Bethlehem Century 2017

"For outlandish creatures like us, on our 

way to a heart, a brain, courage, Bethlehem

is not the end of our journey but the beginning -

not home but the place through which we must

pass if ever we are to reach home at last."

Frederick Buechner

So many Bethlehem Centuries through the years.  Some have been ridden in weather so foul that it is a miracle that we finished.  And others, like today, are blessed with temperate weather for the time of year.  With a 30 degree or more temperature variation expected through the day, I dress in light layer after layer, knowing that I will look like a pregnant chipmunk at the end of the day after I have stripped them off, and yet I don't mind.  Perhaps being rather plain has its benefits.  When I ride, I care much more about function and comfort than about style.

The Bethlehem Century is rather special to me despite the fact it is not the most scenic of my routes.  Memories make it special:  Joe Camp swirling in a yellow rain poncho he bought during one of the Challenge Series; the Mad Dog naming of Stormy when we rode the century but the stage was canceled; Steve Rice asking me if the wind ever stops blowing on this course and seeing Santa Claus at one store stop when nobody else that rode did;  three riders bailing midway and being glad I could call my daughter to sag them in as there was no shortcut to the end;  buying gloves with Grasshopper at the third store stop because our fingers were wet and frozen and the blessed gift of warmth they gave; Scott Kuchenbrod, an exceptionally talented and strong rider, his face pale and looking strained at the third store stop leaving me to understand without words that I was not the only one totally exhausted and that I did, indeed, have reason to be.  And how exhausted the holy family must have been reaching Bethlehem.  Did Mary weep at finding there was no room in the inn, her back sore from pregnancy and travel, unable to nest in the way many woman need to do soon before the birth of a child? And that even the stable was but a respite before she truly went home. Ghosts of riding companions and others from my past dance past me the entire ride, elusive yet ever present. I grow tired on the century, plagued by a cold that seems to have taken residence in my lungs, but I have not grown tried yet of the ride, the scenery, the wheels turning, the people met along the way or those that shared the journey.

Until the December my husband passed away, I used to take Christmas cards to mail on this ride.  Originally they were mailed in Bethlehem where they would stamp them with a special stamp.  When that post office closed, the New Washington Post Office took over, but you have to take them INTO the post office.  It really matters  not as I send very few Christmas cards anymore.  I still have the stack I had ready to take when he had his stroke, and I think I need to toss them. Some things left when he did.  But it was the reason I designed this century.  And I am back in my mind, trying to find my way without long stretches of gravel.  Finally successful.  I have changed and would now find gravel more acceptable, but then it had not yet seduced me seeming bumpy and just a bit too difficult to maneuver.  Speed was more important then as well I suppose.  Everything changes, always.

The fields are mostly bare,  harvest completed.  Leaves have dropped from all but the hardiest of the trees except those like the stubborn oaks who hold on as long as possible.  But there is no color there.  Reds and yellows and oranges and russets have faded into shades of brown. Occasionally as the sun warms, the smell of leaf mold wafts through the air. The last bit of green is being seeped from the grass, and I think that it is going to be a long winter.  In the morning, frost covers all the vegetation, and the sun, bright but with no heat, makes it look lovely.  The first pond I pass is beginning to freeze over, a thin layer on the top, not yet encompassing the entire surface.

I think of those who rode this century and how, other than Tour de Mad Dog centuries in the warmer weather, club centuries appear to be a thing of the past.  There are none on the club schedule.  I think of when I first started riding and how one of the reasons was to have company to make riding easier when it was cold and windy and nasty, and how things have come full circle and I will be riding mostly alone until the weather warms.  "How long," I ask myself, "will I continue that?"  And I have no answer. Steve Sexton:  no longer rides centuries.  Mike Kamenish: only rides TMD stages now.  Bill Pustow:  appears to have left century rides behind him.  Dick Rauh:  no longer a century rider.  Grasshopper:  no longer rides centuries.  And on and on, names flitting through my mind.   The few that do still ride are now much faster than these 61 year old legs can ride, particularly in the winter time and mostly are not my companions of old, the ones that know my heart and accept my song however flawed it may be.  

