tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75379590829517967902024-03-14T05:45:40.516-07:00To Be a PuddleThoughts on bicycling, randonneuring, and other random things. Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.comBlogger296125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-80598372200992526212024-01-30T13:39:00.000-08:002024-01-30T13:39:31.728-08:00A Shitty Day;-) LIterally Speaking That Is<p style="text-align: center;">"You just have to learn how</p><p style="text-align: center;">to fall down and get back up again.</p><p style="text-align: center;">You just have to keep going."</p><p style="text-align: center;">Maggie Siff</p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">It has been quite some time since I have done a century. Since I no longer count miles or how many years I do a century outside each month of the year, it is hard to tell. Counting ended when the Big Dog site went down without warning a number of years ago. I don't remember the exact number of months that I had ridden an outside century, but it was somewhere in the realm of over twelve years. I stopped not because data was lost, but because someone fell asleep while driving and came into my lane hitting my car with their car. I was hurt. Still, when that data was lost, I realized the futility of keeping track. What does it matter? We get older. We get slower. Most of us get fewer miles. The true question is, do we still enjoy the miles? That, I suppose, is what is important. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Age has, without a doubt, affected my memory. I "think" it was November when I last did a century, but it could have been October or December. I do know I have not been outside on a bicycle all January though I have done a few trainer miles on Zwift. Mostly I have been hiking or doing Pilates or Tabata pump classes. But I decide that I want to try a century, an easy century without much climbing, but a century just to see what happens. Jon says he is interested and the die is cast.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">There is a Mad Dog Century on Saturday, but I have no interest in it because it is a city course. There are only so many centuries left in these legs, and I don't want to waste them on such a course. Besides, it is supposed to rain on Saturday and may be canceled. Friday, however, appears to have little chance of rain and to be relatively warm at the start for this time of year. And since I am retired, Friday works. I decide on Dave Fleming's century course over Medora because of concerns that Medora may be flooded. I warn Jon that I will be riding conservatively and reserve the right to turn around if I am tired and think finishing will be a chore. It is an impediment, the difference in our paces, causing him to ride slower than he likes and me to ride faster than I like at times. But I mean it when I say I will be riding conservatively. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I know I will be sorry when our rides together end just as I rue the day my riding ends period. But I know the end of last year it had become a strain, the feeling that I was too slow, stealing the enjoyment of the ride and the miles from both of us. When that happens, it becomes better to ride alone, without the demands, imaginary or real. But as with other lost riding companions, it will tear my heart a bit. So many lost companions over the year though for many different reasons: Sparky....Bill.....Steve R......the other Steve R......Greg Z.....Joe C.....Steve S.....Bill P......Lynn R......and on and on and on. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I turn my back on the thought of losses just as I intend to thumb my nose at the continuing grayness of the skies. Day after day with little to no sun. Often rainy. Or snowy. Or cold. "Godchidden" comes to mind, a phrase from a poem I read once...perhaps Thomas Hardy?<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">As I pack to leave for the ride start, I realize I need to go back over the list in my mind to be sure I have what I need to be comfortable. All too well I remember a previous ride and riding back from today's third store stop inadequately clothed and, therefore, cold and thoroughly miserable. I decide on a rain jacket despite the fact they are not calling for rain throughout the day, a decision I will be glad of for we do get some sprinkles though never any serious rain. I don and discard a wool jersey, but do keep a wool base layer adding a regular jersey and vest. I know my hands will be warm enough with the bar mitts, but I throw in the new shoe covers my son got me for Christmas. I also pack a light extra layer in a light backpack that I will wear just in case. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p>Because it is winter, I throw a light on the bike as dusk falls early this time of year and head out to meet Jon at the start. We are scheduled to leave at 8:00. Despite getting behind school buses on a couple of occasions and having trouble putting on the new shoe covers, we leave at eight. The first few roads are heavily trafficked with those heading to work and I am glad I turned my blinker on for a gray light cloaks the world. Per the weather man, the sun is not supposed to shine today.</p><p><br /></p><p>But once we are out the city, despite the occasional misting and the lack of sun, I find the beauty in the bare fields, brown and forlorn. How patient they are, imperturbable in their waiting, knowing there will, indeed, be a resurrection. There is an allure in tenacity. As they often do, lines from Adrienne Rich come to mind, when she speaks of the "humble tenacity of things." </p><p> </p><p> And it is while I am thinking such silly thoughts that it happens. My front wheel leaves the road and, like a rookie, I over correct trying to regain pavement. No, I don't fall in the water filled ditch on my right side. I fall onto the pavement, tipping sideways, hitting head first. Jon was ahead but hears me and turns around asking if I am okay. And I think I am thanks to the helmet. The foam is cracked a bit, and my rib and side feel painful, though not as painful as when I broke ribs in Texas, and I know I have a bit of road rash on my knee. (I later find a bit elsewhere). But I am, indeed, blessed. I can ride. I check myself for what I know of concussions and seem to have no symptoms. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>And so I decide to continue. Imagine my surprise, when shortly down the road, a bird takes a dump on me hitting my glasses, my face, and my jacket. The irony of it hits me immediately, but I desperately begin trying to find a way to clean myself. Fortunately I find a wipe and Jon has hand sanitizer. I tell him it is the first time I have used hand sanitizer on my face. Well, in all honesty, I can now say I have had a shitty day;-)</p><p> </p><p>As I ride I think of my husband saying to me, shortly before he died, that while he didn't know if he could, if he is able he would take care of me. Between God and him, they did a pretty good job today, better than I deserve. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>We eat and finish without a third store stop. The pace is slow and I am hurting pretty good at the end, my big concern being that the aches has extended to include my neck and shoulders. Remembering my head bouncing, I wonder if I have whip lash. Having had it once before and remembering how painful it was and how long lasting, I am frightened. Jon suggests that it might just be from riding and being on a bike so long when I have not ridden a century for awhile and he turns out to be right.</p><p><br /></p><p>Still, I am glad to get to my car and head home even if I remember on the way home I can't take any pain killers because of possible bleeding. But I am not sorry that I rode despite the accident and getting dumped on. Life is, I suppose, just a series of getting knocked down and getting back up until, of course, one day you don't. As Ms. Siff points out, "You just have to keep going." And there is beauty out there, even in the midst of a dreary and dark winter. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-85705134338480452982023-10-26T08:33:00.001-07:002023-10-26T08:33:40.266-07:00Hardinsburg on the Calfee: Fall 2023 <div style="text-align: center;">"This thou perceiv'st,</div><div style="text-align: center;">which makes they love</div><div style="text-align: center;">more strong/To love that</div><div style="text-align: center;">well which thou must leave</div><div style="text-align: center;">ere long."</div><div style="text-align: center;">William Shakespeare <br /></div><br /><div><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">When I wake up, I decide to ride and enjoy the last of the unseasonable warmth and the last of autumn's dance. How I love the colors of her skirt as she swirls doing a suggestive strip tease, bathed in sunlight or shade, delighting the eye and the soul. How I love the crackling and rustling noises that serenade and tease my ears as I pass woodlands and cornfields and the sweeping vistas of freshly harvested fields, withered and spent, tucked in for the winter months, resting. Just returning from a visit with my son and his family, I am concerned that the leaves will have fallen, but I find that they remain and the color seems to be in full swing. So I air up the tires on my new bike and head out, unsure whether I will do a century or a sixty mile ride. New bike, new saddle often equals sore butt. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">The morning still has a chill to it so I don arm warmers and a jacket as well as leg warmers. Despite the promised warmth, there is no mistaking this weather for summer. I carry a small back pack in the hopes of doing a slow peel along the way. I also have on my buff making sure it covers my ears. Yesterday I rode into a thick swarm of Asian beetles that lighted all over my body and I was so glad to have my ears covered. I don't know if I will encounter them today, but if so I will again be prepared. I have encountered them before, but not in these numbers. I must have been a good year for them. I do encounter them later, particularly on Delaney Park Road, but while thick, they are not as concentrated as yesterday. Still I am glad for glasses and my buff. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I smile in delight as I get ready to climb Leota Hill as it becomes obvious that it is alive with color that screams fall. I stop to take photographs, many of which I won't be able to share because it seems Microsoft has disabled my camera download program inserting their own (I think) and I have not yet taken the time to figure out how to switch it back. Luckily, I also take a few photos with my phone. Yellows, oranges, and reds line the road and I stop in the midst of the climb to photograph one tree that strikes me as being particularly beautiful. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWRkt6wllMwFyS3HzeBPycS6m1VQC03hW5y1BvJmTSipqUOxkL-u0iO7l7mJVe4jGbGm6gr8C5PV_D241DlRIo_5-V5YJy-ZgB6qHP0L5ZvQvD6ulhlFMlFp6XWOpV5tAllDBc8yAgrk7Y3bA2f2P-UX9wt8VemMO5KGooV-YOMy3-UYa7ROicXMBh-vi/s4080/PXL_20231024_123953479.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWRkt6wllMwFyS3HzeBPycS6m1VQC03hW5y1BvJmTSipqUOxkL-u0iO7l7mJVe4jGbGm6gr8C5PV_D241DlRIo_5-V5YJy-ZgB6qHP0L5ZvQvD6ulhlFMlFp6XWOpV5tAllDBc8yAgrk7Y3bA2f2P-UX9wt8VemMO5KGooV-YOMy3-UYa7ROicXMBh-vi/s320/PXL_20231024_123953479.jpg" width="241" /></a><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzmle6g_vRZU5Nf_6QyE9Qm5f3Ylos-ZssxgUOiAigGOG46gXs8H2qxCF6SnlvI1cVhetv75KoTn3PFLGNnnFoDUNqE6UaUD_fedMiL2EUVn8QjhdHZ8slu9t18CxFw8mf7UDLVxH0Fu2Uxl0lkXAAXejbvL7KR1SFe1HaLpI8mai5oY_A6FjRFhhyhmw/s4080/PXL_20231024_123948052.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzmle6g_vRZU5Nf_6QyE9Qm5f3Ylos-ZssxgUOiAigGOG46gXs8H2qxCF6SnlvI1cVhetv75KoTn3PFLGNnnFoDUNqE6UaUD_fedMiL2EUVn8QjhdHZ8slu9t18CxFw8mf7UDLVxH0Fu2Uxl0lkXAAXejbvL7KR1SFe1HaLpI8mai5oY_A6FjRFhhyhmw/s320/PXL_20231024_123948052.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopi7zUTzhGP7wAT9ApgyCnpHdMb5LOrL25EHqi4m2DChbaHeWjEJjwMrI-Rcur1MYTbPcMeL9V2eKHawDM6bukb-0qhDwqFk5jgP9wCOogyxVYPiIBXMwKF1uMW8t-OpRGugiqDN0o80wa7IA3GRFZSZbH9xOs5zeRrrw7i38BvK1ipVL_amLmSWn-LqC/s4080/PXL_20231024_123346718.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopi7zUTzhGP7wAT9ApgyCnpHdMb5LOrL25EHqi4m2DChbaHeWjEJjwMrI-Rcur1MYTbPcMeL9V2eKHawDM6bukb-0qhDwqFk5jgP9wCOogyxVYPiIBXMwKF1uMW8t-OpRGugiqDN0o80wa7IA3GRFZSZbH9xOs5zeRrrw7i38BvK1ipVL_amLmSWn-LqC/s320/PXL_20231024_123346718.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Zv9G8tRsfqGrbr_BIsSGXyWB_4JPxg130ETvMKO3ixrEz-fT1rQuFuaCcO1KBTzCnPAE3JvOplf37hi81s3iAe567w7ojGUj8Y1ZsoaFKFiaKUetjO0AaUAHKCNcqlxGm63WamH3Yntd6xMvahWO34RfpFlcMH_Zwy4x5-QN6OGoPKAEYH5vzF6HyeSl/s4080/PXL_20231024_122813886.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Zv9G8tRsfqGrbr_BIsSGXyWB_4JPxg130ETvMKO3ixrEz-fT1rQuFuaCcO1KBTzCnPAE3JvOplf37hi81s3iAe567w7ojGUj8Y1ZsoaFKFiaKUetjO0AaUAHKCNcqlxGm63WamH3Yntd6xMvahWO34RfpFlcMH_Zwy4x5-QN6OGoPKAEYH5vzF6HyeSl/s320/PXL_20231024_122813886.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />"It is time to start planning hikes," I think to myself, as I climb past where the Knobstone Trail crosses the hill to the Leota trailhead. I believe that Chris Quirey may be joining Jon and I on our group hikes this winter. And I will probably do some of the LBC hikes. But I will still be doing some hikes alone just as I will ride alone today. There is something in me that needs this alone time occasionally, time to think and to dream and to just meander. And what a perfect day for it today is, to have no demands on my thoughts or route or pace. Some people wonder how I stand riding a century alone, but I wonder how they can stand not to. <br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As I round the corner to turn onto Blue River Road, a horse and rider suddenly and unexpectedly come galloping around the curve. Both of us are startled. He yanks on the reins (I pity that horse's mouth) bringing it to a sliding stop on the pavement, weight thrust deeply into its haunches. I coo to it as I pass by, "Easy, little one. Easy." The horse stands quivering but stands. The rider is unresponsive. He appears to be Amish with his straw hat and I am surprised. I normally think of the Amish as being good caretakers of their livestock and galloping a horse, even with shoes, on this pavement is so hard on the legs. I wonder if there was an emergency. Or perhaps the horse took off with him. I'll never know. A bit further down the road, I run into an Amish wagon that is passing in the other direction. Unlike the rider, they wave back. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The road passes <span>quickly to the first store stop despite my easy pace. This century is one where it is easy to override during the first quarter because other than Leota Hill and a few rollers, it is basically flat. Having ridden it numerous times, however, I know what is coming and pace myself accordingly. Reaching the store, I grab some milk to eat and take a seat on the curb. Looking down near my foot, I find a breakfast companion. Glad I didn't step on him by mistake as it was close. I suppose small things are always in danger from larger things in this life. How thoughtlessly a small life can be changed. And in the end, we are all small lives. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTst4MBFwWSNS9mi6npPTqEqqgmq47wsRJHK2G67SKgiTxWOIywGA3jS6PcJInhGlPE98hWqfb29Yxy38r6v5tH1L-_VcLIoYUpl0Li_0N9Ha9kTWhwBcKpcyXwFOELgUqQpoJsb-AqlNoAvvMf0iKTJgDuqfcf0itZ-8Y9w9wodsGlIsImk3NTiWXNarr/s4080/PXL_20231024_135732267.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTst4MBFwWSNS9mi6npPTqEqqgmq47wsRJHK2G67SKgiTxWOIywGA3jS6PcJInhGlPE98hWqfb29Yxy38r6v5tH1L-_VcLIoYUpl0Li_0N9Ha9kTWhwBcKpcyXwFOELgUqQpoJsb-AqlNoAvvMf0iKTJgDuqfcf0itZ-8Y9w9wodsGlIsImk3NTiWXNarr/s320/PXL_20231024_135732267.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />After the store stop, the climbing begins in earnest starting with Short's Corner Road. I wonder how my new bike will climb and how I will do as it seems to stress my back more on harder climbs than the Lynskey. Perhaps this will be rectified when the shorter stem arrives and perhaps not. The day I got the Lynskey was a happy day that I will always remember. Lloyd and I went down to Tennessee and the shop owner, Lynn I think his name was, spent an hour or more changing and fitting things. How Lloyd and I laughed and smiled that day. Because I was happy, he was happy. It was a good day. I miss having someone who truly cares about my happiness even while he didn't understand this bicycling obsession that he unwittingly fostered. <br /></div><div> </div><div>Already I am thinking ahead to the huge climb to get to the Red Barn after lunch, but I force myself to just ride and enjoy. And there is much to enjoy. I bathe in the beauty of the countryside. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKwbqzlbYCUak_2EYEEOCltak21CUO1vxj5waG1NEe34y8FXhLRsOVE7-SquHcP6rwdIOoE59STuUKcntMnLjY2gqIISpmnoTHplhNOftfRG71tWtctmeVCcj9dsYr5nRQ1s1PRR9uvCbaFBa3b0nJ4ZGICt5mJucLmjXYsT-pDJlviVxtQp81LBJKynM/s4080/PXL_20231024_155703475.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKwbqzlbYCUak_2EYEEOCltak21CUO1vxj5waG1NEe34y8FXhLRsOVE7-SquHcP6rwdIOoE59STuUKcntMnLjY2gqIISpmnoTHplhNOftfRG71tWtctmeVCcj9dsYr5nRQ1s1PRR9uvCbaFBa3b0nJ4ZGICt5mJucLmjXYsT-pDJlviVxtQp81LBJKynM/s320/PXL_20231024_155703475.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlMnX5-0tFgp8b0gT24tbMCSckTP2RgQgRrtL7XWaQWR0m3gxFoSLU9dxwzykpzdRYUtL5QGdnzmzt0xqVMNY2nFRlks8R7ga5HLz2ss9Qe3HCrdT6Ix9359jszSC9v3MJx-xfw5L_OI0GTG8wyeHLLmtlDsyufxy8bssI8mNQGpcepg9JuPm2sHv-nNf/s4080/PXL_20231024_155335343.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlMnX5-0tFgp8b0gT24tbMCSckTP2RgQgRrtL7XWaQWR0m3gxFoSLU9dxwzykpzdRYUtL5QGdnzmzt0xqVMNY2nFRlks8R7ga5HLz2ss9Qe3HCrdT6Ix9359jszSC9v3MJx-xfw5L_OI0GTG8wyeHLLmtlDsyufxy8bssI8mNQGpcepg9JuPm2sHv-nNf/s320/PXL_20231024_155335343.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXueAliVuF9ytnssedDbP3WDva4CQ47w7yKM1n6qtfbl6LdgquW2-rwBgJWXsnq70Rcd0ae5sCP1MIxn352mb4yyPB-q_RBukH0_Fa2XzDlZmjPMWDEXc1Wmwg5bNpB_rTmA47MGiOEPx_Q35gZOLsV1DTDQnomtuwHjK9NR-KJa79xyRw5JjZFfD36Sci/s4080/PXL_20231024_153830064.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXueAliVuF9ytnssedDbP3WDva4CQ47w7yKM1n6qtfbl6LdgquW2-rwBgJWXsnq70Rcd0ae5sCP1MIxn352mb4yyPB-q_RBukH0_Fa2XzDlZmjPMWDEXc1Wmwg5bNpB_rTmA47MGiOEPx_Q35gZOLsV1DTDQnomtuwHjK9NR-KJa79xyRw5JjZFfD36Sci/s320/PXL_20231024_153830064.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOLH4ZxCgeqmEUP7EAC7ypud8eTGR_8-MTDyp6k71UGd_j3sCG9-sL62Sf2sp2-IQ5ZAMw79oTfvRsGrfntGlx2nP02pB1BMQbivTZ3nQ9JMitKuWJojBq8dYy50M_pXbthrdONh2wJ8Ow_MOoQ2SbsPVHwE43zgxv9U4yQQhbpsMN7pi3zo__4UTanjJ/s4080/PXL_20231024_151527279.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOLH4ZxCgeqmEUP7EAC7ypud8eTGR_8-MTDyp6k71UGd_j3sCG9-sL62Sf2sp2-IQ5ZAMw79oTfvRsGrfntGlx2nP02pB1BMQbivTZ3nQ9JMitKuWJojBq8dYy50M_pXbthrdONh2wJ8Ow_MOoQ2SbsPVHwE43zgxv9U4yQQhbpsMN7pi3zo__4UTanjJ/s320/PXL_20231024_151527279.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9xMQpGVTt2T4nI95cJ8a7W-bjjyMuV2cn6D5_0ATw2pgniLfqaDwLch0-5IQ4Ec4M8fzp8gixg0yNn8gmveuwNxeM2cjCs6kEuaDiHgD1NW0dPAYtZIEIe3iQ-VmFsJij3xcmGglsjjMnKKRwDs07k2iBkyhrnXVTYx7sRjIipxclMRLfSIhCFHKTQ2G/s4080/PXL_20231024_145623168.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9xMQpGVTt2T4nI95cJ8a7W-bjjyMuV2cn6D5_0ATw2pgniLfqaDwLch0-5IQ4Ec4M8fzp8gixg0yNn8gmveuwNxeM2cjCs6kEuaDiHgD1NW0dPAYtZIEIe3iQ-VmFsJij3xcmGglsjjMnKKRwDs07k2iBkyhrnXVTYx7sRjIipxclMRLfSIhCFHKTQ2G/s320/PXL_20231024_145623168.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjQvXlkpusEvq8N0rpPfM9lp5HW7Fh63b9q6yaf1hqE4NsAaN1Jti_uqZH_dQZLivT_JPXMeaS_SGDf8dZyXUzPQodY4xoGg_NVfytBbharnBiwpAHykfrMgNl4F9BF0asCDHybCbPmkBC4FaC_emDcEIKlGxM-ZmW2YldTKr3JzJEzaSWNd_Ap9Fx5MX/s4080/PXL_20231024_142156575.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjQvXlkpusEvq8N0rpPfM9lp5HW7Fh63b9q6yaf1hqE4NsAaN1Jti_uqZH_dQZLivT_JPXMeaS_SGDf8dZyXUzPQodY4xoGg_NVfytBbharnBiwpAHykfrMgNl4F9BF0asCDHybCbPmkBC4FaC_emDcEIKlGxM-ZmW2YldTKr3JzJEzaSWNd_Ap9Fx5MX/s320/PXL_20231024_142156575.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnDAOCaUrl7qEl-RCivHvmmlFsNDMYtC-YURgIEWBLo4aL2jRk6TdstJZlflnqEruiqzkSUOvI2DAMlwFwY7NTCRIBF36fL6Axe-OIsxqysCMz17CsPGKT_cQ44a_1IUiEJMi5QHWhXxvsPOjg5ErOPVS4fQL47CqrzrgpExSEV6qCRxE_r1VmrgfqKAN/s4080/PXL_20231024_140521384.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnDAOCaUrl7qEl-RCivHvmmlFsNDMYtC-YURgIEWBLo4aL2jRk6TdstJZlflnqEruiqzkSUOvI2DAMlwFwY7NTCRIBF36fL6Axe-OIsxqysCMz17CsPGKT_cQ44a_1IUiEJMi5QHWhXxvsPOjg5ErOPVS4fQL47CqrzrgpExSEV6qCRxE_r1VmrgfqKAN/s320/PXL_20231024_140521384.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />As always on this ride, after I leave Hardinsburg heading toward Little Twirl, my lunch stop that will close after this week-end, I come across fields of unharvested pumpkins. This happens EVERY year in this area and I don't know why. Are they good for the soil if plowed under? Is there a lack of help or demand for the product? It is usually different fields, though not always, but there is always a field of unharvested pumpkins that stretches almost as far as the eye can see. </div><div><p> </p><p>I climb the rollers that I remember climbing one Christmas Breakfast century with Steve Sexton for some reason. The wind was strong that year and it was cold and the others had ridden ahead. Lunch seemed forever away because my pedaling seemed to take me nowhere. But still it was a good day. The hard rides, the unusual rides, these are the ones you tend to remember. And with thoughts swirling in my head, I find I have arrived. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">It is warm enough to eat outside at Little Twirl though the morning sunshine has disappeared and clouds cover the sky. The dimness does not extinguish my pleasure in the scenery that is to follow or the warmth that has caused me to lose a layer. Walnuts and persimmons lie thickly on the ground in places. And then I am at the climb. I have no trouble making the climb but I do feel it in the muscles of my lower back. Still, I am glad to be able to climb it. Since it is a new bike with different gearing and no triple, I have not yet come to trust it. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I sit and chat a bit with Amos at the Red Barn. As he often does, he tells me about how he used to ride his bike all the time when he was young and I, as I always do, tell he there is nothing stopping him from resuming. We both know that isn't going to happen, but it is almost a tradition at this point. He tells me today that he has had this store for 21 years and reminds me that it is squirrel season and bow hunting season for deer and I should dress brightly. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">And the century ends with one of my favorite stretches of road and the knowledge that while there are a few rollers, the major climbs of the day are behind me. As expected, Delaney Park is lovely and traffic non-existent. I see deer, chipmunks, and squirrels. All seems to be scampering, busily preparing for the coming cold and food scarcity. There are a few fields that remain unharvested, but most have been laid bare. While there is a logging sign, it has not affected most of the road (fingers crossed that they don't denude it as so often happens). At the Amish homes, I see nobody, not even the children. Today it is as if I am almost alone in the world. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SkLRuWFN58MdjEKHhytfBZgfFX-N81EJA9ggx_0uDh7edCXXdHQHxxy8KTcH7UqCQuAJ9E2pmuR0nkdR1Ad8iHtjxTexE87-7942bhvkx0sFwOGgUP4dwv_3Cm3BlH1C34kr1BvRMvg1OvhXz1FuKcTT_Q71-zTdrsrDMu-BIxyKbt8u6uligTJ88FVe/s4080/PXL_20231024_181020112.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SkLRuWFN58MdjEKHhytfBZgfFX-N81EJA9ggx_0uDh7edCXXdHQHxxy8KTcH7UqCQuAJ9E2pmuR0nkdR1Ad8iHtjxTexE87-7942bhvkx0sFwOGgUP4dwv_3Cm3BlH1C34kr1BvRMvg1OvhXz1FuKcTT_Q71-zTdrsrDMu-BIxyKbt8u6uligTJ88FVe/s320/PXL_20231024_181020112.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyOyX1Al9Gqr8H9bpllp-5jwhHm8Y923Wm_yce2aF1sq51I1mC9nZZhaoQK7qUBhgKiZYyacENbLhFwhpI6PhnMqTHygMiQWlgNgtHz7zJM5_ry_ktPBJOY6179o2H7GuUPvxOfVDk4CSKNF35jVhm5mPcU8-u6INic_xo6Wsy77WkbQvF37w2f1jQGHs/s4080/PXL_20231024_194639166.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyOyX1Al9Gqr8H9bpllp-5jwhHm8Y923Wm_yce2aF1sq51I1mC9nZZhaoQK7qUBhgKiZYyacENbLhFwhpI6PhnMqTHygMiQWlgNgtHz7zJM5_ry_ktPBJOY6179o2H7GuUPvxOfVDk4CSKNF35jVhm5mPcU8-u6INic_xo6Wsy77WkbQvF37w2f1jQGHs/s320/PXL_20231024_194639166.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfzgSN7yFB6onlMRZ6ZTFmvQ_xCDOiO7OHU3zGQrFh3qrsa8iLACOazS588LqP6msao_oWTnezPOIALB-csqqHzZoJm-luMiF_SQ43Ldczg4zXHoldJGlS7upQYxhYV9vEuQm6uHfCGnyPK4w9A2RQq0ghOOvC7pMIWWJ9WKrO68zBNbZH-oTOtNzaVnO/s4080/PXL_20231024_182458496.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfzgSN7yFB6onlMRZ6ZTFmvQ_xCDOiO7OHU3zGQrFh3qrsa8iLACOazS588LqP6msao_oWTnezPOIALB-csqqHzZoJm-luMiF_SQ43Ldczg4zXHoldJGlS7upQYxhYV9vEuQm6uHfCGnyPK4w9A2RQq0ghOOvC7pMIWWJ9WKrO68zBNbZH-oTOtNzaVnO/s320/PXL_20231024_182458496.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3X4cSk2NRbsHNiojoISPDBsbe4sz_OjE3wkLmf8JCuQdjKNIjWuFbJQCV0mudBYHQ9O4iu-BmOdykg-e0eWZoiNhKv8wx9IEPYCQn3gH8OZrWwjoLFpbvlMxk_q7Wal90jQyIEgRiQhv3q6pJrD-P94vgzpnUbkoOwQRNlsGjZ3tIL_Owq6_K5b2Zgih/s4080/PXL_20231024_191639048.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3X4cSk2NRbsHNiojoISPDBsbe4sz_OjE3wkLmf8JCuQdjKNIjWuFbJQCV0mudBYHQ9O4iu-BmOdykg-e0eWZoiNhKv8wx9IEPYCQn3gH8OZrWwjoLFpbvlMxk_q7Wal90jQyIEgRiQhv3q6pJrD-P94vgzpnUbkoOwQRNlsGjZ3tIL_Owq6_K5b2Zgih/s320/PXL_20231024_191639048.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I don't know how many falls remain in my future, particularly falls seen from the seat of a bicycle, but I am glad that I made use of this warm day, despite the wind, to enjoy this one. How very many I wasted with a lack of appreciation in my years on earth, but no longer. I am blessed. <br /><p></p></div>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-33801423661832488532023-10-18T04:32:00.001-07:002023-10-19T03:20:35.479-07:00Medora: 2023<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"The best portion of a man's life,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>his little, nameless, unremembered</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>acts of kindness and love."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>William Wordsworth </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As the Medora Century approaches, watching the weather is an exercise in futility and frustration with the prediction changing every few hours. So I decide to just wait until the morning of the ride. The morning of the ride the wind prediction is down to twelve miles with higher gusts (27) out of the west. This is promising as while there will be wind on the way out, there should be some tail wind on the return, always my preference. Also, it is not as strong as was predicted earlier. Lastly, and perhaps even more importantly, rain chances are twenty percent or lower the entire day.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">As I leave for the ride, the sun is shining and the wind is relatively calm. There are some clouds, but none that look particularly dark or threatening. I wonder how many will show. Last week, when the prediction for today was mid-forties with rain and wind, I talked about possibly canceling. I have ridden brevets and centuries in the upper thirties, low forties where it rained most of if not the entire day in the past, so I know I can do it, but I also have great respect for cold, wet weather and what it can do to people. I remember having to help another, extremely strong rider, get into his back pocket to get an energy bar on one such brevet as his fingers were no longer working and how close he was to hypothermia at the finish. As for wind, Mike Kamenish and I rode Ike, though I will admit I hugged his back wheel for shelter much of the ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Can I still do this type of ride? Certainly. I am older and slower but far from dead. But I will not purposefully seek it out anymore or ask others to ride in it. Captaining a cold, rain ride is a big responsibility, particularly if any of the people who show are not experienced riding in rain and lack the proper clothing to do so safely. I am glad I don't have to make this decision. Plus, I did not dress for particularly foul weather. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Medora is a special century to me, holding so many memories both solo and alone. So much has changed since I first came upon this little, neglected town. All the stores that were open at the time to meet a cyclists needs have closed. A new cafe opened last year only to close. I found it had re-opened on my pre-ride of the course, but don't feel it is dependable. The gas station is now closed. Randy's Market closed, re-opened, closed. The pizza place, once a hamburger place and before that an ice cream place, has a for sale sign on it. The only place that has consistently remained open throughout the years I have ridden here is the bar. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> So now I only schedule a ride for others when the festival is held each October. And I mourn the loss of those small places and the loss of small towns where small businesses can't compete with the big conglomerates who often run them out of business before raising their prices to gouge a bit more deeply. A friend, Thomas Nance, once pointed out to me that in our greed we have done this to ourselves, and of course he is correct. But just because we put together that pill it doesn't make it any easier to swallow. The festival does, however, when combined with being the last century of the tour, give the ride a party like feel. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I am the first to arrive, but soon there is a nice sized crowd, much larger than I expect. Most are LBC members, but John Mahorney and Thomas Nance have brought some of the Ridenfaden members with them. Amelia Dauer, Larry Preble, Stanley Paulin, Tom Hurst, Chris Quirey, Jeff Shrode, Paul Battle, Paula Pierce, Samuel Bland, Fritz Kopatz, Derek Wilder, Keith Baldwin, Bob Grable, Jon Wineland, Steven Sarson, Don Williams, Jose Rodriguez, Mary Margaret Williams, Mark Rougoux, Thomas Nance, Steve Puckett, Frank Harris, Dan Barriere, Clay Mitchell, Damar Kiper, Chris Embry, Glenn Smith, John Mahorney, and Dominic Wasserzug are all present. It is Derek's first century and while I am never introduced, he rides strongly and never meets me at the back of the pack. It is Dominique's first Mad Dog Century and I share part of it with him. He also is a strong rider. I am sad that Dave King and Mike Kamenish are not here to celebrate another year of the tour because each is special to me in his own way, but they had other things to do or did not trust the forecast. Either way, by the end of the day I know neither would have enjoyed today's ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">One of the announcements is a new challenge I invented for the ride. The course is about as flat as one can make a course in this part of the country with the entire century only having about 3,000 feet of elevation. BUT, we pass TWO fire tower climbs, both quite demanding. One is in Clark County Forestry and the other in Jackson County Forestry. The challenge, if anyone accepts it, it to climb both during the ride while still completing the rest of the course. I have climbed both when younger, but never on the same day. I stopped doing this a few years ago when my knees still hurt the following day after the climb and have not tried since as I could see no purpose in needlessly exposing myself to injury. Nobody speaks up. