The Last of the Autumn

"The wind, I hear it sighing, with Autumn's

saddest sound; withered leaves are lying, as 

spring-flowers on the ground.  This dark night
has won me to wander far away; old feelings 

gather fast upon me."

Emily Bronte

 

All week except for one day, I have gotten out and ridden, shirking other responsibilities,  knowing that wicked winter is on her way.   The day I did not ride, the wind blew and the rain fell.  Still, I did not know how much rain had fallen until I find my way blocked by flood waters. Normally, despite the freezing temperatures, I would wade them, bike propped on my shoulder to protect my wheels and pocket book, but today I turn around seeking another route.  The gravel I hoped for will have to wait.  As I change my route, I chide myself.  Is turning around another sign of change, of aging, of becoming a wimp? Particularly since this water does not appear to be that deep relatively speaking.  I have waded in waters up to the top of my thigh in the past, and this is at most a foot or two in places.  I smile thinking of how my husband would chide me when I waded flood waters and how he would say that I was smart but totally lacking in common sense.  Perhaps it is as Ranata Suzuki says, "Your memory feels like home to me.  So whenever my mind wanders, it always finds its way back to you."  Yes, love, I  miss you, but I am able to smile and be glad for the time we had together.  I miss having someone care about me as you did, but I feel lucky to have had that experience.

 

 

Again I remember why I do not ride my Surly when it gets cold.  I begin to be unable to shift in the front from my small wheel to my big wheel.  I did not expect this on a cross type bike.  Something must be freezing. I chafe at my ignorance, but I have asked at the bike shop before and nobody seems to be able to give me a definitive answer or to have a definitive solution.  I have the same thing on my Cannondale, again the big wheel in the front.  Only my Trek, my Cannondale mountain bike, and my Lynskey can be counted on to shift reliably once it gets around freezing.

I am surprised to find that there is still color left in the woods.  Most of the trees are bare, but a few bravely hold onto their leaves, and not just the oaks who are always reluctant to yield to the inevitable.  I smile thinking of raking leaves for the children to jump in when they were small, a favorite picture of my son covered except for his eyes.  I smile thinking of being a child myself, of the acorn fights Brian, Mark, and I would engage in, proud of the red welts that clustered on our bodies as a result of someone else's good aim and proud knowing we had inflicted our own.  How the hell did I get so old?  Where did the years go to?  What happened to Brian?  What happened to Mark?  Is it only as we age that we realize the importance of connections, or even then do we loosen our grip on those that are important to us as we attempt to adjust to the changes that living inevitably brings?  Can one change so much that we don't remember or recognize who we were or understand how we got to be who we are?  

As I ride I remember how the colder weather brings a keener sense of smell.  I pass a new Amish home that is burning wood to heat their home.  Again, it takes me back.  The rustling sounds as he filled the wood stove, warming the house so that I would not get cold rising from the bed we shared, trying not to waken me as he warmed the chilly air.  How quickly the warmth would saturate our tiny home.  I remember how after filling the stove and readying for work he would kneel by the bed to kiss me awake, his lips soft and moist, faintly smelling of his morning coffee,  and how I felt so loved and warm and cherished, inside and out.  I smell the beginning of leaf mold, faint but becoming bolder, and it is as if I can smell the earth being fed.  Everything, I suppose, is part of that cycle: birth, death, rebirth.  

Mentally I am not tired, but my legs begin to protest at the demands I have been placing on them.  Still I can't bare to waste an autumn day for I know what is coming, so I ride a bit more before acceding to their demands and turning around and heading for home. The wind has picked up and I begin to chill as I fight her making my way home.  Soon the color will be gone, and I think how I hope it is not one of those dark, dreary winters.  I miss the warmth, but I miss the sunshine even more despite my nickname.  But regardless, we take what we are given and if we are wise, we appreciate it.  Just another day on the bike, and every day on the bike, despite or maybe even because of the challenges, is a good day.  And I am thankful.