I cry for a bit for my brother who is having health issues that will probably mean he has to retire whether he wants to or not.  I think of how leaving a job you have had for a long time is like cutting off part of yourself even if you want to leave.  And for him, I believe, it is more important than for most.  Other than his work, I do not think he has been very happy in this life.  I think how age robs us despite our best efforts to thwart her.  I cry for my husband, the anniversary of his death looming, and for my mother, her death shortly on the heels of my husband's, and for the others that I will not be able to spend time with this holiday season.  It was on this ride that one woman told me, no too long after his death, that I just needed to get over him.  And there was, perhaps, a time when I didn't realize the sad truth and was as blissful in my ignorance as she:  we go on, we are even happy, but we never truly get over the loss of someone dear that we loved. We love again, life is good, but loss has formed and molded as surely as the womb. I think of my cousin, half joking as I cared for my mother in Hospice, telling me I will have to do this for her, for she has no children.  The fear behind the words squeezes my heart, but she is asking for an assurance I cannot give for none of us knows our destiny or how and when we will die, only that we will do so. And I cry for the riders I have known that no longer ride.  

But it is hard to remain gloomy on such a sunny day.  A nip on the leg from a dog wakes me from my melancholy and I start by being thankful he did not break the skin or pull me off the bike.  I briefly contemplate going to the door of the home to let them know there dog just sampled my calf, but there is also another dog and if they were aggressive on the road, how much more might they be on their own turf, so I sigh and ride on.  I have never had dog issues on this route before.  Many other routes, but not this one.  Dogs.  A perpetual cycling danger and bane if not well cared for and disciplined by their owners.

At the first store, I chat briefly with a hunter.  He tells me he did not get a deer, that he did not even see a deer until he was done, and I giggle and tell him the deer was probably taunting him.  He grins back and then turns once again to bury his face in his cell phone. I do not linger long as I know my pace is lagging and day light is short this time of year.

It is nice when I get to the lunch stop because by modifying the route and leaving from my home, lunch is about 10 miles later into the ride.  For some reason, I would much rather stop and have a bite to eat at 60 miles than at 50 miles.  I find that despite not eating breakfast, I am not hungry; but I know I am tired and need something.  I stop at McDonald's and am again tempted to ride on as the line is huge, but I have made that mistake before and counsel myself to patience. My recent cold has left me with little appetite and each bite is forced. But again I wonder, as I have before, what is it about this restaurant that draws large crowds of people.  It really is no cheaper than any other fast food restaurant anymore.  My taste must just be different.  Every bite tastes as if someone spilled the salt shaker on my food. To each his own I suppose.

I strip off another layer and revel in the sun and in not being cold.  My GPS tells me it is 60 out and I believe it.  Chicken Run and Deputy Pike roll by quickly.  They are very lightly traveled leaving me to my thoughts.  As always, I admire the small bit of hand laid stone wall along the way, and looking at it think of Robert Frost:  "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."  I wonder who laid this small bit and why.  It is not in front of a home, but in front of woodland.  I pass what has been the lunch stop on past rides from the traditional starting place if on Saturdays, and think of how good the food was there on one ride.  Was it really that tasty or did the company and laughter give it spice it might not otherwise have had?

I surprise myself as I end my ride by missing a turn.  I have the choice of back tracking or riding a short distance on a fairly busy state route with little to no shoulder, but I pick the state route.  I should make it in an hour or more before darkness claims the roads despite my pace, but I do not want to take chances as I have only a small light on my bike, the one I put on in late fall as an emergency light and keep on until spring brings longer days.  I think  how glad I am that I chose to ride despite knowing that it would probably set my cold recovery back a few days, and I find I have indeed almost lost my voice again.  But it will return.  This day will not.  I may remember it, but it will never come again.  Tired and with achy knees,  I pull in the drive to home, knowing that this home is also a road on a journey, a  journey that lead through Bethlehem.