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Everyone is in a good mood. Why not? The sun is shining and people have turned out in pink. Paula makes everyone smile with a pink wig. She says she believes it will get hot later in the ride, but turns into a blessing keeping her warm instead. Chris Embry is in pink from head to toe, even sporting a mask. The smile that started on my face with Paula with her pink hair, got bigger with Amelia in her tutu, and became humongous when I see Chris. There are pink jerseys, pink socks, pink arm warmers, etc. Oh, yes, real men are not afraid of pink. I think of Paul's pink jersey and how he told me that it used to be the 25,000 mile jersey for the club but they changed the color because the men would not wear it. It had to be better than the dreary gray they changed it to, one of the jerseys that I consider a "fish cleaning" jersey: I wear it when I suspect there might be permanent damage or dirty that won't come out. I would prefer the pink. Pink is a happy color. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">And we roll out after Steve Puckett announces that those who have qualified should be getting an email from him this week about the 2023 TMD jersey. I wonder what it will look like this year. It is always nice to get another jersey. I think of how when I first started riding I hated the bright, jarring colors. Now they seem festive. I suppose we change. Now I love the parade of color as we roll out, the sound of laughter and free wheels spinning, the anticipation of the ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> Before we have even finished the loop through the forestry I come across Chris Embry with a flat tire. I stop and wait for him thinking this will probably mean I ride alone to the first store stop for no way am I keeping up with Chris. But when we get ready to leave the forestry, Paul, Mary Margaret, and Don have waited at the forestry entrance. Their thoughtfulness in doing so touches me. Paul is my buddy, but I have only met Don and Mary Margaret on the BMB century.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As we ride to the first store stop, someone notices a rider behind us. I don't think I left anyone so make the false assumption that someone arrived late and hurried to catch us. I am wrong. It is Jon Wineland and Sam Bland, both who decided to accept the Fire Tower Challenge and had climbed Fire Tower Hill in Clark Forestry. This fire tower was constructed in 1930 and overlooks parts of Clark, Scott, Washington, and Floyd County and, from I have read, was the first fire tower constructed in the state. At one time, Duc Do posted how steep the fire tower climb was in places, but the link is no longer on the site. I can tell you from past experience, it is steep. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Jon and Sam say it was a difficult climb not only because of the steepness but because the road was wet and covered with leaves that caused wheels to slip. Jon had the same experience that I had the first time I "tried" to climb it with wheels coming off the pavement when trying to stand. But they made it only to find the fire tower itself was closed. "Will they," I wonder, "attempt the second fire tower after lunch." Hint: (They do). </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">We reach Huck's and fuel up, but shortly after we leave and head toward the festival the rain begins. Now I KNOW that Paul hates to ride in rain, and I worry because he doesn't look very warm. I think that perhaps he will turn around. He has done that before on this very ride though it was before I changed the course. I suspect that because Don and Mary Margaret drove so far to get here he does not, but only Paul knows his reasoning for continuing. Anyway, he completes the century finishing before I do and, as always, I am glad of the time I do spend riding with him. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">When we near the covered bridge, the rain really picks up, but since it is chilly we decide not to shelter there and press forward to Medora which is only a mile or two away. I am glad they don't want to wait as I know waiting will only make us colder and the rain gives no indication that it is going to stop. I am surprised not to see others heading back from the festival, but we don't. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">When we arrive, I am amazed to find the city has opened the school gym, the Senior Center, and the church to warm us and any other fools who are going to an outside festival in a steady drizzle. While I don't enter any of these buildings, I am told they have free coffee and cookies that they are distributing to riders. I have learned that, for me, it is best not to get too warm as it makes coming back out into the cold rain worse. Instead, my strategy is to keep moving. Inertia is the kiss of death on a cold, wet ride or on a cold ride. But the kindness of the people here warms my heart. I know the stands that are normally crowded stand lonely, without customers, and that it is costing them, but I later learn the fish stand gave some riders free fish. It truly is amazing to see the kindness in the face of their own adversity. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">A few of us grab a quick tenderloin sandwich. When the seller asks me if I want tomato and lettuce, I tell him no, I want nothing that takes the heat away from the sandwich. A town citizen yields his seat on a doorstep to me and I sit with the others fueling myself for the second half of the ride, surprised that I am not colder but knowing I need to finish and move on. John Mahorney is there and says the radar looks like the rain is clearing out. And it does. For a few minutes before resuming the steady drumming, drizzle that has plagued us since the first store stop. Occasionally it seems there is a break just long enough to obtain some dryness, only to resume. The story of the day following the first store stop. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Suddenly, as happens with rides, I look up and everyone is pretty much gone. Two have called for someone to pick them up. I am glad they are using their heads and making the decision that is right for them. Most of us were not prepared for this. Dominic and I head out for the finish. I assume those I was riding with have gone ahead only to later find that they were sheltering. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">At times, despite the rain and company, I notice the beauty of the harvested fields, lying sheared and mournful, waiting for spring to awaken them. The trees, while not plentiful on this route which has lots of farmland (thus the flatness) are starting to show some color despite the drought. And I realize that despite the rain, I am enjoying myself. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Suddenly I look behind me and Dominic is gone. I turn around and retrace my route finding Paul, Don, and Mary Margaret who I had unwittingly left behind at the festival. I ride to the last turn and still see no sign of Dominic and there is nothing to do but assume he missed the turn and move on. I thought I had seen him shortly before I turned, but perhaps I am mistaken. We run into him emerging from the woods and I am relieved. I did not want to leave him out on the course or off the course alone. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Soon two Ridenfaden riders pass. They say there is another group behind. Then Sam catches us, delayed by the second fire tower climb. He says he is tired but our slower pace soon is too slow for him to remain warm and he rides ahead. From what I understand, he made it all the way to the other fire tower. Jon did the climbing, but stopped a bit short of reaching the actual tower, but since he did the climbing, I consider these two the first to complete the Challenge, and what a Challenge it is. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">When we reach the third store stop, the two Ridenfaden riders are there, names unknown. These "may" be the two that I later learned went to Dollar General and bought sweat shirts to complete the ride. There is no way to really keep track of what happens on a ride unless everyone stays together. Even then I suspect it is somewhat individual. I invite them to dinner, but they say they need to head back to Louisville after the ride. They take off before we leave the store. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Mary Margaret, Don, and Paul leave the store before Dominic and I do, afraid to linger while Dominic prepares due to being cold. We later catch them when Paul finds he has picked up something metal in his brake pads that is causing his rims to shed small, metal slivers. Whatever it is, Don removes it and they ride on. We meet them at the end of the ride in the parking lot. Of course, right before we pull in, the sun pops out for about one minute and I smile thinking that God does, indeed, have a good sense of humor. I thank him for getting everyone in safely. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">After the ride, ten of us head to Good Fellas for pizza and conversation: Amelia Dauer, Thomas Nance, Dominc, Mary Margaret, Don, Paul, Steve S., Jon W., and myself. Everyone appears to be a in a good mood despite the cold, rainy ride. I look forward to hot food and going home to a nice warm bath. As always, I know I will be thankful to whomever I owe the invention of the hot water heater to for it is one of my favorite things after a cold ride, to soak in hot water until even my bones are warm. And today, to add to the warmth of the bath will not only be the remembrance of the ride, the laughter, the struggles, the companionship, the beauty of land itself, will be the kindness riders received at the hands of strangers in Medora. I like to think that this kindness will be remembered. It was truly special. Laughter and smiles lace the conversation as bellies are filled, the perfect way to end a ride that should have been easy but, with the wind and rain, wasn't. Good Fellas even puts in dessert pizzas for us: apple and cherry. I am truly blessed. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-85576173019907485472023-10-11T05:01:00.004-07:002023-10-11T16:33:06.136-07:00Wheels of Screams 2023 <p style="text-align: center;"><b> <br />"Nevertheless, I will tell you that you</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>will awake one day to find that your life</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>has rushed by at a speed at once impossible </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>and cruel. The most intense moments will</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>seem to have occurred only yesterday and </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>the impossible intensity of love and its dog leaping</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>happiness, the bleak blackness of passions</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Meg Rosoff</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Wise words, those of Ms. Rosoff, and they play a part in my decision to attend the next century despite the abrupt changes in weather, the distance to the start, and the difficulty of the course. Because I know I will miss this. The contemplation of a ride, sometimes laced with a trace of fear or trepidation, the ability to put one foot after the other, to brave hills, to brave cold, to brave the possibility of failure. The thought of companionship or solitude, of laughter and sharing, of the unexpected, and roads that I don't know as well as I know my own living room lure me. Fall passes quickly. Ride while it is still a delight. Ride while fear of the challenge is less than the excitement of the challenge. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> First I check with the ride captain prior to the ride to see if my growing slowness is a problem for him. I know Thomas always sweeps his rides. All club rides used to be swept, but it doesn't happen all the time anymore. Sometimes it seems as if everyone is vested in ending the experience as quickly as possible, and I know I, myself, have been guilty of this rush, am still guilty of it at times. Sometimes it seems that only my solo centuries are those where I truly relax and rarely push. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I know this century has lovely scenery, but I also know it has unrelenting climbs that challenge not only the legs and lungs but the heart and mind. I know that it will not be a large crowd as many people ride only to get their ten Tour de Mad Dog centuries in and do no more, particularly if a course and/or the weather is demanding. This course, however lovely, is hard and demanding and it is cold and windy. Indeed, earlier in the week the wind prediction gave me pause, but it moderated to a tolerable level. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">It seems strange getting ready. Just five days prior, I did a century in temperatures that were unseasonably warm: high eighties. Today the start is in the low forties and the high is only expected to be the low sixties. I worry about over or under dressing as it always takes me a few rides to get the right combination. And the wind will play a part here for it is predicted to be on the stronger side. I find I am not the only one when Chris Quirey is lamenting that lack of a light jacket. Larry Preble has an extra and loans him one, something I suspect Chris was grateful for the entire ride. It reminds of a ride where Don Feeney borrowed my green jacket which was way too small for him. We called him the hulk during that ride. More people that no longer ride, some of whom I haven't seen for ages, but I still smile at the memory. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I believe there are twelve or thirteen of us, but I fail to photo the sign in sheet, didn't count, and my memory fails me, something that happens quite frequently anymore. Or perhaps I merely notice it whereas before I did not. Regardless, it is more people than I expected. And the thought of losing memory is frightening. I do know it was good to see Tom Hurst back on the bike and riding strongly after his fall earlier this year. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Somehow the topic of gifts come up and I tell the story of the year my husband bought me a load of turkey dung for my garden for either our anniversary or Valentine's Day....can't remember which for sure. Oh, how it made me laugh. I could not garden that year because the smell of the dung permeated the air everywhere outside. And suddenly it is as if he had just died rather than passing a number of years ago. Oh, as Ms. Rosoff says, "the impossible intensity of love." How quickly that time passed. How I still miss his arms and his support during hard times, his help making decisions or doing things around the house that I struggle with, but just as much or more I miss his humor and the funny things he would do, like the dung, with love in his heart and the best of intentions but that make others cringe. We move on. We find new and different loves. We have more and different experiences. But we really don't move on I suppose. Perhaps bury would be a more appropriate description in more than one sense. "Every heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls! On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the wall! And mine at times is haunted by Phantoms from the past, As motionless as shadows, by the moonlight cast! " (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">But back to the ride.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Bob Grable and I had talked of perhaps starting early as he has an event to attend and I know I will be slow. As it turns out, there is a small group of us that head out early. It is nice that there is another woman on the ride. On most centuries, if there is another woman, it is Dee or Amelia. Distance riding still seems to be mainly the province of men in this part of the country. Dee leaves early with me though we only end up spending part of the day riding together. I warn everyone that I intend to ride slowly and not press myself as I have been doing. I know this course will sap my strength and I don't want to finish wishing I had not ridden or totally wiped out. There is a time and place for that. That time is not today. Fall, for me, is a time to slow down and soak up the beauty. And this is just the course to do that on. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Dee and I ride together while the others take off. Thomas Nance, the ride captain, catches us and rides along. He said that Chris Embry had a bike problem they struggled with a bit at the beginning. By that time, Chris had passed us long before, young and strong on the bike. I hope Thomas is being honest that he does not mind riding a slower pace for he is certainly capable of being with the first group. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We reach the store stop and realize that Steve Puckett is not with that group. Chris Embry reaches him by phone and we realize he is, indeed, behind everyone. Somehow Thomas missed him at the start. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">The first store is very quaint but appears to do a good business. I sit longer than normal drinking the milk I purchased and eating the oatmeal blueberry bar I made at home. Steve pulls in just about as the group is getting ready to leave. I leave with them, but don't chase and fall behind. I am fine with that. This is a course I don't mind riding alone because you see more, and despite being on mostly state roads, the roads are not busy. I think how often scenery is tied to hills, probably because it is harder to develop hilly land than flat land. Regardless, it is lovely with fall reaching forward to color the land. Her skirts swirl and dance in the wind, falling into the road, confetti for our passing.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">It is not too long before Dee leaves the group and drops back. Dave as well and we ride together to the lunch stop. I know Dave does not like Subway so I am confused when he passes Dairy Queen and Burger King to Subway. I just figure he has changed his mind but when I look, he is gone. Dee and I enter Subway and there is a long line. I tell her I won't wait and head to Burger King. And were they fast. I ordered and filled my drink and my food was ready. This allowed me to be one of the first to leave the lunch stop. And junk food is junk food. One fast food restaurant is much the same as the others. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I worry a bit as the wind has picked up and is slapping me around on the way out of town. Fortunately, it is mostly a tail or side wind the rest of the way. As I climb two, short steep hills that require standing, I am glad nobody is with me to witness my struggle. But I don't stop and I don't walk. Somehow I keep the pedals turning and make the ascent knowing that these are just the start of what is left to conquer. I feel a sense of pride at the top of each climb. I have made it and I have not walked. Not that there is shame in walking a hill. I have walked plenty of them. But walking a hill is like using my triple, something I think it is best to avoid making a habit. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">While alone, I savor the scenery in a way I don't seem to be able to do when riding with a group. But I am also thinking of my new bike. Bob from Clarksville Schwinn called at seven last night telling me it was done. In fact, I debated skipping the century to pick up the bike but decide to ride and pick it up on Sunday. But I long to ride it and to see how it ended up, to get to know it, and hopefully get to trust it to get me through that days journey. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Before long I am caught despite my head start. I end the ride with this group and am glad I am with people when a pick up passes with a young man leaning out the window yelling something. "Cut me some slack," I think as he yells. Then I think, "I am old enough to be your grandmother." Originally I think he is yelling because I have fallen behind the group on a climb, but he yells at them as well. None of us could understand what he said, but it is not the first time for any of us that someone has yelled at us as we ride down the road not bothering anyone. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I debate passing the last store stop and riding in because there are so few miles left, but stop and the very front group is there. We all finish together. My legs tell me repeatedly that they are glad to be done, but my heart is still a bit out there on the course thinking of the beauty and the slight sadness of fall and wondering if this is the last time I will ride this course. Endings are, I suppose, always a bit melancholy just as they are inevitable. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">There is a bit of joking in the parking lot, but I don't linger long as it is a long drive home. I warn them about the predicted weather for next week-end, Medora, the last century of the TMD for 2023. As almost always is the case, I am glad that I came and glad that I still can ride. I rue my growing slowness, but appreciate the health that allows me to continue however slowly it may be. And one day there may be an e-bike in my future. But not today. Today's pleasure will not, I hope, ever be erased. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-62085914768890246022023-09-18T09:18:00.002-07:002023-09-18T09:18:36.815-07:00Yellowstone: A Different Kind of Journey<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"Sensitive people feel so deeply they</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>often have to retreat from the world,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>in order to dig beneath the layers of pain</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>to find their faith and courage."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Shannon Alder</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I am worried that I will not be able to go on my planned vacation to Yellowstone with my daughter for I have been ill. Fever and an attack on my lungs by some passing virus that thought I needed a spanking. COVID tests negative. But my fever breaks and while I am far from recovered, I am able to go and to not worry about infecting her or other passengers. I have never been to this park and it gives me a chance to spend time with the woman I birthed all those years ago and to familiarize myself a bit more deeply with who she has become. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">When children are little, we know almost everything there is to know about them....when they wake up, what they eat, who their friends are, how they spend their time. But that little slice of time does not last long, nor should it. They grow, they change, they become. As a parent, this means loss, but it also means pride....pride that she is self-sufficient and no longer needs me to ensure her survival, pride in her accomplishments, pride in decisions she made. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I need this break for I have struggled since the loss of my brother, even thinking sometimes about just leaving this world so I don't have to lose any more people or pets that I have known or cared about. I am weary of loss. I find myself withdrawing from friends a bit, pushing them away and keeping them at arms length, not really wanting to care about them, to run that risk of future pain. Never seriously suicidal because I know the damage that is left behind and because I have responsibilities and because God has blessed me by not allowing me to sink so low that there seems to be no other way out. There are, after all, cats that need to be taken care of and a few people who would grieve my passing. There are grandchildren to be hugged and to be proud of. And there are children who, while they no longer really need me on one level, will continue to need me on another. And there is my new bicycle that has not yet arrived but which I eagerly anticipate.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Of course, the pool of those who give a damn is getting smaller. Both best friends from high school are now gone. All my family other than children and grandchildren are gone. I find myself sympathizing with Job, praying please don't let me lose what little is left. It is not impossible to leave these worries behind. But there are parental responsibilities. We never stop trying to role model appropriate behavior I suppose. We never stop worrying about their well-being. And again, there are cats to be fed as they have no hesitancy in reminding me in the morning when I try to sleep in a bit. People say I am strong. They don't know the cowering, shivering individual inside. They see the shell that moves stoically forward and talks using intellect rather than emotion. But while we may know something with our minds, emotions don't always mirror that knowing taking us in different directions. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">There is also the realization that if genetics holds true, I probably have about 10 years or less before I join my siblings and friends. Unless I am like my mother who lived to almost 100. While we try to fool ourselves, human life, all life, is so darned fragile. 10 years does not seem like very long. But that is, I suppose, the thing. If that is what is left it is so important to enjoy and make the most of it, to squeeze every little bit of pleasure out of life wringing it dry. I just hope that when it is my time, I am fortunate enough to leave quickly, not lingering in one of the death warehouses that we call nursing homes. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I don't mean to be critical of those that work in nursing homes. They do what they can, often selflessly for little pay, but having witnessed them with my mother and sister, I do not care to be in one. There is such a thing as living too long I guess. One reason I try so hard to take care of myself is the desire to live on my own and be capable of caring for myself as long as is possible. I detest being dependent, and I don't trust it. I have heard the begging and pleading in the voices of my elders, felt it seep deep inside me kindling a fear I had not known before. But I must look forward or be turned to salt I suppose. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We meet at the airport, both of us excited about going someplace new. And our flight is on time, something that no longer happens with the regularity of the past. Once in Bozeman, there is a long wait for the rental car, but then we are on our way. (I was supposed to get a Ford Fiesta but they give me a Mustang.) We run to Walmart to pick up some groceries, and head for Yellowstone to check into our cabin. Travel and still not being completely well has depleted me and I will be glad to check in. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The scenery is lovely, so different from home. We drive through a long valley for what seems like forever before reaching Gardner and entering the park. The drive from the entrance to Mammoth Hot Springs seems like forever despite being on three to four miles, but the curves need to be taken slowly. We arrive and check in. This cabin will be ours for four nights. Female and younger elks are grazing nearby. We cautiously make our way to the cabin door and put our things away before going to explore. While out, I see two cyclists, bicycles loaded, enjoying a brief stop before heading onward to wherever they are heading. I am briefly envious, but so glad to have the time with my daughter.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">We get up early each morning and drive to different places. Once to Old Faithful, once to Lamar Valley, once to Fairy Falls. We hike. We talk. We soak up the beauty. And we laugh. It is so nice to laugh together. We laugh at the call of 24, an older bull elk, as he proclaims that these females are his. Once he is right outside our cabin and the sound is as loud as if he has joined us. We rush to the windows. I don't see him but my daughter catches a glimpse as he charges around the corner of another cabin. We laugh the next day at how a young elk still needs and wants his mama despite the fact his legs have grown to where nursing is a chore. We laugh on a hike at a ground squirrel and how his tail disappears as he enters his burrow. We laugh at his caution in emerging and then his cheekiness in trying to join us once he smelled our food. And each laugh is a breath of life, a reason to endure. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzG-lJKZcwMMCNC-Hug5l_jiVcN9JJogYejLD2uEtUxZq59Uow6vpBr66DI3V-bqZHAhaaBebErwqfEjMCbKjOY2fW1BBzDHHVMThI54pS8MhjT0xOuwplJJb50Mwdvb2MDAhXPVPNU7_-98p-Q7iR5Vk7IcuGrqtISxyxde58uMJnTm-uUVloa5Aug02/s4608/P9100872.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzG-lJKZcwMMCNC-Hug5l_jiVcN9JJogYejLD2uEtUxZq59Uow6vpBr66DI3V-bqZHAhaaBebErwqfEjMCbKjOY2fW1BBzDHHVMThI54pS8MhjT0xOuwplJJb50Mwdvb2MDAhXPVPNU7_-98p-Q7iR5Vk7IcuGrqtISxyxde58uMJnTm-uUVloa5Aug02/s320/P9100872.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg161cGQjvlu1MmTzVy1tfdA6RsgImDFhulLqQ41Lg1MV-zO57Rum-TWRMb9-Lmvd14JlFOX9oOECA9e11dwh7985tyvUKTkWSjFQ9CnBpkK940_-mqACL8Elvup21FIYtnAEXqH4PC9cCs30PjewmyJRap8IvtpCZLTDCrynmbkcgEQBgfNmFIXHg6cniK/s4608/P9100892.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg161cGQjvlu1MmTzVy1tfdA6RsgImDFhulLqQ41Lg1MV-zO57Rum-TWRMb9-Lmvd14JlFOX9oOECA9e11dwh7985tyvUKTkWSjFQ9CnBpkK940_-mqACL8Elvup21FIYtnAEXqH4PC9cCs30PjewmyJRap8IvtpCZLTDCrynmbkcgEQBgfNmFIXHg6cniK/s320/P9100892.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">We see a fox, a coyote, buffaloes, a raven, and other wildlife. We experience Old Faithful. We hike and we ride and we just enjoy the newness and each other. The only real issue is the food. Unlike the Shenandoah Park the food pretty much sucks though my daughter had a few vegetarian meals that she thought were okay. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nBdwMYrkJIV7h7mNQZBE1GMjseAsPvfSRmnLk5PixZ6wYlqq3wWXyrpY3AVcm0h0V16RjGMeMBtfWTkZmg7nbl_Bk5DVCC4umOEj4wIpBjEv2kIWxzZinn1gb5vmpAhVaVxXYPZs_MR2ceYzpXSStZS57ecYtMdweHd1zEa24Pi-mDNezM8PMn9Cp552/s4080/PXL_20230909_131935987.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nBdwMYrkJIV7h7mNQZBE1GMjseAsPvfSRmnLk5PixZ6wYlqq3wWXyrpY3AVcm0h0V16RjGMeMBtfWTkZmg7nbl_Bk5DVCC4umOEj4wIpBjEv2kIWxzZinn1gb5vmpAhVaVxXYPZs_MR2ceYzpXSStZS57ecYtMdweHd1zEa24Pi-mDNezM8PMn9Cp552/s320/PXL_20230909_131935987.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitaxDG_3HD8l1-wkhg_nRRvY39JH-F3CTaglgTE2fE85yAKSu4gq18U2pAqsvj_Pk1Ee3W6ma-EELjxFZ93Svxhlzo97peoyvDTAt9gDanzyFbjzy_bPrVK3bJxQYKrKovR2_51Vb8sAAwIqeZn-j7GA0hYYTupLRcWsnf8hJvbnvrkhHcMCwZtw_BaW-B/s4080/PXL_20230909_150739904.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TzP-CUDq_9CFvNqJI_wm-pS5gUxU0OQnGwPWP1bu-Ixc84cZwBleBe9JEeJQGS1zVfvETcOR5DFX14AUBj6vCkPRUvim_0a3pwpMj-C6J8z1XCQYAz2beCl8scEg4itOkoE8MeCgZikQHcn-3yIF6-qoTlw0e4T8EOIfiGieZXMCTrK72qy1cR5EAGv3/s1594/image.