And Another Year Goes By

"I'll never forget you.  I don't want

to either. Along with the great sadness
that comes from missing you lives a 
universe of gratitude for having shared 
love at all.  Our connection changed my life.
I am honored to be able to miss you."
Scott Stabile

And so, love, the anniversary of another year of being apart from you has passed.  I went on a hike with a group of friends yesterday so as not to brood, and I was able to smile and laugh, not the fake laughter that came when first you were gone, but with true enjoyment, though perhaps tinged with sorrow that you would not be around for me to share with:  the things I saw and heard and thought.  On the way home, I drove past the place where we first made love, tentative, drowning in each other, inebriated by the newness of each other.  The place where our first child was conceived.  The place where we fell in love.  A smile crossed my face as a song I always associated with those early days played on the radio: "Just Another Day in Paradise" by Phil Vassar.  What are the odds of that happening?  Did you, from wherever you are, arrange it?

How different those first days were, those days when we had nothing but each other.  An old, battered mobile home, mattress on the floor.  No table, no couch, just each other.  I look around me now.  So much STUFF all of which I would trade to be back there with you once again.  I like to think if that happened, if I woke up back in your arms, that we could avoid some of the mistakes we made along the way.  But then, of course, it would not have been us, for mistakes mold us as surely as if we were clay, and perhaps more so than successes.  

Today I rode my bike.  I hoped to ride farther and perhaps should have with the temperature being around 40 and the sun shining.   Thank you, love, for buying me a bicycle.  From the seat of that machine I can sing and laugh and dream and cry.  I can live in a way that I might, perhaps, have missed otherwise.  It has brought me friendships that I prize beyond measure.  No, I don't want to forget you.  I won't forget you.  But I am not, love, standing still and you would not want me to.  I like to think that when I laughed yesterday, you smiled.  

 

December Rides

"Time you enjoy wasting

is not wasted time."

Marthe Troly-Curtin

Two beautiful riding days, back to back, in December, both with friends.  It just doesn't get much better than that.  Yes, there are chores left to do.  I still have not restored any type of order to my home from the kitchen remodel which finally is nearing completion. And with Christmas approaching wrapping paper and home made projects are strung throughout the house, but I decide to ride both days.  And I am glad I do.  Each day, as I ride, I think what a beautiful day it is, with blue skies and lots of sunshine.  I give thanks and am grateful.  Adrienne Rich, in one of her poems, talks of growing protective toward the world.  These days I believe I understand her sentiments.  The world, it is not perfect, but then neither are we.

Yes, there is wind on the rides, bothersome, chilly and demanding, particularly on Wednesday, and it only reaches the fifties, but for December you can't ask for better weather. The miles yield to the spinning of my legs and, as I do each winter, I wonder how my legs can lose fitness so quickly.  I know it will take hours in the saddle in the spring to regain.  But still I delight in the effort.  Trees are bare offering no shelter from the wind but allowing views that are hidden at other times of the year.  There are no flowers.  Bird chatter is muted though at one point we pass a tree full of raucous crows and another time the songs of the geese flying fill the air.  Jokingly, I ask Paul if he thinks any of the geese ever worry about getting dropped. Neither of the courses is particularly scenic.  Both are basically flat. Indeed, I almost back out and ride from home today, but I am glad I didn't.

Laced with the riding is guilt for a house not yet back to where it needs to be, but then I realize Ms. Troly-Curtin is right.  I am enjoying myself and so the time is not wasted.  I am with friends.  That is never wasted time but treasure to be carried in the heart.  "It is the time you have wasted with your rose that makes it so important." (Antoine de Saint-Exupery) Colder weather will come and will bring snow or rain and the world will be gray and colorless. Household chores can be done on those days.  And I will dream of these days, of the laughter and joking, the warmth of spring and of friendship, and I will long for their renewal.  Perhaps to have stayed home, missing these two days of riding, is what would have been wasteful.  Regardless, I am glad for sunshine, friends, and bicycles and I refuse to feel guilty about it.  At least for today. 

Early November 2019

"Lost time is never 

found again."

