midst of an all too gray and dreary winter,  the weather is to warm to near sixty degrees.  The wind prediction is the only fly in the ointment, but I have ridden through stronger winds before. Briefly I think of the t-shirt that I had made for Mike and for myself: "I biked Ike.  Got wind?"  Briefly I wonder if that person is still there but I know she is and  the only real question is where to roam.  

Initially I contemplate new, unfamiliar roads, but my current weakness combined with shortened day light hours gives me pause and I decide to head toward Hardinsburg/Lavonia.  It is odd, this not being accountable to anyone for my time. Soon I settle into the old, familiar rhythm of pedaling and for just a moment in time I can delude myself into believing that nothing, including me, has changed.

Despite the stark, monotone scenery, there is a beauty in the very austerity that meets my eyes.  Wheat fields gleaned in the fall maintain their clean shaven sharpness without even the merest spark of green.  Branches on trees are not yet blurred with the promise of leafing out.  In forested areas, the brown oak leaves are only now littering the ground and give away the presence of the squirrels and deer I encounter. The only color seems to be that of the blue sky.  And the only sign that spring might yet become a reality is the occasional sound of a bird bravely telling the bully winter that her reign will end and raucous calling for a mate will commence.

I spend time of course mourning, for I have not yet made it through a day without spending at least a minute or two in tears, but I also spend time thinking how best to move forward and wondering when life will once again have spice to it.  I do not fool myself that things will ever be the same, but I am old enough to know I will laugh again and that different does not always mean bad. I am old enough to know that I will possibly even love again, however differently.  I count my blessings, and there are many. And I forgive myself for my recent sloth and tiredness.  Grieving is exhausting.  How do you get over something that does not end?  I suspect that you don't, but that you find a way to move forward so that only those closest to you see the life scars.   And I suspect that those scars may give certain experiences even more sweetness than they might otherwise have had as we become who we will end up being. 

I think about brevets.  Originally I had intended to ride PBP again this summer, and perhaps it will yet again assert its siren song, but I also contemplate not riding any brevets or riding the 1000K in Nova Scotia.  For some reason, Nova Scotia caught my eye and sparked at least a flicker of interest.  It felt nice to actually be interested in something and not have it be a pretense.  I even look up the air fare to see if it is financially feasible, for that aspect of my life has changed as well.  I decide that I will just see how the 200K goes and not press myself for a decision when one does not yet have to be made.

I pass the first of the lambs that I have seen this spring, calmly resting, contentedly munching hay as there is not yet fresh grass to pasture on.  I pass abandoned, falling down houses that once might have been glorious, vividly alive with the personalities of the people who inhabited them.  What were those people like? What did the rooms look like?  The garden?  Were there little ones?  Who looked out those windows or loved the light enough to have so many each next to each other despite the sacrifice of warmth in the winter.  And at what point did they just quit renewing the house by making repairs and remodeling and allow it to become just a falling down house instead of a home:  illness, poverty, laziness, the siren song of something new?

I come to the third store stop, but somehow I cannot face Amos yet so I ride onwards and home.  While my friends don't understand it, I still need lots of alone time. The last stretch is on Delaney Park and Eden Roads, some of my favorites with little to no traffic.  And my February century is completed on the kind of day rarely granted by the cycling gods in February.

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