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1594" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TzP-CUDq_9CFvNqJI_wm-pS5gUxU0OQnGwPWP1bu-Ixc84cZwBleBe9JEeJQGS1zVfvETcOR5DFX14AUBj6vCkPRUvim_0a3pwpMj-C6J8z1XCQYAz2beCl8scEg4itOkoE8MeCgZikQHcn-3yIF6-qoTlw0e4T8EOIfiGieZXMCTrK72qy1cR5EAGv3/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /> The trip home comes all too quickly. I treasure the time we had together, this child who once was inside of me, totally dependent, but now stands on her own two feet and who is kind to me, patient when I forget something or get confused or anxious or sad. I treasure this child who shared laughter with me helping me heal. This time was not about bicycles, but about family, about finding the strength to move on, and perhaps realizing that I am not quite as alone as I thought that perhaps I was and that perhaps I matter. The child who was part of helping me find once more, if only for a bit, faith and courage to move onward as I shuffle through the different blows that have been dealt to me in such an amazingly short period of time. </p><p><br /></p><p>So, to friends that have noticed me backing off, I am sorry. I am just trying to find my balance on the shifting sands beneath me and to reconcile recent happenings. It is not you. It is me. But this time away hopefully helped. And being with you, despite my pushing hard against the love I have for you, will hopefully help. And bicycles, bicycles and the freedom they bestow, will hopefully help. And eventually, perchance, I will heal, though possibly not as I was, who I was, before. Eventually a scab will form and despite my weakness, I will put one foot in front of the other and move forward until moving forward is no longer a choice and the time has come to rest. <br /></p><p></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-14662921205539451672023-09-01T11:10:00.004-07:002023-09-01T11:12:18.903-07:00Steve Montgomery's Lexington LeRoy Century <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"God give me hills to climb,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>And strength for climbing!"</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Arthur Guitermen </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">It is going to be a great day for a ride. The weather has turned unseasonable cool, the skies are overcast, but it is still warm enough for just shorts and a jersey. The course is one I have not ridden for a few years, a course I put together in honor of an old friend, Steve Montgomery, who wanted a ride that went through Bethlehem but where lunch was at LeRoy's in Lexington. Unfortunately, he no longer rides, but this route will always bring him back to my mind. Of course, that was back when LeRoy still owned LeRoy's. Now it is owned by others and, unfortunately, has changed. LeRoy and Bernice kept the store neat as a pin. The new owners, not so much. Indeed, I debated putting this century on because of the changes, but decided it would be okay. I have done too much curb side dining to be too particular. If you are going to ride, you have to eat. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">And so, off I go to the ride start. I know two are coming, but I also know it will be a small crowd. It is not a tour stage and only the tour stages draw large crowds of riders. In some ways, I prefer that. It is rather nice when people take a bit of time on a century to talk and tend to stay together at least part of the time. I smile inwardly thinking of Lynn Roberts and his words after a century where we went less than 14. At the end he said something to the effect that he did not know you could do a century and still feel so good at the end. Pace and route, do matter. As I remember it, that route was a medium in difficulty but it was a long time ago and that route went defunct as the middle store stop went out of business. Today's route a bit more challenging hill wise.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">"To everything there is a season." (Ecclesiastes). There are times to ride hard and times to ride at an easy pace. I smile when Mike "Sparky" Pitt comes to mind remembering him talking about a pace line on a ride and telling me there was nobody's butt he wanted to look at that long. With the challenging hills, I hope for a moderate pace: not snail like but also not where I feel like dying at the end. And it happens. There are hills, wonderful for training and for the scenery they bestow, and for today I have the strength to climb despite issuing a disclaimer at the start that there was one I just might end up walking. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Those who are coming are capable riders and are not whiners. (They leave that for me;-) Chris Quirey also shows, and I know he also is strong and competent. It is a nice mix with two extremely strong climbers and two of us who are more moderate in our pace. There is Jon Wineland, Steve Meredith, Chris Quirey, and myself. Yet neither of the two stronger riders are the kind who are impatient riding a bit more slowly than is their norm or uncomfortable with going ahead. One problem I have run across as an older, slower ride captain is that some people feel they must stay back with me despite my assurances that I am fine and they should go ahead. This can be miserable for both as I try to go faster than I should so as not to be a burden and they go slower than they want to go or are comfortable going, particularly if they have somewhere to be after the ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">This is really not a good course for a first century for most people. (says she who did the Old Kentucky Home 102 Time Trial as her first century;-) The store stops are oddly spaced and it is quite hilly, particularly the last third of the course with the climb out of Bethlehem and the climb into Charlestown on Tunnel Mill and then all the short, steep climbs back to Henryville that seem unrelenting to tired legs. Today this concern is not an issue. Yes, anyone can have an issue, mechanical or physical, that impairs their ability to finish, particularly in the heat of summer, but barring anything unforeseen and unpreventable, it won't be this strong group who are all seasoned.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">The first climb in a moderate one up Liberty Knob and then it is off to Flatwood. The irony of the name does not escape me, for Flatwood has quite a nice little climb on it, but I do love the road though hate it that a house or two have gone up that block what was once a wonderful view. Everyone seems to be content to be out here, on their bikes, taking in the green while it is still here and, in places, vibrant. Indeed I am shocked a bit further on the ride when I note a corn field that is ready for harvesting, stalks and leaves withered and brown, some ears facing downward. I then notice some of the soybean fields are browning around the edges. But most or the corn or soybeans still are far from being ripe for the harvest. I know what is coming: fall. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As always, fall will be beautiful. As always, my legs, despite still being strong, will push the pedals slower and slower. Speed will being to be too much of an effort despite the cooler temperatures. There will be chilly mornings and warmer afternoons. Jackets, arm warmers, and leg warmers will begin to appear. I will pull out my work gloves to put over my short finger gloves. But not yet. Soon, but not yet. I think that I wish it is a beautiful fall. Still rather morbid from all the loss, I realize that every season could be last and I want to soak them up inside my heart. I have been so privileged to experience so many seasons and so many personalities on the bike. I don't take this lightly or without being grateful. This year the retired group has had most of their rides on Wednesdays, which often don't work well for me, but I am grateful for the days I could participate. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">After the first store stop we continue to Lexington where we sit outside at a picnic table eating our lunches. Flies and yellow jackets abound, but we remain outside despite their constant interference. A few jokes and stories are told, and then it is back on the bike heading toward Bethlehem and the worst of the climbs. I find that neither Chris nor Steve have climbed out of Bethlehem in this direction. Jon thinks it is the hardest way to climb out. I think I agree. I grin thinking of Paul on an earlier ride this year where we climbed out the way we normally enter. He griped the entire way yet never faltered in pushing the pedals. As I pointed out to him, when a group of us did the Bethlehem Century in the spring, a group of young men were at the top of the climb resting from their exertions. Paul and Mike, in their seventies, did not rest nor did the rest of us, all in our sixties I believe. Before my world crashed yet again. Before I struggled back onto my knees trying to stand once again. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We descend the hill into Bethlehem that we normally climb out on and I realize I forgot to warn Chris that the road the route is plotted on was taken over by the quarry and a new road was built a few years ago. Google Maps just has not yet caught up with the changes. Sure enough, I come upon Jon stopped waiting for Chris. I text him to head back this way and shortly thereafter here he comes. I get to the new turn just in time to see Steve riding off in the wrong direction. He hears me and turns around, and we are together until the climb when Jon and Chris leave us as if we are standing still. But I do not walk. Nobody walks. And I realize the coolers temperatures have made the climb much easier than it normally seems. Still, it is not the last climb. There will be Tunnel Mill and then a series of short but constant climbs between Charlestown and Henryville.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Still, while my legs are complaining at the demands I have placed upon them, they are not screaming at me to stop. And I know that they grow stronger, hopefully strong enough to last the fall riding season before I largely place the bike aside in order to hike. Jon and Chris are in the parking lot when Steve and I pull in and the ride is complete, somewhere between 104 and 105 miles at a pleasant pace. I am tired, but not exhausted. Perhaps, tonight, sadness will not haunt me as I continue to climb away from grief and self pity. Truly, I am blessed. Blessed with friends, blessed with health, blessed with bicycles. God, help me to count my blessings and not my deficits. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-87170400616115140072023-08-26T11:34:00.000-07:002023-08-26T11:34:11.170-07:00Future PBP?<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"A goal without a plan</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>is just a wish."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Antoine de Saint-Exupery </b></p><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: left;">It has been a steamy hot, humid week, filled with ragweed, so once again I steal out of the house quite early to get a ride in before it becomes miserably tropical. Today I pick the Surly though I have no intention of seeking gravel. What makes us pick a certain bike on a certain day? Sometimes it is the route we intend to take, and sometimes it is just as if that bike calls to us. Sometimes we find we have picked the right bike for the path we find ourselves on, and other times we think another would have been a better choice. Regardless, like many choices, you just deal with the choice you have made. Today's choice is perfect. Today the Surly fits just fine though the SRAM shifters, while shifting so clean and crisply, test my finger strength. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I just want to get a ride in. It is still hard to force myself out the door. Grief is still my constant companion and urges me to stay home and wallow, but I have had lots of practice with telling grief no. I will not dishonor this precious gift of health and life that way, to make a mockery of the very gift that has been taken from others. I can not yet make grief stay home when I leave, but that will come with time. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I don't know that I believe that time heals all wounds, but we eventually learn accept the dismemberment bestowed. If we are lucky, perhaps, we learn a lesson from our grief. In the end, I have concluded that the best way to honor those that went before is to live life as fully and as gratefully as we can while accepting that we are human and will have times of sadness and regret, times when the beauty of the world surrounds but eludes us somehow. It is best to live so that maybe one day, when it is our turn to move onward, others will learn from how we lived and accepted the events and traumas that life has bestowed upon us and honor our passing. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Everything is still very green despite the heat, and I think how very much I will miss it. Time passes so quickly any more it seems I blink my eyes and summer has vanished leaving only a memory. As I ruminate, I come across a large orange and white cat, lazily draped across the road soaking up the heat. He notices my approach, turns his head and stares for a moment, dead still in the way only a cat can be still, then stalks haughtily off the road, obviously angry at being disturbed in the midst of a fine nap. A short time later, a flash that I identify as a ground hog scuttles nervously to a hidey hole at the road side. Then, just a moment later, there is a fawn in the road. "Where," I think, "is your mama?" Mama is right around the bend. The fawn takes off to my right, mama to the left, and I hear her snort. I worry about the small size of the fawn. Was it a runt or did mom have a late pregnancy? I am not sure when deer season starts, but this fawn still seems to need it's mother. A line from "The Yearling" comes to mind, "The wild animals seemed less predatory to him than people he had known." <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I wonder if the snort means something. Anyone who has been around animals much know that they do communicate though it is certainly not always or even usually through sounds. Beware the horse that has his ears flat, pressed backwards against his neck. Beware the warning growl of a dog who feels you are riding much to closely to his yard.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">At this point, I am near the big hill that I either need to climb or to not climb depending on if I want to retrace my route. I decide to climb. The Surly is heavier than my other bike, but it also has easier climbing gears despite the fact the Lynskey has a triple and the Surly does not. I climb and find it is not overly stressing me. Indeed, it feels quite lovely, the way the hills test my thighs and, even more so, my lungs. I settle into a regular breathing pattern as I tend to do on hills, and before you know it, I have crested the top. The difficulty of climbs depends so much not only on the grade, but also
on how quickly you are determined to get to the top of it. Today I
just relax and spin, not worrying about time or speed. "Lovely," I think, for because of the climb later in the ride I will have a two mile downhill that I enjoy. Suddenly it comes to mind that on brevets, one thing that always encouraged or discouraged me, depending on the scenario, was that each hill you climbed you would descend and vice versa. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">And then I begin to think about Paris Brest Paris and the people I know that were there this year. I got very excited for them and envious of their adventures. For the first time since my husband passed, I truly wished I were there, and I realize it is not only because of the people I know riding, but because of the people I don't know. Memories of the experience float through my head tauntingly and making me question if I could, indeed, complete the course once again. I think that I could physically, but could I once again obtain the mental fortitude that is necessary to be successful because anyone who rides brevets knows how important that becomes at the longer distances, that ability to dig deep within oneself and move onward. And could I physically with my seeming inability to recover as quickly as I once did? <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I toy with the idea the rest of the ride and decide that perhaps, depending on circumstances, I will rejoin RUSA and ride some brevets next year to see how I do. When I get home, I try to look up the age of the oldest female to complete PBP. I find the oldest American woman was Elizabeth Wicks who was age 75. I believe she had a coach to give her direction and was probably a much stronger rider than me to begin with. But I will only be 71, so I will have a four year advantage over her. The oldest male was Jean Guillot at age 86. I never find who the oldest woman was overall. I do find it interesting in my bit of research to find that 2007, the first year I rode PBP, had the worst weather since 1956, the year of my birth. How well I remember my husband urging me forward before the ride as I hesitated. He reminded me that I will become too old to do these things that I love. It is one reason I continue to ride centuries regularly, because when I stop it will most likely be for good. So, the question remains, am I too old for PBP and brevets?<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">All this is, at this point, is a pipe dream, or a wish, without a real plan. Reality comes with plans. And there would not be the forgiveness that past planning had. My first PBP I rode out too hard but was able to recover with a few hours of sleep. That would probably not be the case again. If I ride out too hard, I will be done. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> Will my desire remain? Will my current abilities remain that long? I have noticed that age brings with it one aspect of childhood, changes happen rapidly. Firsts begin to be more frequent, but rather than it being the first time one does something, it changes to the first time one can't quite do something. Travel and planning the travel is stressful for me, not something that I really enjoy. I near home and think that if I do decide to try this crazy thing again, in my mind I will dedicate the ride to all those I have lost. For while I have eluded grief for a bit on this ride, I know it will return. Could I, should I, dream of PBP? Perhaps I should, but also realize that it is, without a definite plan, still a dream. And that is okay too. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-18002390634225187582023-08-20T15:00:00.003-07:002023-08-20T15:00:49.212-07:00Dead and Broken<div><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1swvt13 xjkvuk6" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id=":r96:"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b"><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>On the Loss of Victor R. Smith:</b></div></div></span></div><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">And so it is, with the loss of my last brother, Victor Smith, two days ago, I become an only child that once had four siblings. I suppose, being an orphan as well, with both parents deceased, this does not count. I certainly did not expect his loss, or at least not this soon, and I struggle. I find this odd because of all my siblings, we probably were the least close. We didn't hate each other and weren't angry with each other, but we were <span></span>just very, very different sharing little in the way of interests though he did begin riding a bicycle a bit a few years back. Our lives went such different directions.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">But for there to be no one left. No one left who remembers the sound of my mother singing as she did her household chores. No one left who remembers the stories she told us or the feel of her hands when you got sunburned and she applied a cooling ointment. No one left who remembers my father fixing things and his gentle rumblings around the house as he prepared to go to work at the hospital for doctors back then did rounds in the morning.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">There is nobody left to remember the old family stories like the one about Chris getting out of the car and the gas station during vacation and our parents driving off and leaving him as they thought he was asleep in the back of the car. There is nobody left to remember the time I picked Victor for my Birthday King knowing I had hurt his feelings as I first was going to pick Tim Slater, his friend, who I thought was incredibly handsome. There is nobody left to remember the story about Marc deciding to camp up the road in a neighbor's yard that we didn't know even taking his own toilet paper. There is nobody left to remember Pam looking and buying clothing by price tag rather than by what looked the best or playing country music long before it was popular. There is nobody left to remember the time Dad dressed as Santa Claus and scared the dickens out of me. While they tended to me, the dog got on the table and ate the steak we were going to have for dinner that evening. It is, indeed, as if my childhood were severed from me, becoming more like a novel I read long ago than an experience I had that shaped and molded me and that I treasure. And I mourn. It is just too sad. I have lost so much.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Sleep well, brother. I have always loved you. You left too soon. Too young. Tell everyone hello and give them hugs. The caboose is still here waiting for her turn. Fly, Vee, fly.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- <br /></div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div><p style="text-align: left;">The funeral was yesterday and it is done. Today, in an attempt to heal, I force my leg over the Surly and go seeking gravel knowing there will be solitude there. I remember this feeling. How one becomes dead inside for the longest time, broken somehow. There is nothing anyone can do, though a few somehow manage to bypass the wall I have erected inside with a few words of comfort: a text from Paul, a card from Sharon, an email from Jon, a hug from Tiffany. In the end, we are helpless in the face of death. My sympathy goes to my brother's wife because how well I remember how people, as they should, begin to go about their lives and reality hits like a sledgehammer. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I know it is beautiful here despite the growing heat. It has been a cooler week and there has been rain enough that water lines the road in places. The gravel has been recently raked and is rough, shaking me to my very bones, but I do not yield quickly to the temptation of pavement. It is enough to feel......something, even discomfort. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br />The Ironweed is beginning to bloom. It seems early. I think that I will remember my brother from now on when I see Ironweed. Bumblebees are working it and I notice the Sumac is near bloom. Fall approaches when it seems summer has just begun. I pause for a moment to eat the peanut butter sandwich I have brought along as I expect no store stops on this ride. I spot road treasure. A large Yeti Jug that someone evidently lost. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Taking my bandana out of my pant leg (I keep it there as I can easily reach it to wipe sweat) I tie it to the rack on the back of the Surly. After some internal debate, as it is hot and I am sweating, I also remove the bandana around my forehead and use it as an anchor as well. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I decide to abandon my ride and return home. For today it is enough that I made myself head out the door. Time will heal. Bicycles will help. My heart will once more soak in the beauty God puts before me and send it directly to my heart. But for now, I am broken and dead inside. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-13484030925055029722023-07-15T07:09:00.001-07:002023-07-15T07:09:34.778-07:00Solitude and Rest <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"Solitude is a breeding ground </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>for idiosyncrasy, and I relish that</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>about it, the way it liberates</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>whim."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Caroline Knapp</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I belong to two bicycle clubs, and both have rides that interest me today, but a part of me urges me to decline both and do a gentle, easy, meandering type ride with no demands upon pace or conversation. To soak in the summer that is relentlessly passing. To go at my own pace with no thought to others. For these are the types of rides that often renew my love of cycling. The decision is easy when Mike posts a difficult ride. The other ride, a lunch ride to Stream Cliff, is not so easy to decline, but I need some alone time.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Years have taught me that I need to listen not only to my body, but my mind. The body will tell you it is tired and needs to stop before it actually does, and there are times to push that limit, but the mind has needs too. Recovery, both physical and mental, is important. There is only so far one can push while still benefiting. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">It does not take long for me to realize I made the right decision. With a century Saturday, a 55 miler Tuesday with lots of climbing, and a fast paced 50 mile ride on Wednesday, not only my body but my mind is ready for a break. Particularly with a difficult century scheduled for Sunday. Eden/Delaney Park road beckons and I follow the call knowing that I will get peace and solitude there. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I love the way the trees canopy the road, letting only patches of sunshine through to jigsaw the road. And I know this road well enough to know that the shade does not hide anything dangerous. The road is not flat, but every climb and descent is a gentle one, at least until one nears Salem. That will be the big decision of the day. Whether to climb or turn around. Sweet clover lines the roads that are not busy enough for the county mowing machines to decimate, and I think of how I would have told Lloyd about them after a ride because bees love the wild sweet clover. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">While there is payback for the climb in the form of a two mile descent later in the ride, when I get there and start to climb I change my mind and turn around. This is a fasted ride and I will still get in about 45 miles before returning home. My belly starts to remind me that it is hungry, and a candy bar and drink with Amos is not a good way to end a fast. Also there is lots of climbing to be done on Sunday's century.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I think of my brother, who passed about a year ago, and wonder if anyone else things of him or misses him. I think of others that have passed. And I realize that I owe it to them to live well, or as best I can, for they did not get a chance to do so. So many. Lynn recently pointed out that I had more loss then anyone should have in such a short period of time and he is right. Since 2014 my husband, two brothers, a sister, a mother, a best friend, a nephew. Sometimes it is hard to remain upright and not feel sorry for myself, and once again I am thankful for friends and bicycles. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Today was not a friend day. Today I needed time alone, to think, to pray, to miss those that have passed. Perhaps, without realizing it, I owed my brother this day, because how sad it would be not to be missed and remembered. Yet again I realize how our choices in life, how we treat others, how we view the world, impacts us and others around us. Once again I realize that I have been blessed. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-28595446572161607992023-07-13T03:39:00.002-07:002023-07-13T03:41:15.539-07:00The Adjective Century<p style="text-align: center;">"Rain is grace; rain</p><p style="text-align: center;">is the sky descending to the</p><p style="text-align: center;">earth; without rain, there</p><p style="text-align: center;">would be no life."</p><p style="text-align: center;">John Updike</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I check a few times to see if the century is canceled due to the prediction for rain and possible storms, but it is not. So I pack my things, double checking for rain gear, a rain cap and a waterproof phone case. Then I head out. I decide not to pack my rain jacket as the rain is not supposed to arrive until the afternoon and it should be hot by them. I do pack a small, disposable poncho, something I try to carry during the summer when storms can pop up suddenly and without warning. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Too well I remember a hot summer ride where the rain caught us on what was a sweltering day reducing us to a mob of shivering, miserable cyclists....at least until we bought and adorned ourselves in white, plastic garbage bags, tearing a hole for head and arms: the time I joked about riding with white trash. I think it was the first time, at least that I remember, where I was so cold my body shuddered in strong, involuntary contractions in an attempt to warm itself. To this day, I wonder why they make some trash bags white. Seems rather an odd choice of colors for the task. Like the time I wore a white dress on a first date and we went for barbecue ribs which I promptly spilled onto my lap. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I like most of this century; however, I greatly dislike the unnecessary section on River Road. River Road is a dangerous road with impatient motorists and no shoulder for a cyclist to move over. But it is what it is and there is only three to four miles on it. Still, considering it and the coming rain, I decide to ask the ride captain if I am able to start the ride early. Sam says yes and so off I go leaving the others in the parking lot. Steve Rice, Mark R., Dave King, and Steve Meredith catch me a bit down the road having left early as well. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">As I ride through neighborhoods, a solitary woman on a bike, I think how nice it is to leave early, before traffic has become too thick. It is so peaceful. I like riding in the morning while much of the world is sleeping or gathered around the table eating breakfast. The neighborhoods are wrapped in quietness other than bird song and the occasional dog disturbed by my unexpected passage or an unidentified rustling in the bushes. Everything is lush and vibrant nurtured by the moistness and rain that has haunted this area recently and seems to show no sign of abating. "One of those summers," I think. I am glad it was not my decision to have or to cancel the ride today with summer being so unpredictable. Summer flowers adorn green lawns in bright colors. Even humid, hot, rainy summers have their benefits I suppose. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Despite the coolness of morning, it is obviously humid. Even with the flatness of the first part of the course, my skin begins to glow. If only the moisture would sink in and revitalize my skin, I think. I have never considered myself to be particularly vain, maybe because I know that while I am not ugly, I am not a beauty, but I dislike the coming of crepey skin. Of course, cycling is hard on the skin. And I have done a lot of cycling. A song reaches my lips despite those thoughts and I find my rhythm, the one I know that I can maintain for a hundred miles barring something unforeseen. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Before they catch me, I think about where on the course I will probably be when the rain hits. I speed my pedal stroke thinking to minimize my chances of getting a good soaking. I really don't mind rain, though, in the summer. I only truly mind the storms or torrential downpours that impact visibility and my ability to see and my ability to brake if needed or the downpours that leave you shivering cold to the point where even pedaling can't warm you. Indeed, as I told a friend who rode yesterday rather than today because of the rain, better a rain ride and some coolness than that blasted heat that saps my strength so quickly and so thoroughly. He does not agree. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I hurry through the first store stop after eating my homemade blueberry oatmeal bar and Annette Melecio, a triathlete, John Pelligrino, and Dave King come with me. They ask about Steve and Mark, but I really didn't notice if they had already left the store stop. Dave says he is in training for PBP and getting in and out of controls or stops rapidly. (He will forget this by the third store stop where Annette, John, and I roll out without him while he finishes a milk shake). Dave's relationship with food always amazes and charms me. Dave and Steve are both headed back to PBP this year and I feel a momentary tinge of regret for not being part of it, but I just don't want to be that tired again. Twice, I think, is enough.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The first climb is Liberty Knob and I warn them about the dogs at the top. There is a group of three or four of them that always come out. I have talked to the owner about them and others have talked with the owner about them, but he is unwilling and/or unable to control them. They have never bitten a cyclist that I know of, but they can be quite scary. There are times when I change my route to avoid them. I am wary of groups of dogs like I am groups of people: both do things in groups that they would never do individually. Today, however, they are not as bad as usual. Perhaps, I think, because the stronger riders have already passed this way and wore them out. Even dogs seems to grow lazy in this humid heat. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The second climb is William's Knob, better known to me as Bill's Knob as it is on my Marengo Mangler ride and I would tease my friend, Bill, about it. Teasing. I think that perhaps it is a sign of a good relationship so long it is not hurtful. The climb is not quite as long as Liberty, but a bit steeper. Since my left knee has been bothering me a bit the past few rides, I decide to drop into my triple, something I don't normally do on this climb. It is newly paved which makes climbing it easier. I tell the group Sam said there is now a dog residing at the top, and there is; however, he never leaves his yard. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">And now is the time to look forward to the descent on Daisy Hill, the one that always amuses me as a cyclist will almost inevitably being going MUCH faster than the speed limit when the hill ends. I always envision a law enforcement officer with his radar gun pulling over cyclist after cyclist. This is the hill that last year, people worried that Tom Askew had gone down on as he did not show for the lunch stop. (He just missed the stop as it is not right on the course and rode onward). After the descent, we go to Subway but there is a long line of the faster riders waiting to be served so we head a few streets over to a local cafe for lunch. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">It turns out we arrive prior to lunch. They tell us food will be quick, and it is. In the end, however, it does not matter as while we are eating the skies open up, thunder cracks, lightening flares, and rain comes down in a torrent. We wait until the worst of it passes and head out into a drizzle. Dave has a rain jacket, I have a cheap emergency poncho that I usually carry on the bike, and Annette and John (with some help from Annette) adorn trash bags donated by the restaurant. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I worry that we will overheat on the climb that comes almost immediately after the lunch stop, but needlessly. The air has chilled and I am glad to have my poncho. It is not too long after, however, that I decide I am starting to sweat inside and stop to take off so as not to dehydrate. It also reduces the enormous drag that being inside a plastic bubble has on forward movement. And we are moving. Each of us seems intent on a fast (for me) pace. It is cold starting out, but soon the work of the ride warms me. Annette and John have followed suit removing their trash bags. We save our plastic just in case, but we never need it. The rain has cooled things down making the ride much more pleasant.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We roll into the third store stop thinking the fast group is in front, but they pull in as we (well, all except Dave) are finishing a quick bite and drink. I worry about Chris Embry not being in the fast group, but I know he had a rather serious fall. What I did not know....what he did not know until later....is that he is riding with broken ribs. (Been there, done that). In the end, we will end up finishing with this group, but only because they waited at lunch until the rain stopped whereas we did not. The hills are getting to our legs. Though there are no significant climbs after the climb to Rake Road right after lunch, there are lots of rollers. And we have been pushing. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The end is a whirl. I end up finishing with Thomas Nance's group only because they have to stop at a stop light, but as I look around at that light I realize that I probably have children as old or older than some of the riders. For a 67 year old woman, I suppose I did okay. The rain actually helped by keeping the temperature down. I just suffer anymore when it is really hot, and my pace shows it. I vow not to ride so hard the next century, but who knows. What a blessing to have the health to ride, slowly or quickly, and ride for a hundred miles. Is there any better way to spend the day? And thank goodness for the rain that not only cooled us for the effort, but will lend her beauty to future rides by keeping everything so verdant. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-69304065003027772092023-07-09T08:32:00.002-07:002023-07-09T08:32:22.688-07:00A Hot One<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"I am cruel thirsty</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>this hot weather.....</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Nothing makes me so </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>excessively peevish as </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>hot weather."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Jonathan Swift </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The strange weather this year continues. Suddenly it is July and it is hot. The bouts of colder weather have not allowed my body to adapt, and I suffer. This is particularly so because of the high dew point from all the rain and storm activity here recently. Or in other words, it is humid. It is the kind of humid that often, particularly during climbs when speed is lower, ones skin glows from sweat that the body has produced to try to cool you but that doesn't because it cannot evaporate. It's the kind of ride that makes one dream of large, ice filled glasses of water and cool showers and air conditioning. It's the kind of ride where your throat feels parched no matter how much you drink and the water, warmed by the weather, is as warm as drinking your own urine would be. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">But we are riding to lunch at Stream Cliff and it is only a bit over fifty miles one way. So there will be a break in the middle. But the initial climb out of Madison is a tough one and a long one. My legs still are weak from yesterday's hot century. And I suffer a bit before we reach the top. I just don't recover as quickly as I used to, and it shows. I always lag behind Jon on climbs regardless, but today is worse than usual. At least there is another rider, Ken, closer to my own speed so I don't feel like such a drag. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Lunch is, as always, delicious and not overly crowded. I have become very fond of their blueberry salad. It is nice to talk and relax and drink cold water before climbing on our bikes for the return trip. How nice it would be, I think, to just take a nap now that my stomach is full and my need for conversation briefly sated. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">The return trip, though not as hilly, is even hotter. By the time we reach Madison, I am more than ready to get off my bike, the bike that , yet again, is NOT allowing me to shift into the big ring. It happens so often any more. Jon is kind and adjusts the limit screw. I toy with the idea of suggesting a drink before heading home, but I am weary and don't. Glad I rode, but the heat is making me tired and peevish, so home I go to luxuriate in a shower and as much ice cold water to drink as I can hold. Tomorrow is, after all, another day. And I am blessed to have a home to go to. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-49387836537087456212023-06-28T08:01:00.005-07:002023-06-28T12:38:05.424-07:00The Overnight to Gasth0f Amish Village<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"He feels that there must be something</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>wrong when anything worth while can</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>be obtained without a struggle. Fighting his</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>way to triumph, overcoming obstacles, gives this </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>man pleasure. Difficulties are a tonic to him.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>He likes to do hard things because it tests</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>his strength."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Orson Swett Marden </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I decide that I want to put on my overnight to Gusthauf Amish Village in Montgomery, Indiana though it is not a popular ride. Despite my fight against it, age is relentless sapping my strength, greedily grabbing more with each passing year. The best way that I know to battle this inevitable loss, to stick my tongue out at it and to slow it down is to assiduously push my limits as best I can. And it is fulfilling to test limits, particularly if they have not receded as far as one thought they might. But this push needs to be balanced against being overly zealous and getting injured or destroying the love I have for cycling and movement. Riding a bike should be a pleasure, not an encumbrance. And it is somewhat limited by the responsibilities that each of us must shoulder. In my case, largely the cats: a mixed blessing and curse. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I believe, when I first schedule it, that this will be my good-bye visit to this route. It is a difficult route with quite a bit of climbing and some gravel, though not so much as when I first went exploring. Each year it seems more paving has been done. Back to back centuries are always tough, and this is no exception. I always wonder if I will be able to complete it again or will have to call in the rescue wagon. I want to test my strength, to revel in what is left of it and to judge the rate it is receding. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> But as I get takers for the ride, something I rather did not expect, I see the gravel disappear to meet their desires rather than my own and I realize that while it is a good-bye, it is most likely a goodby to having company for the route. I need a good-bye that includes the gravel and the little bits of scenery that shake me to my core sometimes even causing me just to stop for a moment in wonder and delight or to tear up with reverence and admiration for this world that God has bestowed upon us. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Without a soul mate, I think, to leave this course behind, I need the ride to be completely solo the way the ride was originally done though perhaps without the surprises that new routes often have, something that has always delighted me even while, at time, it worried me and caused consternation. I need to feel the route and yield to any urge I might have to loiter or to deviate and explore or to take a photograph or rest in the shade for a moment or just think to myself, "I need to remember this. I need to remember this minute and how I feel. I need to be grateful." </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Lloyd would have somehow understood I think. Or perhaps I phrase that incorrectly. He may not have understood, but he would have understood that it was important to me. And what was important to me somehow became important to him as well. How I miss being homed in his arms. How I wish he could have shared more adventures. Recently I assured someone I have moved on, but does one ever truly move on? Or do we just pretend because we can't change it?<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled at the company and fine with the changes in exchange for the experience of sharing the road and my route with fellow travelers and lovers of distance cycling, at least this time. But I have good-byes to make. Perhaps, however, they are further in the distance than I anticipate. Perhaps I will even do the trip again sometime with companions. For while the course is difficult, particularly with my knobby tires and loaded bike, I never have any doubt of being able to finish and I manage to climb and not walk any of the hills. Yes, I am tempted a few times, but I don't, mostly to prove to myself that I don't need to because there is, of course, no shame in walking at times. Indeed, it can be the smart thing to do, the thing that allows success rather than failure. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">It turns out there are four of us that head out: Jon Wineland, Steve Meredith, and Glen Smith. I have known Jon and Steve for awhile. Both are strong and capable riders with a history of doing distance rides. I do not really know Glen though I know he is a strong rider. He has never done back to back centuries if I understand him correctly. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Without the gravel, I am at a distinct disadvantage with my bike and the knobby tires and would, I believe, be able to ride faster on a road bike, loaded or not. And my bike IS heavy. I don't weight it, but I struggle to pick it up near the rear. The others are all on road bikes. The others are younger. The others are male and stronger. But I am okay with that. And weather permitting, I may veer off the beaten path for some gravel. For me, it is not about the speed. The only time the speed bothers me is knowing that my slowness bothers others. Other than beating the storm the second day, on this trip I have no need to hurry. I don't want to hurry. I want to soak in the surroundings on what I believe to be one of the most scenic routes offered by the bike club. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Originally I thought I might veer off at least to Brooks Bridge, one of my favorite gravel stretches. But it is not to be. The others offer to wait for me and urge me to go, but it is on the return leg and the weather is too questionable. There are others to think of and to plan for and the storms are due in Scott County around four. Being a ride captain does tend to make one feel rather responsible. I would feel terrible if we were needless caught in a dangerous storm and someone was injured. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The weather on the return leg is a huge issue for this ride as the forecast changes almost hourly as the dates approach. A decision has to be made that would allow people to cancel room reservations without a penalty. And the second day can't be easily canceled as it is far from home and nobody has a car. I waiver back and forth, but decide to roll the dice when the probably is forty to fifty percent. I do have two drivers as back ups that would come to the rescue if absolutely necessary, but it would have to be dire straits for me to impose on their good will. And, depending upon where we were when it hit, they would be useless, for much of this route is on lightly traveled country roads. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Briefly I think of the kindness of Raney Self when I first designed and rode this route by myself shortly after my husband passed. She, as well as my friend, Diana, offered to come if I had any issues. Knowing they had my back made being brave a bit easier. Diana again steps forward as does my daughter. It warms my heart on the Tuesday after the ride when Paul Battle says he almost called me on Sunday to see if I needed a ride home. Friendship is such a blessing. The kindness of others always undoes me. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The ride almost ends as it just begins for me as a few miles out from the start, a huge dog chases Jon slamming into my front wheel. Instinct makes me clip out on the right side and lean using my foot as a brace. Somehow, I manage to remain upright despite the impact. Only later do I think how lucky I am that my bones were able to stand the impact of the bracing as my foot hits the pavement. We ride on but I decide that after our journey is over, I will return and leave a note for the dog owners just in case they decide to be responsible in the future. That is the frustrating thing with dog encounters. The fault lies in the owner. The dog is pretty much doing what comes naturally. But this makes it no less dangerous for the bicycle rider. I hope that I did not hurt the dog by slamming into him. Afterward he seemed okay as he raced back to his yard. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The first day goes by quickly. Medora is the first store stop and up until that time, the route is flat. Garmin will later show that day one has 107.7 miles of climbing and almost 5,900 feet of elevation that day. (Thanks, Steve M. for posting that data). After we pass Leesville, store sadly still closed, I laugh when, after warning people of a climb ahead, Steve tells me that he reads 18 percent grade at one point but that Garmin does not count it as a climb. I think the rest of us, all except Jon, seem to feel it is a pretty demanding climb. It will be the same with the heat this first day. Everyone is feeling it other than Jon who does not think it is that hot. How different each of us is. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The lunch stop for the ride is at Mitchell. Here Jon and I get our wires crossed. I think he is taking us to the small cafe in town and he thinks the cafe is elsewhere. As he did a modified version of the route to avoid the gravel, and that is what everyone is following, we miss the cafe. We end up eating at Kentucky Fried Chicken because it is close and available. The gas station literally had nothing worthy of lunch and smelled of cigarette smoke. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">After lunch, the heat begins and we have a number of miles before Shoals and the next store. Steve runs out of water and starts having cramping. I share with him, then we both run out. I normally don't need huge amounts of water and speculate that it is the salt from our lunch stop. Very rarely do I eat high salt foods. Whatever the reason, while I don't cramp, I am very thirsty. Jon shares with us, but we are out with about 8 hot miles left to go when Steve finds a church with a spigot. The first church we approach has a spigot, but it does not function. The second one, however, pours out cool, lovely, water. And we rejoice. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">The only issue is that Glen did not see us stop and has been dependent upon Jon for directions as he does not use a GPS and does not really seem to use a cue sheet, so he sails past our next turn, probably because, while RWGPS says it is paved, it is not. I have cell coverage so I call him and, luckily, he answers. Jon waits for him, and they later catch up just at the time when we make the turn to the store stop which is a bit off the course. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Despite the heat and the climbs, the scenery is spectacular. Just outside Mitchell, we come upon the largest field of Black Eyed Susan's I think I have ever seen. It is laced with Queen Ann's Lace and some small white flower whose name escapes me. Despite not feeling as if I can truly stop and loiter, I do take a photo. In other places orange and red day lilies, some call them Tiger Lilies, line the roads, their faces turning to the sun. The occasional daisy remains though their time is about over and they look a bit spent. Trees grow right up to the edge of the road in some places and in other places there are long vistas. Everything is green and fresh and I am so thankful to be alive and on a bicycle. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77PABP9SEnlp3WgQdW7YcONOuUuN60CpFry87T7RkwVEj3CSulNk_yiLMG5Ur84xPxmwAZOa_KNC0-picMAsQXgQbObQF0Wg08kXa6smXzTuGC_h6ELN_gQERM_BmzAHH25Qz7fSdpSPFaqdQYaoAaOJo2J0FSVyKXyIBZ0I4Ic7HIuLoylsdUfZDWDwm/s4080/PXL_20230624_165240694.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77PABP9SEnlp3WgQdW7YcONOuUuN60CpFry87T7RkwVEj3CSulNk_yiLMG5Ur84xPxmwAZOa_KNC0-picMAsQXgQbObQF0Wg08kXa6smXzTuGC_h6ELN_gQERM_BmzAHH25Qz7fSdpSPFaqdQYaoAaOJo2J0FSVyKXyIBZ0I4Ic7HIuLoylsdUfZDWDwm/s320/PXL_20230624_165240694.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>When we reach Shoals, I see a rider that is not with us. I then notice his jersey and ask him if he is Bill Watts, the RUSA coordinator for Indiana. He says that he is and is on a brevet. I think of asking if Matt is riding, but I am not sure if that is kosher so I don't. Later I found that he did, indeed, ride completing the 600 K in preparation for PBP. We chat only briefly and then head out. All of us are tired, heat, distance, and climbing have sapped our strength, and ready for the hotel. Steve mentions about being too tired to eat, but I caution him he will do better eating before going to sleep so his body has time to store the fuel he will give it. </p><p> </p><p>Leaving Shoals, we avoid the gravel hill that I have never been successful in climbing. Not only is it steep, but the rock is just too thick and lacks the tire tracks necessary. My wheels inevitably slip and my front tire lifts off the ground when I try to stand. In the past I have balanced the possibility of injury in the midst of nowhere against the victory of completing the climb, and safety has won. Today's route is a bit hillier and longer, but it is a lovely variation and eventually intersects with a route Steve has put together in the past. We do hit a bit of gravel not far from the hotel and, unfortunately, Glen goes down. He is not hurt, however, and we are all glad to see the hotel looming in the distance, a safe haven for the night before heading back out. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>We all go to dinner together at the Amish restaurant. The food here is always good. There is fried chicken, ribs, pulled pork, fish, and on and on. And there is fresh, home made bread. The only change from when I first came by myself is that there is no longer pie at the dessert table. We ask the waitress about it and it is something that changed with COVID. You can still get pie, but it is extra and not included in the buffet price.</p><p> </p><p>At dinner, we talk about when to leave. Since I am normally up at five (without an alarm), I tell them I will check and call or text the time we will leave. Jon wants to leave at eight. The others want to leave at first light. Glen and Steve opt to go to bed. Jon and I continue our tradition of having a few glasses of wine outside in one of the hotel gazebos as darkness gathers. A tiger kitten joins us, obviously not neutered, and spends his time begging for attention until we return to the hotel and our rooms. While I worry I won't sleep, I do and rather quickly, the strains of the day taking their toll. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>When I arise, early as usual, after looking at the radar and reading predictions, I text and tell the group that we are eating and leaving. The others meet me in the dining room, but Jon has not responded. I then call Jon to no avail and finally knock on his door. Again, no response. I determine it is too dangerous to wait to leave and am just getting ready to ask Steve and Glen to go ahead and leave while I wait when Jon texts. </p><p> </p><p>Dawn is just barely breaking when we head out and I ask if everyone will turn on their blinky lights. Everyone but Glen has brought one and does as I suggest. As we leave, dawn breaking as much as it can with cloudy, gray skies and the occasional rumble of thunder, I think how much I miss riding out in the early morning during overnight bike trips. There is just something special about it, being out here while most people are still sleeping. </p><p>We do get rained upon. Mostly it is a light drizzle, quite pleasant, but there are a few spurts of harder rain. It never, however, is hard enough to impact vision and we keep moving. The world seems so fresh and clean. It brings back to me how enjoyable it can be riding in a light rain when it is warm outside and the world is so very verdant. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Because of the weather, I decide to cut 8 miles off the course to shorten our journey and increase our likelihood of getting in prior to the bad weather that is predicted. The loop I cut off is at Shoals. While we sit and talk about it, we eat the home made bread and apple butter we brought with us from breakfast. As always, it tastes like manna from heaven. I think briefly of my first solo ride here, and how I stopped and just sat in the road and ate the traffic was so light. My stop at the store that day was only for sunscreen, something I had forgotten that year. Someone points out a man in front of the store in a truck totally passed out. As I walk by, I actually wonder if he is dead. But he awakens and drives off only to drive back and park yet again. The group consensus is that it was a late night with too much alcohol, but who knows. <br /></p><p> </p><p>While I ponder the best way to rejoin the route while cutting off the eight miles, Steve says he knows a route that will will get us to the lunch stop. Though it has about five miles of main road, I decide that in light of the weather this is the wisest choice. Also, it is still early and the road is not likely to be too busy. Interesting, as Jon will later point out, three of us contributed to the ride. And Steve's route is indeed lovely and intersects with my traditional route further up the road. </p><p><br />It is not too long after we turn off the main road, that I spy a trailer hitch someone has lost along the road. I pick it up as Jon mentioned only last night that a racoon had carried his off. I am amazed at how heavy it is and give it to Jon to carry when we get to where he is waiting. Glen teases and says to find a few more to slow Jon down. Steve tells Jon of all the tools he has found in this area that have bounced out of trucks. At one point, I do insist on a group photo though, not being much into selfies, it does not include me. Then Steve takes one that includes me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqUF5cmWsLmwjLuK98ufaD2sVM5kAkha1iSINShFiJkC5eywPVzbHOTUpnZ99B5BaxaN4xxHJ1MvwVtaWdscHhDQX8JveT67RQ2xZHMlddzG5YjfwGSroQKNpZZeLbwjCSyP8jTcBjDc6cD-x1IYzwKkkut8FZcfIBVH00A0oCv1zo_sC_kynNFFcRbNm/s4080/PXL_20230625_134454829.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqUF5cmWsLmwjLuK98ufaD2sVM5kAkha1iSINShFiJkC5eywPVzbHOTUpnZ99B5BaxaN4xxHJ1MvwVtaWdscHhDQX8JveT67RQ2xZHMlddzG5YjfwGSroQKNpZZeLbwjCSyP8jTcBjDc6cD-x1IYzwKkkut8FZcfIBVH00A0oCv1zo_sC_kynNFFcRbNm/s320/PXL_20230625_134454829.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqcK5_yq_xC6R2ROHhwnOlVD1ofZqN05TG_RPhmZ6c5a3cvP5scZ8Waf_aJSf1PiVzloDNFC6_wpxgpwT38VB7WNv5RRnW456Nz_PxR0tDIGAKtxwVvX6jz0v8rEKwlor_wlgHq9Hfl3d8jhvImLIMACqP_jrq5iOTESBYVRlvV3CmdW1gMYs0-iOZUi9/s1768/image.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1404" data-original-width="1768" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqcK5_yq_xC6R2ROHhwnOlVD1ofZqN05TG_RPhmZ6c5a3cvP5scZ8Waf_aJSf1PiVzloDNFC6_wpxgpwT38VB7WNv5RRnW456Nz_PxR0tDIGAKtxwVvX6jz0v8rEKwlor_wlgHq9Hfl3d8jhvImLIMACqP_jrq5iOTESBYVRlvV3CmdW1gMYs0-iOZUi9/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>We reach Orleans a bit earlier than I originally planned on due to the route changes and the Pizza place is not yet open so we eat at the cafe. As always on such journeys, there are people who are curious about where you are riding and how far. One man even pulls up a chair and sits with us for a bit, a cyclist who wants to tell us he has done the RAIN ride. Steve is training not only for RAIN, but he is riding to and from the start from home. Steve does not mention this nor the fact that he has done the ride before as the man tells us about the course. Or that he has completed a 600K in Kentucky where brevets are known to be difficult. The fellow cyclist is surprised we are not riding the state highways home, but I tell him I try to avoid those roads and stick to the back roads. I, in turn, am surprised that he would think we would return home on those roads rather than less traveled country roads. <br /></p><p> </p><p>As we approach Salem, a road that I did not believe was gravel becomes gravel. Jon and Glen are ahead. After a mile of gravel, Steve and I see a dog ahead that appears to be aggressive: a BIG dog. I text Jon and Glen telling them to meet us at the store and we detour around us. Even as we do so, the dog is bounding across the field coming toward us. Jon later says that there were two dogs, both aggressive, and that the owners were very nonchalant about their aggressiveness. He said they went for him but Glen said they did not bother him. As for me, I have had enough of dogs this trip though actually, as I think about it, there were relatively few we ran into considering all the miles we traveled. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Salem is the last store stop and Jon and Glen are there when we arrive. It is busy getting to the store as the state road is closed for repaving throwing all the cars onto side roads. At the store, Glen finds that his electronic shifters have quit functioning. He is not in the hardest gear, but I worry knowing the hills that lie between us and the end. Yes, he is very strong, but he has a lot of miles and a lot of climbs in his legs. Per Steve, day 2 will end with about 98 miles and 5,500 feet of climbing. Less than originally planned, but still significant. I look at the radar and think we are safe from the strong storms predicted, but try to get everyone moving. Lunch was a longer stop than anticipated. Jon comments that storms can just spring up, and he turns out to be right.</p><p><br /></p><p>As the hills between Salem and Scottsburg pound our legs, the skies begin to visibly darken. The wind, however, shifts from a crosswind to a tail wind which helps. It now becomes a race to get in before the storms. Jon and Glen are no longer waiting at turns. Steve and I both pick up our paces. I am, however, stopped by an overwhelming need to go to the bathroom so I send Steve onward. I never quite catch him though I can see him in the distance, and we reach the end. Nobody wants to linger. All of us want a shower, food, and a bed. I do text to see if everyone got home alright. Steve answers that he is home but has no power. Since he is on well water, this means no shower. But he is safe. Jon finally texts that he is home and all is well. I never hear from Glen but assume he made it to his home okay. </p><p><br /></p><p>This ride was a satisfying ride and I am glad that I put it on the calendar. I am glad that people came and my hope is that they, too, found some satisfaction in its completion and enjoyed the journey as well. It was not one of those special rides, the kind you think about repeatedly for long periods of time afterward or pull out of your memory from time to time to make yourself smile. But it was a ride that I am glad that I completed. I proved to myself that I could despite the fact that I knew it would not be easy and that it would test my strength, both physical and mental. For as any distance cyclist knows, part of turning the pedals over and over is mental. Maybe even as much mental as physical. </p><p><br /></p><p>Will I go back? I hope to. It is too easy to allow one's limits to shrink without really testing them to see where they currently are, whether they have shrunk or expanded, and then determine whether anything can be done if they have been reduced. I do not delude myself that I will be able to do this ride until my time here on earth is done, at least unless I suffer an accident that ends me. But I hope to maintain as long as I can. It is just so damned beautiful out on the road. And I am blessed to be there. <br /></p><p></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-66919970677800094632023-06-08T14:45:00.183-07:002023-06-21T04:33:11.995-07:00Old Gilgal<div style="text-align: center;"> "There are very few monsters</div><div style="text-align: center;">that merit the fear we have of them."</div><div style="text-align: center;">Andre Gide</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I would not be honest if I did not say I rather fear this century because of the climbing. I have ridden centuries in the past with more climbing, but not for awhile. Okay, last summer, but that is still awhile. Plus I am not as willing to hurt as I once was. Recovery from a hard effort takes longer. And I am carrying a bit of winter weight that stubbornly has refused to recede this summer, mostly due to diet and just not moving as much. Regardless of the reason, extra weight means more to lug up a climb, more demands on muscles and sinews and lungs. Rather strangely, however, I also look forward to the ride and the challenge if that makes any sense. Recently as I look and see everyone's goals, I feel rather aimless having none of my own. Should, I question myself, be training for something?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't expect many at the ride. While I did not ride it the last (only) time it was offered (I can't remember why), I heard attendance was extremely small. To my surprise, lots of people show up. Indeed, I suspect it has the largest or nearly the largest attendance of any tour stage this year thus far. Over twenty. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I enjoy the chatter and seeing both faces I am familiar with and those I am not so familiar with, but I am overjoyed when another female, Dee Shroer, shows. Prior to her showing, I think that I might not only be among the very oldest of the group, but the only female. Being the only female is not really unusual on distance rides, but at times is trying, particularly since it has become more difficult to keep up. I ask Fritz Kopatz, the ride captain if he would like for me to leave early suspecting I will be at or near the back and knowing how strong a rider he has become, but he says no so long as I am not riding ten miles per hour. So I wait. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We take off only to be stopped by a train. It seems to take forever to pass and brings back memories of being almost done with a longer Kentucky brevet only to find a stopped train blocking the return. Grasshopper was riding with me that year. I don't remember for certain, but is seems there were one or two others. Perhaps Claudia? Was this the time she told me I was older than her mother but her mother could not climb Oregon Road? ;-) Darkness surrounded us, blinding us in what was an already unfamiliar place. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Cars backed up for quite some distance and the rumor began to circulate that the train was broken and would not be moving. After waiting a half hour and seeing no sign of movement or railroad employees, we found a work around. I remember being very tired, and the disappointment at the delay in being able to finish causing me to tear up. To this day, had I been alone, I swear I would have thrust my bike through and climbed under that damned train. I was that tired and needy for the end. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I digress. Today's train is moving, and moving rapidly. It is just long and takes what seems to be an eternity to clear the crossing. There is, of course, no caboose, something that rather saddens me. Everything changes. After about five or ten minutes of waiting, we are off. The group does not seem to split into smaller groups nearly as quickly as usual, and the line begins to accordion. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I become worried about possibly tapping tires and make a break away confused by the faster riders showing restraint, particularly this early in the ride. Tom H. comes with me and we ride together for a bit before the behind group catches us, but by then the fast group has had their appetite for speed whetted and they take off leaving smaller, slower groups in their wake. I like the smaller groups as I feel they are safer. As I recently told a friend, I really enjoy being able to sleep on my side again and know that a fall could take that away as it has done in the past and thus I am cautious of crowds and people whose riding I don't know well. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The pace is now quicker than I expect to be riding with the climbing that I know is ahead, but I seem to be caught up in the day. It is cool, not the norm for this time of year. And everything is green. Later I will think that my only regret for this day is that I can't seem to ride in a group or even with another person and appreciate the scenery as much as when I ride solo. And what scenery it is. Greenness has taken over the land despite the drought and the orange day lilies, or Tiger Lilies as some call them, have bloomed. I see the first of the Black eyed Susan's. White daisies have not yet faded and Queen Anne's lace is beginning to lace the ditches and roadsides. The scenery is much nicer than that of many centuries, but of course that is partially due to the hills. I assume it is much harder to build on hills, but for whatever reason, it seems to be universal that hilly courses often tend to be synonymous with scenic courses.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The climbs come, one after another it seems, and climbs of all different kinds: some steep, some long, some short, and some a bit of both. Still, there are some flat and merely rolly roads. Personally I do better on the the long climbs that are not so steep. It is the steepness that makes my legs ache and my heart pound mercilessly against my chest. But it is all good, reminding me I am alive and here and it is summer without the normal summer heat that sweats away your strength. It amuses me to hear everyone talking about how many climbs there are because it seems to vary from GPS to GPS unit, just like the total climb of this or any other ride. In the end, how many does not matter. One has to return to where one started to get to the car. I remember a recent ride where someone assured me the last climb was behind us only to face yet another climb and how I teased him about lying to me. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It seems mere moments before we reach the first store stop. I have brought my homemade blueberry oatmeal bar, but I need to get a drink. Dave King and Chris Quirey park around the corner of the store just as I did. By the time we have finished, we see that the group has left without us and so we play chase. Despite that, and much to my surprise, we are able to catch them. Dave arrives first, then myself, and a few moments later Chris. Internally I sigh knowing this sprint to catch up, as fast and long as it was, will have a cost. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Pacing is so important in cycling or any other distance endeavor. As I once told a new rider going to PBP, go slower than you think you can to the turn around. That still leaves you hundreds of miles to pick up the pace if you are feeling spritely. Fritz tells me what I already know, that he did not know we were on the side of the building rather than in the front with the others. I giggle thinking of a time we left while someone was in the bathroom. He got so angry, sure we did it on purpose when we had not. We just didn't know he was missing. After that we would tease each other about being left behind on purpose. How often in life do we take offense thinking that something accidental is purposeful? Quite often I suspect. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The lunch stop is at a gas station. There are other options available, and we later find that the fast group went to a restaurant when they show up behind us, but the majority stop at the gas station. I pick the "hunk of pizza," ready and fast. As someone who made the same decision points out, amusement timbering his voice, it is the best cardboard he has eaten in awhile. I swear that pizza could not have been cooked today. It had to be from yesterday or the day before. Everyone still seems to be in a good humor. Jokes fly and I soak in the laughter wafting through the air. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The group spills out knowing that half of the course is done. Everyone seems to continue to be in a good humor and thus far it has not turned into a death march. Fortunately, while it has warmed up, it is still cool for this time of year. Dee and I spend much of the rest of the time riding together. It is interesting to hear about her upcoming event. She is part of a team that is swimming the English Channel. I often struggle with conversation, particularly off the bike, but she is easy to talk with and doesn't demand constant chatter. It interests me to no end, the people that ride and the goals they have. Sam and John are getting read to face a 200 mile, one day, gravel ride. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The hills begin to wear on me though I have no real issue in climbing them. It is nice not to feel tempted to get off and walk. I seem to feel that temptation more on group rides when the pace is pressed. When alone, I rarely feel it. But then when alone I am climbing at my own pace. Dee and I are riding a reasonable pace. We are not at the front, but we are not at the back either. And we just climb, our pace fairly evenly matched. Or she is going my pace. With her being quite a bit younger, I don't know. I think briefly of how earlier in the ride John F. rode up to tell me I was one of the most inspirational people he knows, and I tuck that thought in my heart to pull out when I am weary and feeling old, something that happens more frequently now. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Before you know it, however, we are at the end with smiles on our faces at our accomplishment. We did not set any course records, but we finished and with a respectable time. My visions of finishing hours after the group following a death march to the finish did not come to pass. How often I magnify the difficulty of things, and not just riding. The curse, I suppose, of having an imagination. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> After gathering for a bit while the rest come in, a small group (Tom A, Dave K, Jon W. and myself) go out to dinner together to talk about the day and other things. And once again, I am grateful for health, bicycles, and friends. Thank you, Lloyd, for buying my first bicycle. I think today you were smiling as you watched over me as you promised to do if you could. This course did not merit the fear I had of it. It was difficult but I have done much harder courses, and it was fun. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-50850068823050712132023-05-16T07:31:00.002-07:002023-05-16T07:31:57.643-07:00Getting By With A Little Help From My Friends: Story Century 2023 <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"The principles of living greatly include</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>the capacity to face trouble with courage, </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>disappointment with cheerfulness, and</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>trial with humility."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Thomas Monson</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I am captaining two centuries for the Tour de Mad Dog this year: the Story century and the Medora Century. Originally the Story Century was scheduled for Sunday, May 7th, but I canceled due to the prediction for rain and strong storms. It turned out to be a wise decision, not one of those days where you cancel and then curse yourself because the weatherperson got it wrong. The ride was rescheduled for Saturday, May 13. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Rescheduling was fine until Murphy, one of my cats, became very ill. Indeed, after a vet visit that included x-rays and blood work, and that seemed to have no resolution, I made arrangements with my daughter to be on call to come up on the thirteenth to accompany me to the vet and put him to rest as he was hiding and had quit eating for a couple of days. Yet again, it seemed, I was being called upon to play God, but I did not want him to suffer and it is so hard to tell if a cat is in pain. How my heart was being cleaved into pieces at the thought of losing yet another one I love. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Murphy was my mother's cat that we got from the shelter when she entered independent living. She was so lonely there, a place she didn't want to be, and she wanted a cat so we adopted him after another family surrendered him to the humane society. I often think how odd life is for while she was in a very nice Independent/Assisted living facility, I don't believe she ever felt at home there or was happy there. But she was courageous, there is not doubt about that. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I suppose, in the end, we all want to be in our homes. And not every place we reside in is, or ever becomes, home. But a bad case of C. Difficile that included hospitalization along with insistence by my siblings placed her there. Murphy lived with her until she also entered Hospice. Then he came to my home. And, thus, I owe him for the care he gave my family. This makes me think of a photo of a cat's tombstone first seen on Facebook. The tombstone is old and weathered, but obviously was heartfelt: 1998-1910. "He was only a cat, but he was human enough to be a great comfort in hours of loneliness and pain." I like to think he was a comfort to my mother and sister, and that I am repaying him as best I can. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I can't tell you I was overly excited about having him move in with me, and not just because it meant I had lost loved ones. I really did not want or need another cat. Had it not been for a sick husband, my intentions were not to have any pets after Kitti until I had some travel under my belt for there was no question that I was going to be a widow. But he was so lonely being sick at home while I worked that we adopted two kittens from the shelter. They were a blessing and often diverted his mind from negative thoughts. Anyway, it is what it is. Someone needed to care for Murphy and he joined my household. Of course, I grew to love him despite the difficulties in introducing him to the others that share my home. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">But enough. I can only say that I was disappointed at the thought of not being able to do the ride, but knew where my priorities were. After all, as I teased them, Murphy sleeps with me. They don't. And so arrangements were made for others to captain the ride. Steve Puckett and Chris Embry kindly agreed to lead the ride so it did not have to be canceled. Still, disappointment is not always easy to deal with, but I try to look at my blessings. And I could be on the way for a final, good-bye vet visit rather than standing here outside the store with friends and others who love bicycling. At least I will be able to ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Murphy rallied after the vet decided it was not a blockage and prescribed medication. And so, while I could not ride the entire ride as I needed to be home to give him the medication, I determined I would be able to ride to the first store stop, turn around and go home to medicate him, then ride back out and meet the riders as they returned. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">With it being Mother's Day week-end and a rescheduled ride and an out of town ride, I did not expect the large turnout but was glad to see everyone. Chris Embry, Glenn "Clothesline" Smith, Fritz Kopatz, Steve Puckett, Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish, Bob Grable, Samuel Bland, Jeff Schrode, John Fong, Mark Rougeux, Dan Barriere, Tom "Ambassador Dog" Askew, Amelia "Bubbles, Bird Dog" Dauer, Thomas Nance, Tom Hurst, and Steve "Mule" Rice all attend. (So many dogs needing names some of which have ridden with us for years) I think that Tom and John are training for the Rain Ride. Not sure if any of the others are. Samuel is training for another event, gravel I believe, but I can't remember the name of the event. Memory.....oh, my, how it deteriorates and robs us. Steve Rice is training for PBP. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The weather prediction is for scattered rain and storms today, however, the chances are around fifty percent so we head out not knowing if there will be a deluge or not. As we take off, I realize I have forgotten my glasses. I hurry to get them and then hammer to catch the group surprised that I am able to do so. The front group quickly leaves a few of us behind. Such strong, strong riders. I later hear they averaged about 20.1 mph until mile 22 and reached the store with an average of 18.1. I feel sorry for Chris as he would definitely be up there with them and tell him I will be able to sweep until the first store stop, but he hangs back anyway. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I enjoy the chatter, the colorful jerseys, the sounds of the bicycles as we move down the road and think how very much I needed to get out and how grateful I am that Murphy is improving and that everyone has been so kind about his illness. The stress was telling on me, particularly the one A.M. medications as I have trouble falling back to sleep. One thing I have noticed about retirement is that I handle stress much less well than I used to. Bicycling does so much to help in these situations: the demands on the body and the time to think and puzzle. And the scenery. While this is not the most scenic route I have put together, and I will miss the most scenic part of this route, it does have its moments. Some fields have not yet been sprayed and are alive with flowers. Others show signs of birth: soybeans hesitantly breaching the soil, a few, sparse fields where I "think" I see the first slips of corn emerging. In places, wildflowers cover the sides of roadside ditches, colorful and welcoming. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We are near the town where we will stop when Amelia gets a text that Denney's, the second of two available stores, is closed. The front group has to return to Family Dollar. This will add about two miles to their journey today, but when we arrive at Family Dollar, they seem okay with it. Everyone is standing around talking and laughing and fueling for the hills that will come between them and the lunch stop, Story Inn. I called the Inn yesterday and they are expecting the group, but I hate it that I must leave them. I am glad to hear that Denney's closure is not permanent, as has happened with so many small stores, but a temporary aberration. Since I originally put this route together, three other stores that were along the way have closed. It is just hard for small stores to compete with Dollar Generals and other large stores. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As we pull off and our paths diverge, I have to decide how to get home. I decide to retrace our path rather than head through Brownstown as I hope to meet the group in Brownstown on their way back. I push myself and also surprise myself reaching home with almost 66 miles in the bank and a 15.8 average. Had I been asked if this was possible, I would have told you no. And had their been oodles of climbing, it would not have been. But I feel good about it. I will, after all, turn 67 next month. And I don't have that many miles or centuries in the legs this year. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">After giving Murphy his medication and throwing some leftovers in the microwave for lunch, I head back out. The air now feels like a sauna. It is not only our first hot day in awhile, but the humidity is off the chart. It is only of those days where each breath seems as if it is as heavy as molasses and does not seem to fuel the muscles. Sweat clings and dots the skin rather than evaporating. And to top it off, my arch nemesis while riding, the Cottonwood, is shedding its fluff. I know if I happen to get one in my mouth, breathing will worsen significantly as they always seem to catch and grow in my throat. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I assume I will probably not get to Brownstown before meeting the group as I had more miles to cover to my home than they did to lunch, but I hope to get there to get something to eat and/or drink. "Hope is the thing with feathers and sings the tune without the words and never stops." (Emily Dickinson) I meet two riders before Brownstown, Steve and Mark and my hope diminishes, but later I am told they did not stop at the lunch stop and that is why they were so far in front of the faster riders. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">The fast group is just pulling out of Dairy Queen, the third store stop, when I arrive. The others remain in the store. I join them. I am glad to hear that lunch was fairly quick and yet disappointed to hear it was not at all crowded as I would hate to see it go out of business. So many centuries that I put together I no longer do because of closed restaurants and/or stores. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">After leaving Dairy Queen, the group splits further. Steve Puckett and I remain at the back and the rest take off. The course is fairly flat other than the short, steep climb out of Brownstown so I am not at all surprised. They, but not the fast group, are still in the parking lot when I arrive. (At least the fast group from Dairy Queen as some fell back to ride in a bit less slowly). Everyone seems to have had a good time which makes me happy and, while I could not join them for the whole ride, I am glad that I got to join them at all. Mostly I am pleased that Murphy seems to be getting a bit better. I hope when his time comes, I am able to face it with courage and humility, knowing that the bell eventually tolls for all of us. And I am glad for bicycles. Bicycles and friends, two of God's greatest gifts. Yeah, "I get by with a little help from my friends." Thanks everyone. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-30782814955360352562023-04-28T04:35:00.001-07:002023-04-28T04:35:12.271-07:00Solo Hardinsburg: Spring 2023 <p style="text-align: center;"><b>There is no doubt that solitude</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>is a challenge and to maintain balance</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>within it is a precarious business. But I </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>must not forget that, for me, being with </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>people or even one beloved person for</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>any length of time without solitude is even</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>worse. I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>and in pieces. I must have time alone to </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>mull over my encounter, and to extract its </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>juice, its essence, to understand what has </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>really happened to me as a consequence of it."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>May Sarton</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I wake up and decide it is time to ride my traditional spring century to Hardinsburg and Little Twirl despite the chill of the morning and a tough 62 mile ride the day before. What is the use of being retired if one always has to plan things? Just gather your things and go if you so desire. Life awaits. And one never quite knows for sure where your bicycle may lead you. I realize that I desire.....I really desire to ride. It has been a while since I have indulged myself with a solitary century. It has been awhile since I have had the desire to do so. I meet the desire with open arms welcoming it back and hoping it settles down and stays. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The centuries I have put together mostly fall into two categories: those whose goal is a destination and those whose goal is scenery. Hardinsburg used to have both when the Mennonite Store was open. Big, fat sandwiches on fresh, homemade bread. An oasis that was rather in the middle of nowhere which may be why it closed. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">This left Little Twirl, a constant since I put the route together though it now closes for the winter months, something that it did not used to do. Don't get me wrong. I am fond of Little Twirl and it will always hold a special place in my heart. I still grin thinking of Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish spinning around in the parking lot, index finger pointing downward and touching his skull, spinning like a ballerina, giving it a "little twirl." I remember the first group I brought this way, back when Sparky used to ride and kept me in stitches. So many memories. And their food is not terrible. But it does not replace the lost sandwiches on homemade bread or the memories that store holds. As I have said so many times, everything changes. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I have always thought the Hardinsburg route was scenic, at least when your mind was not grayed out from lack of oxygen;-) It has a nice blend of farm land and forest land. It passes some of the Amish homes that sometimes have something interesting or different going on. And it is low traffic. Not once on this route has anyone threatened me in or out of a vehicle. Sometimes I can ride for a half hour or hour without one car passing me or without seeing another person. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Still, I also know that despite only having about 4,800 feet of climbing, it always leaves me rather drained. There are, I suppose, two major climbs, or major for this area. But there are rollers everywhere. There is very little in the way of flats once you get out past Pekin and the flat Blue River Road section of the course until a few miles from the end. Shorts Corner is such a pesky little road. No major climbs, but it doesn't let you forget that it rolls. And a steep but rather short climb that the Garmin registers as eighteen percent near Hardinsburg. Is that major? </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I laugh thinking of how I would hate it when people would call about one of my rides and ask, "Is it hilly?" because hilly to one is not to another. Heck, now that I am older, what I considered not hilly seems mountainous at times. Fitness, age, bike, other factors all play into the answer I guess. I remember one time, on a different century, we crossed an overpass that was not particularly steep but has a bit of a bump as most overpasses do and a new riders asking me if there were any more climbs like that on the course. Leota Hill loomed ahead, a mountain compared to that bump in the road. If I remember correctly, he bailed at the lunch stop....but that has been so long ago and the rider was not one that ever became near and dear to me so I am not for sure. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">On the ride I find that some farmers have not yet gotten around to spraying their fields so I am treated to large tracts of yellow flowers, so cheerful. I used to believe they were wild mustard, but Duc told me differently. Try as I might, I can't remember what he said they were. Regardless, weed or no weed, they are a delight to the eye if not to the sinuses and I am in no rush today. Probably a good thing as I have gotten as slow as molasses in January. I do pass a few farm vehicles making use of the unusually dry weather. But it is still too cold to do much. When it is a large vehicle and on a narrow road, I just stop and pull off to let him/her by hoping to engender good will and for the sake of safety. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As I near the road that leads to Little Twirl, I think, as I always do on this section of road, of Steve Sexton. I will never forget the cold December he and I rode this stretch together. The others had pulled ahead. I suspect he stayed back with me, not to witness the wind teaching me a lesson, which it did that day, but out of kindness. Winter sometimes seems to leach the kindness out of us all. We enjoy riding, but we also want to get it done and get somewhere to warm our bones. Conflicted feelings I suppose. I remember another time when a rider I did not know showed for a winter Hardinsburg and how he was averaging nine or ten mph and how I worried he would cause the whole group to get in after dark had fallen. I tried to cut him loose and give him a short cut home. He would not listen. I left him but swept him in later with my car. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">After a small lunch at Little Twirl, the wind is, for a time, my friend. It was supposed to shift to the west but stayed out of the south. Either will help me on my way home until the last mile or so. I am not putting much effort into my pedaling, but my speed does not reflect that fact. More memories pop up. As I descend the huge hill on Cox Ferry, I think of the time a deer ran right next to me as I descended and my fear that she would veer out onto the road for the steepness combined with my speed made stopping almost an impossibility. I remember the road crew betting on if I could climb that hill when I first came that way which made me decide to climb it or fall over trying. I remember Paul Battle, after the descent, looking at me with concern in his eyes and saying, "You don't ride out here by yourself, do you?" He didn't understand that I feel safer out here than I will ever feel in a city, but the fact that he worried about it touched me. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Soon I am faced with the worst climb of the day. It is one of those hills that you think you are doing fine on until you realize it gets steeper toward the top. But I climb it with no issues. Perhaps it is larger in my head than it is in reality? Or perhaps because there is nobody with me to watch my slowness. I can just take my time without worrying that someone is having to wait for me. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">It makes me think of how differently people ride. Over the years I have found riding companions are different. Some, like Steve Rice and Bill Pustow, would mostly stay with me and we would talk and share ideas and thoughts. Bill always had an interesting book he was reading that he would fill me in on. Others, like Jon, like to ride ahead, each of us sharing the course and stops, but other than occasional interludes, riding our own ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I pop in to the Red Barn for my last store stop. Amos is talking with someone but they leave when I arrive. I notice his hair is graying as, of course, is my own. He talks about his daughter who is a service member and her new baby and I enjoy a bit of conversation before heading toward home and one of my favorite roads. Low to little traffic, a canopy of trees in many places, and just scenic.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I pass an Amish home where there are three small children outside, the youngest seeming to be about 18 months. I grin from ear to ear watching her desperately but determinedly trying to keep up with the others dressed with her little bonnet on her head. In the yard nearby graze two ponies with short, stubby legs and bellies so large they appear to be near to dragging the ground. I come upon the mother, working in the yard cutting the grass with a non-motorized push mower. And then I am isolated once more not passing another person or car for miles, able to enjoy the greenness that has drenched the forest. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I reach home quite tired and quite glad to be there, fully saturated with the day, the sunshine, and the alone time that I still need despite living alone. Soon I will be craving company, but with the weather becoming more conducive to riding I know that lies ahead shortly. And in some ways, perhaps, I was not alone today. The ghosts of cherished, loved friends were with me as I relived memories. Some ride. Some no longer ride. But today, for just a bit, they were by my side. I was glad to be alive and on a bicycle with no constraints on my time, able to look at where I have come from, where I am now, and where I am going. Just me, my bike, and the road. I am blessed. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-83967928342961693882023-04-24T03:32:00.003-07:002023-04-24T03:43:18.951-07:00A Solitary Ride on a Windy Day <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"Follow your heart. Do what you love.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Because I was constantly struggling with </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>that. If it's in your heart, go for it.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Don't listen to other people."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Maz Jobrani </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: left;">Perhaps it should be, but it truly is not difficult to decide whether to go to Louisville to ride or not because I don't like the course, and unfortunately, the shorter ride today mirrors the longer ride. I realize it is not about me, and many people seem to enjoy riding in/near the city. Indeed, some actually prefer it, particularly if it means they can ride rather than drive to a ride start or if it means a flatter, faster, easier course. But city riding, while I indulge in it occasionally, is not my thing and being a Tour de Mad Dog finisher just is not so important to me anymore that I will ride a course I don't like. Perhaps even company is not so important as it once was. We change. Others change. Viva la differences, I suppose.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I would love to have the company, but spring dances by so quickly and I don't want to waste a riding day on such a course. The last time I drove in to a town/suburb ride, a week or so ago, four of us were riding along when a man pulls alongside in his Mercedes, rolls down his window, and asks: "Do I have to hit you to get you off the road?" He then rolls up his window and drives on. Where along the way did we become like this? Does anyone still yield a seat on a bus to a pregnant woman or volunteer to take another seat on a plane if a parent wants to sit with their child? Is it all about us and our rights? Where along the way did we lose the "milk of human kindness?" (Shakespeare) Or maybe most have not. Just a few. Anyway, if we cost this driver a minute of his time, that is a generous estimate. Certainly, if he hit us, unless he drove on without stopping, it would cost more of his precious time. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Regardless, it was not a bad ride, but it was not one of those rides where you spend time catching up and talking about things or where there is scenery that is so stunning it makes you inhale and send up a prayer of thanks celebrating being alive, alive and on a bicycle and with friends who share your passion. Too much traffic. It was not one of those rides that you will long remember and be glad you used your time to attend. It was an okay ride, but not a great ride. Great ride captain though. And a course that had greater attendance than it would have if it were further afield. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Soon there will be plenty of days with friends barring illness or accident. There will be time to catch up about the winter happenings that we have not yet talked about on the few club rides I have done this year. I have already gotten a chance to talk some to Paul and Mike during the ride I put on this week. I was disappointed not to get to talk a bit with Steve, but we did catch up a bit before the ride. He, Keith, and Tom Waggoner, yes THE Tom Waggoner that builds bicycles, rode ahead. Of course, I did not know who he was until the store stop when Steve informed me and I did not see him after the ride, but I hope he felt welcome and enjoyed the course during his visit to this area. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> Already the Redbuds are fading to a pale, blanched version of their glory only a few days prior. The Dogwoods are still strong, however, and bluebells and other flowers line side roads. On my walk the other day, I even spotted some red trillium, one of my favorites. Trees are leafing out to where views seen in the winter are becoming obscured. But how I rejoice in the greenness. Even mowing my lawn still seems a treat rather than a chore. The only time I truly miss the cold is when it comes time to sleep. If things run as normal, I will not sleep as well in the coming months. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">And so, despite the colder weather and wind predictions, after walking with Diana at the Forestry, I swing my leg over the bike and head toward Eden/Delaney Park. I decide to ride to Salem and home knowing this route will run somewhere between forty and fifty miles. Along the way I realize that I am happy and so glad at how much I "wanted" to ride. I have struggled with that a bit in the recent past year or so and wondered if my verve would reappear. I hope it does not begin to slip away again, because I love it here: the solitude, the burgeoning verdancy, the colors and hues. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Eden and Delaney do not disappoint. I love how the trees grow right to the edge of the road in places and one rides under a canopy. I don't love the hill that I know is coming near the turn around point, but I also know it is that time of year. And experience has taught me that great scenery often comes with the price of hills and climbing. The fields are not yet planted in those areas where the forest has gaps. It is obvious, however, that some have been sprayed and I realize I missed the full fields of yellow flowers that delight me but cause my allergies to plague me a bit. I come across a young Amish boy and girl carrying a basket and laugh at the two, small spotted ponies in the yard. Later I will pass an Amish man mowing his yard with the blades whirling behind a horse. This is a first for me. I have often seen the Amish pushing the old, non-electric or gas mowers that you walk behind, but never where the blades were pulled by a horse. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I reach the hill and the white ducks that appeared a year or two ago are at the bottom in a creek. They appear to have multiplied. I wonder that a fox or coyote has not gotten them. I begin to climb, the legs protesting as they are wont to do anymore. Since I have been doing leg work, I know that the protest is really more mental and so I stay in the middle chain ring and force one foot to follow the other. I try to think of how easy the miles home will be as I push into the strong winds. And it helps. Despite my worry, I have no trouble climbing the hill though the climb is slow. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As expected, the ride home make me a tail wind hero, often reaching 23 or 24 mph on roads where, at this stage in my life, I would normally travel at perhaps 15 or 16 on a good day. It feels good to fly. I toy with stopping at the store for a snack, but decide to wait until I get home. I have a meal planned and know I will enjoy it more hungry. So glad I lead with my heart this time rather than going to a ride others wanted me to go to but that I felt I would not enjoy for life has taught me that rides and time are limited. So glad I got to catch yet another glimpse of spring before she dances off leaving summer behind. So glad to be alive, to be healthy, to be on a bicycle. So blessed. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b> </b><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-51464875936226272662023-03-26T06:15:00.004-07:002023-03-26T06:17:02.415-07:00Nearing the End of Hiking Season <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"There are things you should</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>notice anyway. To live for some</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>future goal is shallow. It's the sides of</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>the mountain that sustain life, not the top.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Here's where things grow.....but, of course,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>without the top you can't have any sides. </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>It's the top that defines the sides."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Robert Pirsig </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: left;">As I have aged, I find that I ride less in winter and hike more. It is not that I can't ride in winter, or even that I don't ride in winter, but I ride in cold temperatures less frequently, tend to ride shorter distances, and I certainly don't enjoy it as I used to. It is physically and mentally harder than it used to be. The wind and cold have not changed, so I must have changed. I suppose I am nearing the top and it will help define the stages and changes in my life.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I have often asked myself if it is the loss of the companions that I rode with throughout the winter in the past or creeping weakness and vulnerability. The winds seem a bit more powerful. My legs a bit weaker. My willpower not so steeled. Perhaps it is just because I know that I can do it, so proving it to myself and others is no longer an issue. Regardless of the reason, it is what it is. I no longer have a need to prove myself to anyone but me. And perhaps it is best to have a multitude of hobbies to choose from. Perhaps it brings a freshness to older hobbies. Absence does, conceivably, make the heart a bit fonder, not only of people but of activities. When spring arrives, I am longing for long, warm unhurried days on the bike and the companionship of those friends I rarely see other than in warm, bicycling weather. By fall I am longing for the forest trails and the isolation. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> Instead, to keep active and not become a total winter blob, over the past few years I have started<b> </b>hiking more frequently in the cold months. <b> </b>I enjoy the colder months in so many ways when hiking. Less people are seen on the trail. Ticks are fewer to non-existent. Snakes are sleeping. I quite enjoy plopping down on a log and opening my thermos for lunch, hot soup doing a slow creep, warming me down to my bones. I quite enjoy the starkness of the sepia landscape and how the few splotches of color here and there seem almost cartoon like and unreal. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">And the silence. I enjoy the absence of sound other than crunching of leaves under my feet or the rapping of a woodpecker or the occasional rustle alongside the path by goodness knows what. Birds will become raucous and pervasive when spring hits, but for now there is largely a silence here. Their song as they desperately seek mates will be one way I will know that spring is close along with the awakening of the peepers shrill clamor. I will know that warmer weather and bicycling approaches. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I quite enjoy the way my lungs struggle trudging up a steep climb reminding me of my dependence upon air. The way my calves ache during a steep climb, muscles straining to meet the demands being placed on them. Often, particularly early in a hike, I will rush to meet the climb testing myself, knowing that my strength will normally ebb toward the summit or upon the return when the miles have left their mark on my legs. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Of course, when Jon is with me, which is quite often, there is more sound....mostly my incessant chattering. But it is just different somehow. And he is quite tolerant. Usually, silence descends more surely as we get further into the hike. And when Jon is with me, there are more demands put on these short legs. Sometimes my shortness is a gift, when a tree has fallen and must be gone under or around, but often it is a hindrance, making me stretch to climb over it or to match my shorter strides to his longer ones, the foot or so difference in height becoming even more apparent. Of course, we often tease each other about it. We have been friends long enough that there are jokes between us that others would not understand. Miles hiking or biking or perchance just time spent together gives birth to such closeness. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Fortunately I live near five trailheads for the Knobstone Trail. I don't know how long it was after I moved to this area that I became aware of the trail, but it was awhile. It stretches for 58 miles with the loops I believe. So many parks have trails that are only a few miles long. How glad I am to have found out about it even though there are times it kicks my butt. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We decide to do the loop from Oxley Trail Head to Delaney Park with the idea that we can turn around or shorten the hike as needed by cutting out loops. (This is the only part of the trail that loops). The original plan is to leave from Delaney, but Oxley is closer to my house and so the hike starts there. There are numerous cars in the parking lot which surprises me, but we do not run into them on the trail. A mile or so in, Jon notices tents off to the right of the trail, and we suspect that those belong with the truck. I don't notice, but Jon said the truck bed was filled with empty beer containers. So we speculate that they are just camping and not hiking. Indeed, we never see them on the trail, but their vehicles are gone from the parking lot upon our return. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As we hike, we talk about the things that friends talk about. The woods still seem rather dead with the occasional leaf beginning to bud out. Jon spots and points out a few flowers, but they are not yet fully open. And the miles pass. We got a rather late start, so I begin to wonder about finishing before dark. As so often happens, my imagination takes over and I picture us out there, no light, trying to find our way as not only darkness gathers around us, but the cold descends. For it has been cold the past few days and night. Unseasonably so. But when we reach Delaney for the trek back, it appears all will be well barring injury or getting lost, something that could happen but is unlikely as the Knobstone is, on the whole, extremely well marked. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">17.7 miles later, we are back at his truck, preparing to go find nourishment. Later I think that Mr. Persig is probably wrong in respect to a life metaphor. Surely the sides, how we approach the top of our life, actuates the end of the long climb. The top must be somewhat influenced by the path we take to get there and maybe even how long it takes to reach the summit. But I suppose neither can exist without the other. I suspect that each has a role in defining the other. And how terrible it would be to reach the top and realize we had missed the journey, the sides, in our quest. Surely it is not shallow to consider the top. Regardless, it was a good day leaving me tired but sated, at least temporarily, and happy knowing that spring approaches along with long days on the bike. Such blessings. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-14837324770167465072023-03-09T03:27:00.002-08:002023-03-09T03:27:38.433-08:00Sink and Swim: 2023 <div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: center;"><b><span>"We all have our time machines.</span></b></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: center;"><b><span>Some take us back, they're called</span></b></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: center;"><b><span>memories. Some take us forward, </span></b></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: center;"><b><span>they're called dreams."</span></b></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: center;"><span><b>Jeremy Irons</b></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: center;"><span><b> </b></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>It is going to be perfect weather for a century ride<b> </b>despite the tumultuous rain that pounded the area the day before that left roads abandoned and closed in my area and took out power in others. Trees are down everywhere, unable to stand the force of winds that, in places, got up to eighty miles per hour. There is no doubt that the roads will be covered with debris. In fact, today's ride captain, Dee, is without power. But that weather is gone. This area does not seem to flood as easily as where I live. So the ride is on. </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>Today it is crisp and cool without being cold and with not too much variation in the temperature so that one has to worry about undressing and carrying throughout the day. The sun is shining. Still, I slip on a light backpack just in case. Weather is always unpredictable, but perhaps a bit more so this time of year. I heed the lesson learned from an earlier ride this year when I was under-dressed and rather miserable.<br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>I like this century: Sink or Swim. I think it is, perhaps, that best century that Larry "Gizmo" has ever put together though I am not particularly fond of the lunch spot. There are, unfortunately, some busy roads, but many of the roads are low traffic and scenic. There are a couple of long climbs and a couple of steep climbs, but none that will be too painful. Besides, it is time to begin building leg strength for the coming riding season. One does not realize how winter has leached strength so much until encountering a good climb. Then the legs let you know, whining and complaining as they do every spring, asking if you aren't getting too old for this nonsense, threatening to quit but sucking it up and turning the pedals, however slowly. <br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> I have memories from this century stretching back for years. Sometime during the ride I will remind Larry of the time John Paul, he, and I rode this century and of our river swim after lunch. So long ago, it seems like a dream. J.P. had never been in the Ohio River before. I suspect he has not been in it since. I KNOW he would not have gotten in without our urging. But he did it. Oh, the power of peer pressure. At one point, I think of Dave Combs, who no longer is able to ride, and remember riding with him one year on this exact road. I remember eating at the gas station with Steve Rice each of us with a slice of terrible gas station pizza but downing it to keep moving. Odd, the things the mind chooses to remember. <br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>Dee is the ride captain and has a nice turn out. About the perfect size group. Small for a tour stage, but actually perfect for the day. There is Dee, Larry, Glenn, Thomas N, Tom A, Jon W., Samuel, Clint, John P., Chris, Will, and me. All are strong, capable riders. Well, except perhaps for me. I am definitely capable of completing the course, but I no longer consider myself strong. But I am out here. There is that to cling to. And I am far and away the most senior female. Indeed, other than Dee, I am the only female. Distance cycling seems to remain largely a male sport, at least in this area. <br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>I take off early in hopes of a private place along the first roads to relieve myself since, for some unknown reason, they demolished the bathrooms in the park and I drove quite a ways to get to the ride start. Since Dee is captaining, I let her know I am taking off a bit early, but I feel certain they will catch me quickly. Every year it gets harder to maintain a decent average no matter how hard I seem to work, but at least I am out here. I had started to wonder if I would have to return to riding solo just because of my speed. I don't like to feel as if I am holding others up and impacting their ride. I think to myself that this is rather odd because of the number of times I have ridden at the back, sweeping, when I could have gone much faster. Normally, I didn't mind. But somehow it still bothers me that it now will be me being swept. </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>I ride by myself for quite awhile. I am glad when the fast group passes and do not notice my tears. I just found a very good friend from high school passed away and I am grieving the loss. She was part of the childhood that will never return and enriched my life in so many ways. Her loss triggers memories that I haven't thought about for years, some good, some bad. Indeed, despite looking forward to the ride prior to that knowledge, I had to press myself to come. I think of my mom talking to me about how hard it was to be the last of her biological family and among the last of friends she had made. Experience, perhaps, makes us emphasize in a way that we could not emphasize when younger. Life is, indeed, about learning. All too often she rubs our faces in it, recalcitrant students that we are. <br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>But it is hard to remain glum when the sun is shining and it is spring in the country. The peepers sing to me. Flowers are starting to shyly raise their faces toward the sun and bravely open themselves wide. The grass is showing signs of greening and trees are starting to bud. Color re-enters the world. And I am on a bicycle. How many times has my bicycle been a friend and a confidant? How many emotions, tears and smiles and curses and laughter, have I scattered across various roads leaving them behind.<br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>Larry, Tom, and I ride together for a bit and enter Smithville together. The road we are to travel is barricaded due to downed power lines. We cross the barrier to ask about crossing and are accosted by an extremely pissed off line worker who informs us the barricade is there for a reason. He allows us to pass however. Tom and I try to placate him telling him how much we appreciate how hard he is working to get power re-established, but it seems to fall on deaf ears. He mumbles something about the riders ahead of us. I later learn that it is here that another Mad Dog earns his nickname. He bunny hops the downed power line without seeing that there is another line that is not on the ground and is low hanging, clipping his helmet. My understanding is that the lineman said something about him being clothes lined and a new MD nickname is given: Clothes Line. <br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>Right before the first store stop, I am riding with Larry and Jon if I remember correctly when Jon's carefully packed lunch falls off the rack of his bike landing in the road. I am able to dodge it and avoid a fall, but behind us are numerous cars. Somehow, however, it survives intact. The joking begins about how Jon "lost his lunch" and Chris comes up with Jon's new Mad Dog name: Lunchbox. </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>At the store stop, the twelve riders regroup. A truck that looks as if it is held together only by rust passes. A young man rolls down his window as he passes and yells out, "Faggots." It makes me sad. A bicycle would, I think, help this young man. But of course it will never happen.</span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>When we near the lunch stop, a small group of us decide on the gas station rather than the restaurant. We sit joking with each other and fueling and before we are even finished, the fast riders arrive from the sit down restaurant. We take off together. </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span>As we near the third store stop, I recognize it as well as some of the roads from past Kentucky brevets. The group re-groups for the last time. By the end, some of the riders will already have left for home. Some of those homes will have electricity. Others will still be without. I pull off by myself again for awhile, pushing hard at the pedals, enjoying the feeling of my lungs and legs struggling, only to find a small group waiting at the top of the last, short but steep hill. I debate moving on by myself, but I decide to be sociable. I am in no rush to finish.</span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" style="text-align: left;"><span> We wait for the last of the group and arrive at the finish together after a short stop by some to reclaim clothes they had hidden along the route after shedding them early in the ride. There is, of course, laughter and teasing about this, about Dee getting the men to strip and vice versa, and as I laugh I realize I have had a good time today. This ride has been good for me. Yes, I have suffered another loss magnified by memories. But this is tempered as I begin to dream of future rides and the laughter that I hope they also contain. Once again I am forced to accept that I am, in most things, powerless. But I can dream. There is really nothing in this world quite like a bike ride with friends, nothing. <br /></span></div></div><p style="text-align: left;"> </p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-12066384668864959502023-02-14T04:54:00.002-08:002023-02-14T04:54:28.575-08:00Natural Bridge 2023: A Fine Time<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"Wherever I roam, nature</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>is the only stranger that feels</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>like home."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Angie Weiland-Crosby</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: left;">I am looking forward to the upcoming hiking/biking trip Jon and I have planned at Natural Bridge State Park. To my surprise, we are easily able to snare a two bedroom cabin that, while spartan, will serve our needs just fine and will be much cheaper than two cabins. (Yes, two bedrooms. We are friends and not lovers despite some people's belief to the contrary. Our relationship has not, and likely will not, lead to that of lovers.) And on the morning of the seventh, we take off. Since the cabin has a kitchen, we will be eating there or on the trail, so we bring food as well as clothing, bikes, firewood, etc. Prior to the trip we discussed our menu and each contributes. I wonder if it will all fit in my small car, but somehow it does. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">On our way there we discuss what to do when we get there. The first thing is to see if we can check in or have to leave everything in the car. We also stop and buy a topographical map of the Red River Gorge area. While there, I make a joke about possibly getting lost and the man at the station tells us of a call he got a few weeks ago where a young man had fallen and broken his ankle. He said it was supposed to get in the twenties that night and the call did not come in until late afternoon, but he did not know what happened. He also points out that these hikers were young and strong (leaving it hanging that perhaps we are none of those things). We exchange a few more words before heading on. While getting lost is a possibility, Jon is good at reading maps and it really does not overly concern me. We have been hiking regularly throughout the winter and often do ten to twelve miles in a day. As far as falling and breaking an ankle, anyone that rides a bike accepts that activity brings the possibility of injury and even tragedy. But it sure beats not living life. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b> </b> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Due to the warm weather, we decide that we will ride the first day since the weather is lovely though quite windy and rain is predicted for the following day. Originally, when reservations were made, I figured that we would, in all likelihood, be hiking only due to the cold weather. Yes, I can and have ridden is some pretty cold weather. I just find it more challenging and less enjoyable now. That is why I added hiking to my activities. I won't accept not being active at this point, but some sports are more comfortable than others in the winter. An added bonus, is that the short break from regular cycling seems to do me good mentally. And after all, the reservation is in early February. But the forecast, while predicting some rain and wind, is ideal even reaching the sixties and seventies. The only time I have bicycled in this area was on the TOKYO four day ride a few years ago, but I know enough from those rides to anticipate some hills. I will not be disappointed. What I am disappointed about when I get there is that, somehow, I have remembered everything EXCEPT my riding shoes. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">But I am ahead of myself. I don't realize this until after we check in and eat our lunch. We head out on our bikes anyway, my feet clad in running shoes. I am not sure how this will go. I remember Grasshopper forgetting his bike shoes and doing a brevet (I can't remember the length) and how his feet hurt at the end. I determine that I will try it, however, and turn around if the pain is too great. Somehow, despite the small SPD knobs, I do fine unless I attempt to stand. So I remain seated and use granny a bit more than I might otherwise throughout the ride. Occasionally I grin at my own stupidity. I even remembered shoe covers, just not the shoes to put them over. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">This is following our laughter at the speed limit in the park. 23 mph. Jon points it out and I giggle about it at times throughout our stay. I don't think I have ever seen a speed limit that was not based on 5: 5 mph, 10 mph, 25 mph, etc. I suppose it truly is no more random than any other choice the powers that be decide to assign to a road, but it seems more random because of the rareness. This is one thing I enjoy about Jon's company: his sense of humor and his quickness in noticing and pointing out things I might otherwise have missed. Throughout our stay I think how lucky I am to have found a friend to share some adventures with and who enjoys many of the same things that I enjoy for it is much more fun sharing experiences. Yes, I like and even need a certain, even a large amount, of alone time. But I get that in my everyday life now being retired and widowed. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Despite the wind, for once it seems a tail wind more than a head wind throughout the ride. I assume we are sheltered here on roads that seem to run between mountains and hills. It seems like no time before we are at Nada Tunnel. Or at least I "think" the tunnel was before the center. I have told Jon I might walk as while I have ridden the tunnel in the past, I also have found that the darkness is a bit disorienting. But I manage to ride through glad I remembered to bring a clip on light. I am busy in my mind trying to connect the tunnel with previous Tokyo (Tour of Kentucky Overland, 4 days, a bit over 400 miles). I decide, and later riding it in reverse, become even more certain that we passed through the opposite way during Tokyo as I remember the climb. Jon talks of a time when he was there before when two cars pulled up and neither would yield causing a traffic jam. Since Anne and he were on bicycles, they did not know how it was resolved, but someone must have yielded as well as all the cars that piled up behind them. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy85fauuwqfVJNgXhsiw8EspVzgI6iwNE5BhluJqeKwAu7zJk8ZsDjlEYNj7gx8ks1PjavfygyKZ5ExSE41M1nY96umjBu9ycTiB7_ZDHHPA_S--C_y5GC77hTi4mP1cB6ERAOCuAtbS4NeeXsy2xlpvO9Q43a78w30aN1AFJWRcFR4JTy2EgyDbL-w/s4080/PXL_20230208_210326079.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy85fauuwqfVJNgXhsiw8EspVzgI6iwNE5BhluJqeKwAu7zJk8ZsDjlEYNj7gx8ks1PjavfygyKZ5ExSE41M1nY96umjBu9ycTiB7_ZDHHPA_S--C_y5GC77hTi4mP1cB6ERAOCuAtbS4NeeXsy2xlpvO9Q43a78w30aN1AFJWRcFR4JTy2EgyDbL-w/s320/PXL_20230208_210326079.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Shortly after, we pass what I think looks like beaver activity. I ask
if Jon minds if I stop, and as usual, he is tolerant of my request for a closer look. It is, indeed, beaver. Several trees of varying sizes have
been felled. What I can't understand, and still don't, is why the
distance from the water rather than felling trees closer. I then
wonder how they cart the trees they gnaw down. Despite the lack of
foliage on the trees, when I peer at the water I see no evidence of a
dam. Damn, I think;-) <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">We also stop at a small cabin right outside of closed Gladie Visitor Center. Jon is again tolerant and does not complain that I want to see the cabin that sits nearby. We cross a small bridge to see the cabin built in the 1800's and transported to this site. The doors are locked and there is no access, but it is interesting to see it and to imagine who lived there. Besides, it will give us a small rest before the long, demanding climb to Sky Bridge. As we settle back in our saddles, I note and comment not only on how lovely it is, but on the lack of traffic. It is as if Jon and I are the only ones on the road. And for a time, other than three motorcycles, we see nobody. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEneYgvEPTBf010HBg-DEifIgCDQMBe5I0aFBvurgTtLs9c15eTxlil2ESDO2ieBymhyil51sZanws1mQnHxSDeSo3cpmdLMYiuu3ywjHKBaVIqU3_Ap3Afw_LT8NmWufiUWazu-p9lxfPrOPqLOm1FYJTYERo86WYgtX63N6fYVIaZvv1DIQCqAVzg/s4080/PXL_20230207_194340499.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEneYgvEPTBf010HBg-DEifIgCDQMBe5I0aFBvurgTtLs9c15eTxlil2ESDO2ieBymhyil51sZanws1mQnHxSDeSo3cpmdLMYiuu3ywjHKBaVIqU3_Ap3Afw_LT8NmWufiUWazu-p9lxfPrOPqLOm1FYJTYERo86WYgtX63N6fYVIaZvv1DIQCqAVzg/s320/PXL_20230207_194340499.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWXuKBOI15VUTgbZGBFFeKi4f2lh9TGsiNhdHh-C4yWDslzDAixfUYIAd5F5Q_eI9q5JXbVuU6E3JqczIyTq_VaEQtf3VrVuWBJSPEdg0JNc4LRRfz-Df33tbEAEAaQ8NfCn9T9SpxTA8pP3ihiZf60jhTs7pl-SgwFG-u8Xc5JXxkuQDc9MBV4nWfg/s4080/PXL_20230207_194351505.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWXuKBOI15VUTgbZGBFFeKi4f2lh9TGsiNhdHh-C4yWDslzDAixfUYIAd5F5Q_eI9q5JXbVuU6E3JqczIyTq_VaEQtf3VrVuWBJSPEdg0JNc4LRRfz-Df33tbEAEAaQ8NfCn9T9SpxTA8pP3ihiZf60jhTs7pl-SgwFG-u8Xc5JXxkuQDc9MBV4nWfg/s320/PXL_20230207_194351505.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The climb is easier than I expect, but then I use granny the entire time to (at least this is my excuse and I'm sticking to it) protect my feet. I find I really am enjoying the demands on my legs and lungs. I realize how happy I am to be here, to be alive, to be healthy, to have a companion. I also realize how grateful I am for this unseasonable warmth. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Near the end of the ride, we do run into some traffic. But it is not terrible and the drivers, despite it being time to go home from work, are considerate. Day one is over all too soon, but there is dinner and a fire in the fireplace to look forward to. Even this has an element of humor as the pork chops were a bit too close to the broiler and charred setting off the smoke alarm. At home, I keep a step stool in my kitchen for such emergencies, but there is none here. Fortunately, Jon, who is tall, is able to dismantle them while I have visions of fire trucks racing at top speed to drown our evening meal;-) Despite the charring, the meal is delicious and afterwards we chat a bit then watch the State of the Union before drifting off to bed. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The next day we decide to combine riding and hiking as the warm weather and new roads are too hard to pass on. We hike first going to Gray's Arch. In places, I find myself reminded of Scotland when we pass boulders and fallen trees covered with a rich, green moss. In fact, yesterday, we passed a road by the name of Glencairn and now I spend a bit of time speculating on the reason why. My guess is that someone who immigrated from Scotland settled here as the area reminded him of his home, but of course, I tend to romanticize things at times. Still, I suspect most of us suffer from homesickness when we make moves, particularly those who switch countries. It takes a certain kind of bravery, I conjecture, to pack up and leave ones home and friends and all that is familiar. A line from a song from elementary school Music class comes to mind: "Oh, Erin must be leave thee driven by a tyrant's hand? Must we ask a Mother's welcome from a strange and distant land?" (Dion Boucicault)<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As we begin the climb up to the arch (not the top but the top of the underside) we hear a voice warning us that there is a dog up there in case we don't like dogs. We find two men and a black lab looking dog who is friendly in a way that only dogs can be. He greets us as if we were old friends that he has not seen for an eternity before resuming regular dog business of smelling and exploring. They head down before us and we spend a few moments taking photos of the scenery to give them time to forge ahead. We later learn they returned to their car and were not doing the longer hike. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHacVXNjMIgTcJFBP17UjXq1-xJ9JQwU7nkM5mg1arcwrxshqzB7goszyXZMryEBrWwNkefa_1dSsuZ5ek8FBIYFbYVTsFY8h-h1wTWukuGYvPsSDOe_M81AjEYWgPCVrjHM0Qp1unnE7GTSxpGLck7tz4fv4YvhsoJFlYqc_eXDbxja_-QIY_KISuHQ/s4080/PXL_20230208_152255829.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHacVXNjMIgTcJFBP17UjXq1-xJ9JQwU7nkM5mg1arcwrxshqzB7goszyXZMryEBrWwNkefa_1dSsuZ5ek8FBIYFbYVTsFY8h-h1wTWukuGYvPsSDOe_M81AjEYWgPCVrjHM0Qp1unnE7GTSxpGLck7tz4fv4YvhsoJFlYqc_eXDbxja_-QIY_KISuHQ/s320/PXL_20230208_152255829.jpg" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2WTia0YElvdr1S6P5YFKmrUQUyf3bARMQnkZzZ5x3QQ1w5E2f4eb7xY_bBGCF0enr6yxxU5s7zGh_mapgKDDMGSIm7kkOzNGsoZ65atgMcqs32UtSAWsYNLtGYQneivVtVx_628osofkfOxrWHKDkcDYD4D5gOumKqxOVwFIAi6bDotNuJy75gXZtg/s4080/PXL_20230208_152037673.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2WTia0YElvdr1S6P5YFKmrUQUyf3bARMQnkZzZ5x3QQ1w5E2f4eb7xY_bBGCF0enr6yxxU5s7zGh_mapgKDDMGSIm7kkOzNGsoZ65atgMcqs32UtSAWsYNLtGYQneivVtVx_628osofkfOxrWHKDkcDYD4D5gOumKqxOVwFIAi6bDotNuJy75gXZtg/s320/PXL_20230208_152037673.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k4N7Qyg2xhlImDFFdk_sW1aoBonrwruMMnvFBN9u2YCnJWyPWyDuyfTpmZrfDtGYXJzL8xNJQ2Rr0ebnPjuX8FeBnkW63sRf4Pcn4M-aHKDxbJtm_yPj02MxReSdQ42s7HCKvuUdSM1P9Bz5grvjXzG4sUf0EoRJA94cbUNP3mRqOmdZZCyqprbpsw/s4080/PXL_20230208_153149844.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7k4N7Qyg2xhlImDFFdk_sW1aoBonrwruMMnvFBN9u2YCnJWyPWyDuyfTpmZrfDtGYXJzL8xNJQ2Rr0ebnPjuX8FeBnkW63sRf4Pcn4M-aHKDxbJtm_yPj02MxReSdQ42s7HCKvuUdSM1P9Bz5grvjXzG4sUf0EoRJA94cbUNP3mRqOmdZZCyqprbpsw/s320/PXL_20230208_153149844.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div>We pass trees shooting roots down around rocks, victims of where they landed as seeds and I think about the urge to cling to life. We see roots where soil has eroded away leaving them desperately trying to adapt. Again, something perhaps, that all living creatures, plant and animals do, this clinging. We see rhododendron everywhere, running rampant, getting ready to bloom, and I think how lovely it will be in just a few weeks when color begins to seep back into the world shucking off winter and leaving it behind. And I realize that Ms. Weiland-Crosby is right. This feels right, one leg following the other through woods that are unfamiliar to me yet seem like home, a heritage. At one point, we stop to savor our lunch. Both of us have soup that Jon made in our thermoses, can combined with a peanut butter sandwich, we refuel. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYL9czS0CGVC-P8lJrZwjYC8aA14Gz_n55S5VThknYbeywoT010cjlfDcCm6VZQONgJG2Z1qmTeV_NESzxZhwHwIGw2KrnVs1mKL4fZc5qu3M241BMo1-5lzZlfWUiQk30QqzjZ7xPRlAIkNNxMZLb-sVaiOsHkeMMP2wpkOSh6LJzBQ3m3BOgZftJZA/s4080/PXL_20230208_154539096.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYL9czS0CGVC-P8lJrZwjYC8aA14Gz_n55S5VThknYbeywoT010cjlfDcCm6VZQONgJG2Z1qmTeV_NESzxZhwHwIGw2KrnVs1mKL4fZc5qu3M241BMo1-5lzZlfWUiQk30QqzjZ7xPRlAIkNNxMZLb-sVaiOsHkeMMP2wpkOSh6LJzBQ3m3BOgZftJZA/s320/PXL_20230208_154539096.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOII2iAJYWP4cR6kaufoI4dNDli4yXQxZvIKLfj4yCwYR9oRF6fcBBcmm4d7IBnqBIlgFoCViGIBPoWxLx7gF-lLInqh8xb_BAOaBT6b3xdTQPQO3Xdbmlyr1k6yekMeuMz90BWeKmX3m0Gb8Q6Seb8Hi92Gq-8R24oBpceotqpxUJgalZ5Zfv3Hrbkg/s4080/PXL_20230208_154528021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOII2iAJYWP4cR6kaufoI4dNDli4yXQxZvIKLfj4yCwYR9oRF6fcBBcmm4d7IBnqBIlgFoCViGIBPoWxLx7gF-lLInqh8xb_BAOaBT6b3xdTQPQO3Xdbmlyr1k6yekMeuMz90BWeKmX3m0Gb8Q6Seb8Hi92Gq-8R24oBpceotqpxUJgalZ5Zfv3Hrbkg/s320/PXL_20230208_154528021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br />After the hike, we head out on a shorter, backwards version, of yesterday's ride. It is colder and the wind bites a bit deeper, but it is still lovely. I determine that this is, indeed, the direction from which we approached the tunnel on Tokyo. After stopping briefly before the tunnel to photograph a small waterfall, we come to the tunnel. This time there are cars. This time I walk my bike through most of the tunnel. My foot begins to ache a bit so I become glad that we near the end of our ride. Plus, I am getting hungry. I think of how hungry I would get when we used to go to Hell Week, day after day of century riding turning my appetite almost wolfish and insatiable. Still, it is nice to actually feel hungry and to need food. I wonder how much of our eating is fueled by boredom/loneliness/inactivity. </p><p></p><p> </p><p>We decide to just hike the last day due to the high winds, and indeed they are strong. We start by climbing to the top of Natural Bridge and then do a 12 mile loop. As we walk, I think how natural, no pun intended;-), it feels to be out here in the woods. I am, however, glad there is a path for else-wise I fear I would be hopelessly lost. Learning to navigate by compass has been one of those winter chores that I always think I will have time to do while it is cold and dreary out yet never seem to accomplish. Such a long list of things many of which will never get done. </p><p></p><p> </p><p>We pass through groves of Rhododendron so thick that the are all you can see on both sides of the path. Indeed, in places someone has cut them back. We come across a board that has the tracks of what appear to be a large Bobcat on boards laid down covering a muddy spot that I promptly slip and fall into. At one point, there is a mile or so of sporadically, large areas where something has been pawing at and moving leaves. We see no tracks to give us a clue, but they are large areas and obviously some animal has moved them. I wonder if it is a black bear coming out of hibernation and looking to refuel an empty belly. </p><p></p><p> </p><p>We sit on a log and have our lunches: soup an peanut butter sandwiches. Shortly thereafter a lone female hiker appears. I suggest we allow her to pass as I assume she will be faster than we are, or should I say, I am, for she is much younger. And she does keep up a good pace. But near the end, we catch and pass her as we near the end. I tease Jon about losing the gazelle to follow and note that her gait was, indeed, graceful. He suggests that perhaps she is a runner, and I think of a girl from the county named Chrissy Johnson whose running was so gloriously light and beautiful I could have watched for hours. Her brothers were the same. As if their feet just briefly touch earth to prove they are, indeed, human. It is then we see a sign someone has put up as a trail marker designating the area as "the naked mile." This is not too far out from Natural Bridge. We decide it is a prank but it brings a grin to both of our faces. </p><p></p><p> </p><p>And then it is over and time to go home. The drive, despite good company, begins to seem interminable, particularly when we hit a traffic jam near Lexington. Waze takes me through part of the city to bypass it, but it is still slow going. Myriad thoughts pass through my mind on the drive because I know what my feelings will be when I get home from past experiences. I will be happy to be home in familiar surroundings, to have a cat on my lap purring. Yet there will be a sadness that the adventure has come to an end and a yearning for just another day. And there will be tiredness from all the physical activity, but a good tiredness that left memories and, hopefully, greater strength. And yet again, as I have thought so often during the trip, I think how very blessed I have been having health and friendship. Yeah, it was fun. <br /><br /></p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-21559835209590560192023-01-25T07:01:00.003-08:002023-01-25T07:01:58.200-08:00Underdressed and Cold<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"She understands now what she, </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>in all her worry, had forgotten.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>That even as she hesitates and </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>wavers, even as she thinks too much</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>and moves too cautiously, she doesn't</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>always have to get it right. It's okay</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>to look back even as you move forward."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Jennifer E. Smith</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">As I age, I find training myself to stay strong to be so different than when I was younger. Mainly, I suppose, because of recovery time changing. But also due to other things perhaps such as the laziness factor. Additionally, I suppose, there is the idea that I have been there, done that so many times. Once you have conquered something, done something successfully, doing it again, while still quite sweet and bringing a sense of accomplishment, does not have quite the same shine as the first time: the first triathlon, the first PBP, the first kiss. Riding or running used to be just disciplining myself to put one foot in front of the other, to turn the crank over and over, and that worked. And it still works, but not as easily as it once did. Mental? Physical? Probably a combination. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">So I worry a bit about plans for a ride followed by a walk after my morning weight workout when I find it is one of those days when it takes more effort than normal to lift the same weights. That usually happens only when a. I have gotten out of my normal routine or b. I am not fully recovered or c. I did not sleep well. There are, however, times when it just crops up unexpectedly. It happened when I was younger as well, but not so often and did not hit so hard. And when younger, perhaps, I was more likely to skip the weights as muscle retention was not quite as vital as it is at this stage in my being. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I am just tired. I toy with canceling, but know that it used to be, when I was doing triathlons, that going ahead with the workout was one way of extending endurance and keeping tiredness at bay in the future. Only by pushing boundaries do they seem to recede. And I have a century I hope to ride this coming week-end. I struggle with determining if that is still a useful strategy and really don't yet have an answer. I will give it a go. And I will forgive myself if I am wrong. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">So I go to the ride. Jon has planned a route to Lexington from Madison that is supposed to be 35 to 40 miles. Of course, I should have known better: Jon consistently underestimates the mileage on his routes. Unfortunately for me, not only is the distance longer than anticipated (43 miles), but I find as the sun hides behind clouds in anticipation of the coming snow, I have not dressed warmly enough. Three miles is nothing on a warm, pleasant day, but today it is like eternity. When Jon asks about stopping at a store to warm up before proceeding, I even toy with the idea of telling him I will stop and asking him to come pick me up, but I firmly squash that thought and tell him it is best to continue riding. It brings back a memory of a cold, winter century ride with Bill Pustow and Steve Rice. It was our second century of the week-end, both in freezing weather, and I mention that I might turn around. Jaws dropped as they urged me to continue with them. And, of course, I did. Was the end of that ride miserable? Was I as cold as I am today or just tired? I don't remember. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">From the store stop at Lexington to the end of the ride, I am freezing cold, miserably cold though I never reach that stage when one's whole body shivers involuntarily making it difficult to remain upright on a bicycle. Jon occasionally urges me to pick up the pace thinking that will warm me, but what he does not realize is that this pace is it for right now. The gas tank is nearing empty. In my mind I think backwards to times when I perhaps asked more of others than what they had to give at the time and ask forgiveness for my naivety and for the arrogance of youth. Or perhaps it is there and the reluctance to increase my pace is mental. Regardless, it is there as tall and strong as any wall. Today, I fear, I lack the strength, mental and/or physical, and I will not break through. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">At the store we are verbally accosted by a man outside that obviously has some issues. It makes me sad, watching him struggle to communicate while knowing how vital communication is for a meaningful life. He incontestably has limitations and is lamenting that nobody listens to him, that we will be getting seven inches of snow. How sad it must be to have one's opinion continuously discounted, justified or not? Later, while Jon is in the store, he informs me he also has visual disabilities and that people criticize him for not working but he does the best he can. And in the end, perhaps that is what we all do, the best that we can do with what we have been given. How easy it is for us to feel superior without really knowing what we would do in similar circumstances. Perhaps rather than feeling so smug, I think, I should be extra thankful. My parents were not perfect, but they met my needs as best they could. My education was not Ivy League, but it was a good education that I should, perhaps, have made better use of it. My mother received adequate prenatal care. She probably drank while carrying me because it was their wont to have a martini before dinner every night, but she was not an alcoholic and did not use drugs. My father did not beat me or molest me. Blessings. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">And so, despite feeling as if my toes are blocks of ice that will crack and fall off at the slightest jolt and that I will never be truly warm again, I ride to my car, grab a warmer garment, and head out for a four mile walk, working my way through the tiredness that has only been exacerbated by the cold. Looking back again, I remember jumping off the bike and hitting the ground running rather than walking. Just as back then, it takes a bit for my legs to allow walking to feel natural rather than stilted and forced, as if it is a new motion. But they do loosen though I never lose the tiredness. I "think" I even manage a decent pace for most of the walk. Still, rather than lamenting, as I sometimes do, that a ride or walk or hike has come to an end, I am happy to return to the car. And hungry.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As we drive to a well deserved and much needed dinner I think that perhaps not only is okay, as Ms. Smith notes, to look backwards as we move forward, but necessary to plotting a successful course forward into this unknown morass known as aging. If, indeed, there is a successful way to age. For it seems to me that aging, while it brings certain advantages, brings more than its share of losses, particularly the losses of people and abilities. Regardless, it is the way of things. Old age is uncharted territory, known only through living or vicariously through the writings of others. And I am grateful for that which I have been given. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-48275340190365551652023-01-13T09:54:00.004-08:002023-01-13T09:54:53.251-08:00Rainy Days and the Wimp <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"So it's raining? You're </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>not sugar. You won't melt....</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>enjoy it."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Anonymous </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>A</b> century plan abandoned in light of the forecast for rain. It is not supposed to be terribly windy. It is not supposed to be a hard rain, or even a steady rain, or an all dy rain, and it is not supposed to be particularly cold, lower fifties, but the plan is abandoned none the less. I really need to purchase a new rain jacket. My old Showers Pass jacket is in shreds, and when I last checked they were sold out of the cheaper one. I "think" I remember asking to be notified when the jackets are available again, but so far no luck. I tell myself to remember to check their web site. In the end, however, deep down, I know these are excuses. Fifty in the rain is very doable. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">My husband would have laughed and called me a wimp for even thinking of backing out, and I, I would have ridden regardless at that point. It was why he did it. And he was right. I am definitely NOT sugar and would not melt. How often did he challenge me leading me far beyond where I might otherwise have gone? Sometimes it made me angry, but on the whole, I normally was glad and grateful. For there are sights and sounds in the rain that you don't find elsewhere. I certainly would not have the accomplishments I have under my belt without his encouragement and support. But back to the ride. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>I still plan to ride, however, just not so far and after the weatherperson says most of the rain will be gone. Jon and I agree to meet in the afternoon when the rain is supposedly going to be gone and ride 35 miles with about 1,800 feet of climb with most of the climb due to three hills we will encounter. Afterward we are to walk a bit over six miles in a loop around Madison ending with the walk up Hatcher Hill. I am beginning to learn some of the names in this city despite not living there, but it certainly has taken me long enough. I think Rich Ries was the first to take me up that hill on his St. Nick's Hick ride, a ride I showed up for despite not knowing Rich other than a FB follow or any of the other riders. It was about a year after Lloyd's passing and I was still struggling mightily redefining myself and keeping my feet under me. I will be forever grateful for the welcome I received that day and hold the ride close to my heart. <br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Frankly, if we had not made plans to ride, I don't think I would have been able to force myself out on the bike. With the gray, dreary weather, it would be too comforting to sit on my butt on the couch reading the book my daughter recommended and that I have found fascinating, "The Girl with Seven Names." But there will be time for reading and relaxing. My body is crying for exercise, and I do so prefer being outside over the trainer despite the fact the trainer is probably better for me. Jon and I talk a bit of how much easier it is to get out with another person on bad weather days or gray days. And I know, for me at least, this is true. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Despite our slow pace, and I mean slow, I am pleased with how I feel on the hills. I don't press, but I also don't suffer as much as I expected to. My thighs complain, but it is not an injury complain, just one of laziness and being out of shape. My knees are quiet, always a good thing. Now is the time of year to begin including hills, and lots of them, into my routine. It is just too easy to become afraid of hills on the bike, to avoid the hills on the bike, because, well, because they hurt, particularly if you push on them. But, oh, how much scenery and beauty one will miss if one sticks to the flats. I may be getting old, but I am not ready to go there yet, to lose the feel of of your lungs gasping for air, your thighs calling for surcease, your mind trying to deceive you and tell you can't because, of course, the mind tries to quit long before the body really needs to. And the rewards, not only gained strength, but beautiful vistas and long, quick descents, the kind that require every ounce of concentration because a fall could, most likely would, be disastrous and inevitably painful. For as much as we like to think we are invincible and/or strong, we are in the end just weak flesh and bones, easily trashed, broken, and torn. It is the reason I don't encourage people to begin riding. I will help them if asked AFTER they make that decision, but I don't want the responsibility of talking someone into riding and then seeing them get hurt. If you ride, you fall. It comes with the territory. The question is how badly will you be hurt. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I think of my frailness as we descend knowing that we have ridden through numerous cinder patches laid down on the roads during the recent ice and snow. But neither of us flats. As Jon points out, any flat due to cinders would likely be a slow one, not the rapid deflation that grabs your handlebar. And we are back to the ride start too quickly despite my going rather slowly the entire day. Still, I am chilly. Yet again, I overdressed and the dampness of sweat, the worst winter enemy one has, chills me. Due to the late start much of our walk will be in the dark. But thankfully I have dry clothes to change into. The river is lovely in the dark with lights reflecting out across the water. Due to the cold, it is mainly deserted other than a man out walking his dog. Indeed, we meet very few people on foot anywhere on the route despite walking a bit over six miles. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">So no century for the day, but a good ride and a reasonably challenging walk. No rain, just wet roads.....we didn't melt. And I did, for the most part, other than chilling, enjoy it. There will be other days for century rides, but I do believe I have become quite the wimp. Perhaps next go round I'll show a bit more fortitude. There will be time to rest.....just not yet. I am not quite done. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-60870233795062951572023-01-06T03:58:00.005-08:002023-01-06T03:58:45.934-08:00P&Y Plans Foiled: It's All Good <div style="text-align: center;"><b>"Sometimes our fate resembles a </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>fruit tree in winter. Who would think</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>those branches would turn green and</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>blossom, but we hope it, we know it."</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Johann Wolfgang von Goethe</b><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is the rare January day when it is supposed to be in the fifties the majority of the day, and so I suggest to Jon that we embark on a lunch ride to P&Y, a place I have become rather fond of during shorter the colder months. It is halfway in a fifty mile ride and rather flat. The food is good and the store is small and normally not crowded. He agrees and plans are laid to meet at ten and ride for lunch. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I do consider chickening out when looking at the wind prediction, but remind myself that it is not only normal for winter, but relatively mild. And it is time to get back into shape after a few weeks of Christmas festivities that included overeating and eating things that are decidedly unhealthy. Time to quit being a wimp, something gradually becoming more pronounced as I age. And despite having my family in, I am ready for a friend. Don't get me wrong. I delight in my children and the grands, but visits are demanding in a way friendship is not, particularly with the children still being so small. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We are both happy to be on our bikes and it feels good to be out. Even the wind that will be my enemy is almost welcome, still light and caressing my face rather than viciously slapping it. Sometimes, I suppose, being on a bicycle is like coming home. How many hours and miles have I spent? Uncounted and lost along with the Big Dog Site and all the memories the narratives held. During the first half of the ride I keep thinking repeatedly just how very good it feels to get out, to use my muscles, to see the world however bleak it might be this time year. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I barely notice the long climb up Hatcher Hill, and only later discover that my bike was in the small chain ring. Duh, no wonder. The day is warm enough that I stop at the bottom of the climb and lose my jacket. Later I will be very glad to have that jacket as the temperature drops and the winds increase, but for now I am happy to stick it in my jersey pocket. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is shortly thereafter, right when we are making the transition from city to country, that the funniest event of the day happens. I hear a cat. This is a very loud cat. It is a cat who sounds as if he needs help and I can't ride on by perhaps because a cats meow, according to research, somehow mimic the cries of a human baby. "Where is that cat?," I ask Jon, only then remembering that the previous night I had changed my phone ring from the Nutcracker to a cat. I burst out laughing at my own cluelessness and will chuckle about it throughout the day. Perhaps at least now I will hear my phone rather then tuning it out like the "Yes, Dear" husband who is paying absolutely no attention to the question being asked. Not that I usually answer it if it rings as it is normally a spam caller, just another change the world has wrought during my lifetime. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When we reach the lunch stop we find it is still closed for the holidays. We discuss whether to go to Butlersville or North Vernon. Butlersville is closer. It is noon and I don't have a light if something would go wrong. Butlersville will bring us in around 60 miles whereas North Vernon would be closer to 80 and would be a longer lunch. I am relieved that Jon does not seem terribly disappointed when I say I don't want to go to Vernon. I am relieved that he knows the route to Butlersville, for I do not. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We arrive and my intention to begin eating more sensibly vanishes when the girl says the special is a cheeseburger and fries. The store is crowded and we decide to eat outside at the picnic table. We both gobble our food as it is cold (the weather not the food) and seems to be growing colder by the moment. We later lament that we did not have the good sense to eat at the side of the building sheltering from the wind. But there you have it. The food was unexpectedly good for a gas station type store. And if we had good sense we probably would not be out on bicycles in this weather, which while warm for January is still quite cold. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">The ride home becomes a trial every time we turn into the wind. But since it will only turn out to be around sixty miles, it is not a real concern, just a hindrance, one that will hopefully help me to become stronger and bloom for spring riding. Branches will, despite doubts, become green. Effort will blossom. And barring illness or accident, there is another year of riding in front of me. And so, I wish everyone a Happy New Year that includes many hours on the bike knowing that some of them may be more miserable than happy as fitness gives birth, but knowing that the bad days make those good days, the ones where you feel like you could ride strongly and forever and with great joy. May 2023 be blessed for us all. We finish the day with a few miles of hiking at Clifty Falls, then head to our homes to rest, to build, to prepare for the coming spring. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-85936401583977075732022-12-13T05:42:00.004-08:002022-12-13T05:42:35.757-08:00A Century Ride as the Winter Solstice Approaches <div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>"We cannot stop the winter</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>or summer from coming. We</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>cannot stop the spring or fall or</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>make them other than they are. </b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>They are gifts from the universe</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>we cannot refuse. But we can </b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>choose what we will contribute to</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>life when each arrives."</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b>Gary Zukhav</b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: center;" tabindex="0"><b> </b></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">I must confess, I have very mixed feelings when I decide to ride a century in December, a month when I normally did a minimum of two centuries just a few years ago: my Christmas breakfast century whose route varied and Bethlehem whose route did not vary. I was younger then, and stronger. I had a pretty close knit group that would always attend. But it is time to go on. Even past time. I grow weak. A weather and route weenie. And it is not supposed to be so very cold today and the wind is not supposed to be so very wild. So out the door I go praying that the weather does not overly beat me up. I know I will hurt by the end. That is the price of admission when one has not ridden a century for a bit. But rather than paying at the door, I know I will pay at the end. I just hope it is not too ugly.<br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"><br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">Since December of 2014, I have lost my husband, two brothers, my mother, my sister, and a nephew. If there is one thing age and loss have taught me is that time on this earth is limited and should not be wasted. Which is not to say that I don't still waste time, but it is at least conscious wastefulness, and today will not be a waste. A century ride is never a waste. And if you don't use your body the saying is true, you truly do lose it. Additionally, age makes it harder to get it back. Better just to persevere until the time comes to hang the bicycle on the wall for good. And adventure may await. One never quite knows what to expect from a long ride.<br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">The morning is gloomy with nary a hint of sunshine though the forecasters said the sun might peek through this afternoon. I sincerely hope so for there has not been one ray for what seems like an eternity. At least the temperature has been mellow for this time of year. And at least some of my obligations and worries are coming to an end. But I long to bathe in the sun despite the fact his power has waned and lacks the heat he has in summer. <br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">Jon agrees to ride with me so we meet at the ride start in Madison and head out both worrying a bit about how we are dressed. As it turns out, we are both fine though I am a tad overdressed. I have already asked him to agree not to linger at stops. Winter riding is not so very hard with the appropriate clothing so long as the distance is short and no stops are necessary. To me, one of the hardest things about winter century rides are the necessity of stops. Inevitably, within a short time I begin to chill. To try to prevent this today, I unzip my jacket well before stops allowing the wind to reach inside my warm outer shell and dispel some of the inevitable dampness that builds during exercise. It helps, but does not eliminate the discomfort completely. I remember one cold brevet where another rider was upset that I left the control so quickly saying he wanted to ride with me, but my body had begun shivering involuntarily to the point where if I didn't leave, I was unsure if I would be able to keep the bike upright. Just another reminder that in the end, however much I like to feel in control of things, I truly am not. Even my own body has demands and needs that I cannot control. <br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"><br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">The route we are riding does not have a first store stop so we stop rather late at a park. The picnic table has collapsed and slants downward, but we manage to sit for a few moments and eat what we have brought. Jon has a Cliff bar I think and I have a half whole wheat p and j sandwich. It tastes wonderful and I need it, but I am glad we move on quickly. I briefly think of the times we have tarried there on this route, luxuriating in the finer weather. Today is not, however, such a day. <br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"><br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">We have decided to eschew the traditional Subway lunch stop as it is so early in the ride and not a favorite of mine anyway. We go quite some distance further to a coffee shop we both know that also has sandwiches. But on our way we face a long, rather boring stretch that is, as normal, into the wind. Though the wind is not inordinately strong, it is strong enough that I struggle and the scenery here is repetitive, not helping anything. We have reached the point in the ride where conversation is sparse and scattered. Jon rides just a bit ahead, stopping to wait at times as I fall behind. Barren field after barren field waiting patiently for spring and planting time. Lush greenness is a vague memory. The world seems sepia colored other than the occasional yard that we pass that has Christmas decorations outside. </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">Decorations bring to mind that it is not too long before the children will visit for the holiday, and I set my mind yet again to determining the menu trying to plan for vegetarians and young children that are not the adventurous eaters that my daughter was when young. I quite enjoy it but it makes me hungry and I realize I will be VERY glad to hit the lunch stop. <br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">Lunch is delicious and does not take overly long as I worry not only about chilling but about getting in before dark. I brought lights just in case, but I don't like to be on busier roads when the light has faded. Odd because night riding was one of my favorite things about brevets, but only when we were out on side, lightly traveled roads. Even during those years, I worried when there were lots of cars. </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">After lunch we get a good chuckle when a group of children come to the side of the road hailing and cheering us. One yells, "Do you like ketchup and mustard?" It takes me a moment before I realize it is a reference to our jackets. Jon is dressed in a red jacket and I have on my yellow jacket. I think how refreshing it is to actually see children outside in the yard doing something rather than inside the house watching television or playing video games. Perhaps I remember incorrectly, but I remember being outside most of the time when I was not being tortured in school. Not that I didn't like school or the other children or the teachers or reading. I adored reading. But I did not like the sitting required and being trapped inside, particularly on lovely days when the earth just seemed to abound with things to do and places to explore. </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"><br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0">Sometimes the last miles of a century, particularly when one has been lazy, can be more a death march than a pleasure, but despite my being out of shape, it is not so today. I am tired, pleasantly tired, and I am as stiff, but I know I could go further, easier anymore than going faster for sure. We are in before dark with some minutes to spare. I would not chose a winter day as my favorite for riding, but I am glad that I did choose to ride and make use of the day and my body, to appreciate the starkness of the trees against the gray sky, to almost laugh out loud with excitement when a few rays of sun do happen to break through the ponderous gloom that has settled on the earth recently. Yeah, it was a good day. And I realize yet again that I am blessed. <br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"> </div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"><br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" style="text-align: left;" tabindex="0"><br /></div><div class="slideshow-slide-content" tabindex="0"><div class="slideshow-slide-dek"><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p></div>
</div><p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-62333695310768472332022-11-12T05:39:00.005-08:002022-11-12T05:39:41.801-08:00Orleans: Trying to Make Use of Coin <p style="text-align: center;"><b>"Time is the coin of life. It</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>is the only coin you have, and only you</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>can determine how it will be spent.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Be careful lest you let other</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>people spend it for you."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Carl Sandburg </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Nobody in their right mind can complain about the weather we have had recently other than the dire need for and lack of rain. Temperatures have soared above normal to the low to mid seventies. Skies have been sunny and largely cloudless and the sun still carries a kiss of warmth with his touch. His caress is more moderate than it is in summer when he is strong, demanding, and forceful, but it is there though without the threat of burned skin. Less demanding and more comforting, lacking the passion of summer but gaining substance, as love between couples seems to deepen when steeped with years. Even morning temperatures have been moderate. In other words, it has been perfect bicycling weather. Yes, one still has to layer a bit, but to end the day in comfort in shorts and a jersey in November.....well, it doesn't get much better than that. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I had been excited about a planned new century route that Jon had put together, but my car is on the fritz and so I bowed out. I certainly don't want to break down on the way home in the dark and with no shoulder to pull off on. I thought he might ride it on his own, but instead he elects to drive here to ride to Orleans with me. For we are both celebrating and mourning, or I am. I am celebrating that it is going to be a perfect day for a ride with mild winds and temperatures in the seventies and mourning that it is going to come crashing down and the forecast shows highs in the forties and lows in the twenties for at least a week after tomorrow. Time, I suppose, to switch to hiking, or to mostly shorter rides. I do not have the fortitude to face cold weather than I did in the past. Mental, physical, or a combination of the two.....I still do not really know. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We start at a faster pace than I like for this time of year, but there is a bite in the air and the pace helps to tame it. About a mile in, however, Jon notices that his headset appears to be loose. We return to the house and he attempts to fix it. It tightens and seems tight, but then for some reason loosens again a few miles down the road. I ask if he feels safe riding or wants to back up and punt. He opts to ride. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The fields are mostly bare, stubbled like a man's beard when he needs a shave, almost desolate looking. I suppose it is that lonely look that fields take on when winter hits as if they mourn the flowers and greenness that adorn them in the spring and summer months just as I do. Farm houses stand alone, isolated, shielding those within from the winds that have no barrier to soften their blow. Even the grass along the side of the road looks finished and disheartened, hopelessly clinging to a bit of green but mostly brown and withered looking. In the areas we pass that have trees, they are mostly bare and seem taller somehow. The sycamores, my favorites this time of year once the maples have lost their leaves, look lovely and graceful, their limbs like those of a dancer. What, I wonder, do trees think of winter? But I suppose trees don't have a brain, at least as we know it, or think.</p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I have two routes to Orleans, but I have chosen the more moderate of the two for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I have chosen it because it is more moderate though it is 103 miles (and will be 106 today with turning around to fix the headset and uncounted mileage out to the dollar store in Medora). Secondly, I love the stretch between Medora Tunnelton Hill, including the descent on Tunnelton that S curves under the railroad by a narrow lane. Or I should say I allowed Jon to choose, but had I ridden alone this was the route I also would have chosen. The stretch winds past the ancient and no longer functioning Medora Brick Plant and follows the railroad. I think briefly of Packman, for he was the one who told me of the railroad tunnel I have never found and the reason I came this way. He is gone now and hopefully at peace. I think of how in the spring this stretch will explode with color and spring flowers, delighting my eyes, a painting just waiting to be captured on canvas. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">This route has a late lunch stop, and with the extra miles it is later than normal. Both Jon and I are famished when we arrive at Speak Easy Pizza. They still have their tables outside and the day is beautiful, and so we sit outside and eat our pizzas and share a few thoughts before heading back through Salem and home. As we leave, I realize my legs are a bit tired. I tell them to quit complaining and a bit of spinning convinces them that they are okay and will make it with no problem. Sometime I wonder about Jon's willingness to ride with me because he is capable of a much faster pace, but I am grateful for his company. I think of past riding companions. So few left that ever ride a century. So few that I ever see anymore. But I refuse to let sadness seep into this beautiful day. Instead I think how lucky I have been to have known each of them and created memories that I hold dear. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As we near Salem, Jon points out a huge cloud of smoke and asks me if there is a power plant nearby. There is not, at least to the best of my knowledge, and we both wonder what is on fire that would cause such smoke. We never have our curiosity sated. And before you know it, we are at Casey's, our last store stop. I opt for a soft drink, something I have pretty much given up other than occasionally on a ride. I wonder what Jon is up to, go outside and find he has been cornered by a stranger as so often happens on rides. I chuckle a bit and drink my soft drink. He enters the store and comes out with nothing saying that when he got in there, he realized there was nothing he wanted. They have no small cans of pop. Everything is large sized. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We leave the route for a bit of a work around due to road construction but soon are on Quaker Road heading for the huge descent. On Old 56 I see a young Amish boy, maybe five or six, a straw hat perched upon his tiny head and a grin plastered across his face in the field with five or six ponies furiously waving at Jon who does not see him. I wave back and he smiles. Further up the road we come upon a mini Amish cart driven by children pulling out of the drive along with a full sized car driven by adults. There is an Amish woman on a bicycle with no pedals, powered by her legs and and any downhill slant in the road. A grin lights my face and I remember how much Lloyd admired the Amish and the simplicity that seems to be their lives. Idealized? Most likely. But he always longed for simpler times, something perhaps we all do at times. I think of my mom in her nineties one time telling me that she just didn't want to have to deal with any more problems. The world does, at times, already seem too much to handle. And I only have so much coin to spend, and I want to spend it wisely.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">This ride today was wise, almost sophic, in some ways. I have no regrets for how I spent today's coin, on the road with the simplicity of shorts and jersey (back pockets stuffed with layers from a gradual strip tease). I have no regrets for the too much pizza I ate at lunch or the aches in my thighs and the stiffness in my movements that reminds me that I am, indeed, aging and that will impact the soundness of my sleep tonight. While I do not delude myself with the belief that I have not and will not waste some of the coin that has been allotted to me, I try my best not to do so, to hold the moments more dear. And this is one thing that becomes easier with age and the realization that there is, indeed, a last time for everything. I am indeed blessed and have been for many, many years. And I am grateful for the day, the company, bicycles, and the coin that I have already been given. <br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537959082951796790.post-79534513749206473432022-10-23T04:44:00.003-07:002022-10-23T04:44:20.136-07:00Lost in October<p style="text-align: center;"><b>"September is my favourite month,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>particularly in Cornwall. I felt, even</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>as a child, that if you get a wonderful day in</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>September, you think: This could be one</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>of the last. The summer is nearly over.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>When you get a wonderful day in May, you</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>think: So, there's more coming."</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Tim Rice </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: left;">It is not September here in Indiana, but October, but the feelings of Mr. Rice hold true. Today the sun is shining and it is warm enough that shortly I will be riding in just a sports bra, jersey, shorts, light head covering, and gloves. The blue of the sky is exquisite and the sun bright. But tomorrow could be different. What has been give can easily be taken away. I head out on the Surly looking for some gravel despite the drought and the dust I know will be waiting. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I am unsure why I pick the Surly, but it allows me more freedom to explore with its wider tires and ability to take some gravel. I don't care for the thick, large gravel, but more because of the stress on older joints than the fear I used to have of falling. With gravel, I have found that the words of Steve Rice hold true. It is better and easier to go faster throwing caution to the wind. So when I reach Wascum Road, I put my weight on the back tires, loosen my grip on the handlebars, and pedal as hard as I can while still being comfortable and not going anaerobic. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I reach the point where I had to turn around the other day and think how glad I am to have this entire day to play with: no other place to be and nothing that presses to be done. Time is, indeed, a gift. And the bicycle and lovely fall scenery helps me leave my troubles and worries behind in the dust. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Farmers are hurriedly making use of the spate of good weather to gather crops, but this means at places large clouds of dust as I pass fields that are being worked. I am glad that I have my neck gater and pull it up as I pass by. I laugh when I reach to get a drink and get grossed out by the dust that has collected on my bottle, wipe it off, and drink knowing that I need to stay hydrated. At times, I pull off the road to allow farm vehicles unfettered access without having to worry about a cyclist claiming "her right" to the road. My day is for pleasure. Their day is more important: feeding a hungry world. I just heard on television about expected food shortages this year that includes corn and tomatoes, and in my mind I issue a thank you for their attempts to mitigate this shortage. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I also think how farming is still mainly dominated by men. Occasionally I will see a woman helping in the fields, but not today. Since it looks to me, an outsider and not a farmer, like most of what is being done is driving trucks and farm machinery, I wonder why and really reach no good conclusion except, perhaps, tradition and farms, perhaps, being left more often to men as heirs rather than women. When I worked at the horse farm, I often drove the tractor to bush hog and kind of enjoyed it as the grass and weeds feel sway to the tractors dominion, but only briefly tamed. But then I remember as a child, my brothers were taught to drive and were allowed to drive the lawn tractor. As a girl, I was not permitted to do so. Our home had fairly strict divisions of labor, and they were determined by gender not abilities. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54pAlIAYCnLcElILtvAtk4vTpHUF5p9a0EtbXbRetT55km9kCzLyNbGPlhfuhkW2v3IJ93VIBKpR7yzCWTG-PKwSJoGgUPE7uZ55OWMVkmFJnY-04bPPt3ZdvP7gc64zE9akmeZNGX4Fm9HK4SJFeVY02P67xfwXG0NT4-OFGKUlZEahRLLV1f7iRPQ/s4032/IMG_20221021_124225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54pAlIAYCnLcElILtvAtk4vTpHUF5p9a0EtbXbRetT55km9kCzLyNbGPlhfuhkW2v3IJ93VIBKpR7yzCWTG-PKwSJoGgUPE7uZ55OWMVkmFJnY-04bPPt3ZdvP7gc64zE9akmeZNGX4Fm9HK4SJFeVY02P67xfwXG0NT4-OFGKUlZEahRLLV1f7iRPQ/s320/IMG_20221021_124225.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmvBtzJDo3FjAY3fhkYV9AqJdb1iyhQHhixG1T0IAHcq4Pcpv9GYqQ5V6Y5mfZg1bfCxr8IUuMN3O3z56V8akOJ9GPhDAOFeLFKYVkJKIovV-wK5zQyVz3HP7WAuk4zo1sCgb-cAfEot3VgI6Si967htpaEyz7FIzbC7m6RR3uS7QUTZnZ7Tc43nL0zw/s4032/IMG_20221021_132233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmvBtzJDo3FjAY3fhkYV9AqJdb1iyhQHhixG1T0IAHcq4Pcpv9GYqQ5V6Y5mfZg1bfCxr8IUuMN3O3z56V8akOJ9GPhDAOFeLFKYVkJKIovV-wK5zQyVz3HP7WAuk4zo1sCgb-cAfEot3VgI6Si967htpaEyz7FIzbC7m6RR3uS7QUTZnZ7Tc43nL0zw/s320/IMG_20221021_132233.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-XcjnNiIef_dTFpQQJtYpHz0iexW4i7qzpBswlsVaVO2YSokmo44WzBnJ1bMHICvfc8d9cz6S1GZltZJYUqw0TQ2IoGUp-b80jlH47VgoWaa7TpDLWZKmun32TnJSY86_QZibgNlJEkFmS5WACi_YkWNnszkoyTvBNXuuRt6oGmSHG3fXUyou885YQ/s4032/IMG_20221021_113602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-XcjnNiIef_dTFpQQJtYpHz0iexW4i7qzpBswlsVaVO2YSokmo44WzBnJ1bMHICvfc8d9cz6S1GZltZJYUqw0TQ2IoGUp-b80jlH47VgoWaa7TpDLWZKmun32TnJSY86_QZibgNlJEkFmS5WACi_YkWNnszkoyTvBNXuuRt6oGmSHG3fXUyou885YQ/s320/IMG_20221021_113602.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I begin to reach roads where I must make decisions about which way to go while being not quite sure where each road will lead. I try to go basically west or south, but sometime the road fools me turning and taking me north. And I wander and decide until I realize that I have absolutely no idea where I am. I am gloriously lost knowing that eventually I will find a highway that will tell me where I am or I can use the Wahoo to retrace my route. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I really have enjoyed my Wahoo for club riding and rides where there is a prescribed course, but when I wander I miss my Garmin. It is nice to have street names when you wander, and Wahoo only has names for roads if they are a predetermined course. And while it has a retrace route function, it does not, at least that I have figured out, have a return to start with the option of using another route. But Wahoo is what I have and until it breaks I don't have to make a decision about what to purchase next. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">As I begin to climb, having left farm roads behind, I notice how beautiful this road is with the trees overhanging and steep drop offs on the side. The sides of the road are golden with leaves that have fallen yet there are still leaves on the trees in all their different colors ranging from brown to red to orange to yellow. The wind is rather strong causing leaves to swirl down and the modest grade allows me to play my traditional game of crunching leaves with my tire. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I laugh coming upon a chair chained to a tree alongside the road. Behind the tree is a sheer drop off. Above the chair is a sign announcing it is for sale. The tree and land or the chair? What, I wonder, is for sale. When I stop to grab a photo, I also find that I have no cell service, something happening more and more to me these days. I suspect my old phone is to blame, but I am not quite sure. Another purchase I will soon need to make while prices on everything skyrocket. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGx4T8kjnDA65AlFrsYvEmYzHapFTGm1N_4XOWQmi6mN6_F7bYEW6rKM3T_QTTTr_pWyBAZeqfuWBZjj2rptFTu9orPyF_Yo3XYXEn7un1-GpdwU4I9NAukR09FfGVo5Zcf9r30FrJ5rMb-OWKsDgmV9n6clWwQ5XG8WstE-v-Eo7dh8kITsUXtf8-NA/s4032/IMG_20221021_134118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGx4T8kjnDA65AlFrsYvEmYzHapFTGm1N_4XOWQmi6mN6_F7bYEW6rKM3T_QTTTr_pWyBAZeqfuWBZjj2rptFTu9orPyF_Yo3XYXEn7un1-GpdwU4I9NAukR09FfGVo5Zcf9r30FrJ5rMb-OWKsDgmV9n6clWwQ5XG8WstE-v-Eo7dh8kITsUXtf8-NA/s320/IMG_20221021_134118.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16xseFxPlBulzd28tIrsbiUsY78yHIHg43GFG0Pr5X5PCGfRYDvQhNvLuDC6S6uHdl0cVQiUB336BEYL2HHt8Ry1m-xe8Q-jSPO5DkXOCrULVpeonz22DGWbwi_RQbuNI8clD_AapefA2AMS2EU07kVFP-Fuqi7iihk6VstRiXWKXkaH1TrxUVdKnYA/s4032/IMG_20221021_144815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16xseFxPlBulzd28tIrsbiUsY78yHIHg43GFG0Pr5X5PCGfRYDvQhNvLuDC6S6uHdl0cVQiUB336BEYL2HHt8Ry1m-xe8Q-jSPO5DkXOCrULVpeonz22DGWbwi_RQbuNI8clD_AapefA2AMS2EU07kVFP-Fuqi7iihk6VstRiXWKXkaH1TrxUVdKnYA/s320/IMG_20221021_144815.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43qbcQ8RFHsY1sj4eDzxtAOIICHrhuZGXxy2Ztihn1gfGBT2ISVRC_fXUyG2RAu6Bro1M8aBQ17JLsP10tXf1j3q_UfWO7WpHvZjL-mpbtCuB_D2YUHtyFsl3jj-Z9CgX-pc1q8LC0RZB22jS3UwKc5ZXQ9e61YNdW8yHnAMKQSihkaL-PdIqPQV1uQ/s4032/IMG_20221021_134124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43qbcQ8RFHsY1sj4eDzxtAOIICHrhuZGXxy2Ztihn1gfGBT2ISVRC_fXUyG2RAu6Bro1M8aBQ17JLsP10tXf1j3q_UfWO7WpHvZjL-mpbtCuB_D2YUHtyFsl3jj-Z9CgX-pc1q8LC0RZB22jS3UwKc5ZXQ9e61YNdW8yHnAMKQSihkaL-PdIqPQV1uQ/s320/IMG_20221021_134124.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">At the top of the climb I come upon a small store that I recognize and would have bet had gone out of business due to the Pandemic. The one time I stopped previously, a number of years ago, the proprietor seemed ancient. It is just an old shed that sits outside of a house and it didn't have much then. I don't expect much now but hope for at least a drink because, carelessly, I did not bring food and am rather low on water. The "open" sign blinks in bright red flashes so I go inside. The lights are on but nobody is manning the store. I shout hello a couple times thinking perhaps she is in back, but I get no answer. I think about leaving a couple dollars and grabbing a drink out of the refrigerator, but I am not really comfortable doing that so I go outside on the porch. After fiddling with my bike for a short period of time, I leave when nobody has appeared. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">About a mile down the road, I see a sign for Delaney Park and, grateful to leave a main road, head down Rooster Hill to the road I had hoped to return home on. As usual, Delaney Park and Eden do not disappoint. The trees shimmer in the wind and the colors soothe my soul. Squirrels make rustling noises in the leaves scampering to prepare for winter, crossing the road mindless in their hurry causing me to be extra cautious. I giggle thinking of a commercial I once saw that said something about the only real difference between a squirrel and a rat is their furry tail and asking if the tail makes much of a difference. And it does. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> I ride miles without seeing a car or another human being and I think how lucky I am to have access to this. The only disturbing thing I come across is more logging which I think was happening on park land and a for sale sign on acreage up the road that I worry will be bought by someone who wants to cut down all the trees. </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;">Summer has been officially over for awhile. And we have had unusually cold weather. We even had a snow that covered the ground, beautiful in its own way but not yet welcome. But that, combined with the coming weather, makes today more special as I soak in the autumn beauty and calm peace of being on a bicycle with no demands on time, pace, or course. I can't say that fall is my favorite season for I truly adore spring and how the earth yawns and awakens graciously strewing green and colored flowers throughout the landscape. But I don't think I could ever get enough days like today. And I am grateful and give thanks. <br /></p>Puddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02417524008996997588noreply@blogger.com0