Benjamin Franklin

 

November arrives so quickly.  As always, I find my mother was right:  time does move more quickly as you age.  But the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and there are bicycles that need to be ridden.  It is not so hard to get out the door when the sun is shining and the sky is blue despite a rather wicked wind.  

I am not so sure that this ride will nurture my physical health so much as it will nurture my spirit for as always, in autumn, my pace slows to a dreamy, snail like crawl.  It seems almost wasteful to hurry and miss any of the fall scenery as the last leaves dance gracefully with the wind swirling their way to the ground to join the others.  I am surprised that so much foliage remains.  I am surprised that there is color after the drought. 

 

I do know I don't want to waste these days, to loose this time, too cold for shorts and short sleeved jersey's, but not yet cold enough to require real bundling.  Cold weather riding requires a certain determination and purpose that I don't need on a day like today.  The wind rudely shoves me around, but I shove right back. I will not let her steal the joy in this day from me.

 

I pass horses and cows lazily grazing, enjoying what is left of green pastures. I pass a small pony, pastured alone, and my heart goes out to him.  As I age, I feel sorrow for animals lacking companions.  I pass fields that have been neatly harvested and others still waiting to be harvested despite a run of rather good weather.  Ironically, I find I miss company yet am glad I am alone because without company I can concentrate on the beauty that surrounds me and not worry about my pace.  Surrender to the inevitable: perhaps it is a beautiful thing?  Sometimes I wish I were smarter and wiser, but I am who I am.

 

I ride past the mobile home where my children spent their early childhood and then past their paternal grandmother's home onward to the cemetery.  I pause to chat a bit with Lloyd's mother prayers spiraling upwards.  A tear courses down my face as I think how I miss them so, those that I have loved and lost.  It seems so many.  Age brings such loss, though I do not forget the blessings.  I do wonder, sometimes, if there comes a time when you just are ready to go home?

Memories are my companions for a bit, and I realize how lucky I am to have so many good memories and to have had so many people and animals that I have loved and shared life with.  

I head home once again enthralled by the magnificence around me and thankful for all that I have.  Chilly, I slip a jacket back on.  Riding alone it is easier to do things like that because I don't feel that I am holding anyone up.  Unlike some of the guys, I never truly mastered dressing and undressing on the bike.  I feel certain there are probably better, more productive things I could have done with the day rather than wandering on a bicycle, but probably none more necessary to my emotional well-being.  This time may not ever be found again, but it was worthwhile to me. 

 

  

Medora: The End of the TMD 2019

"When someone makes you the happiest

person and the saddest person at the same

time, that's when it's real.  That's when it's

worth something."

Anonymous

(Photo courtesy of John Fong)

Medora:  the tradition of having this century as the last stage of the Tour de Mad Dog, with a little luck and a little work rerouting, continues.  Luckily, while the road into Medora was still closed, construction was at a stage where we could walk through, albeit a bit of mud on the cleats,  and I was able to find a route that also took us off of another state road that was under construction.

The weather prediction concerns me as it is supposed to be quite cold at the start; but I remain glad that it has changed from what it was for originally it was supposed to be not only cold, but rainy.  While I know there are people who need this stage to complete the challenge, I would have canceled if it were rainy.  Yes, I have ridden in cold rain, even at night, but it just is not in me to do so presently.  Or perhaps I fool myself:  many the times I vowed I would not ride in certain conditions only to later find myself on the bike in the middle of a rain storm. lightening flashing, pedals turning, cursing myself with a smile or grimace on my face, but glad I had the fortitude to get myself out the door, glad that I am a fool when it comes to my bicycle. For some reason this brings to mind the look on my husband's face years ago when I was pregnant with our daughter in January and I told him that I just had to have watermelon to eat, as if it was available anywhere in that day and age at that time of year.  But he tried.

With a start in the 30's and a high in the 50's, I wonder how many will show, but it is a larger turn out than expected.  Everyone is in a good mood and smiles light faces.  It is not the people exactly that give me mixed emotions of happiness and sadness, but the ride itself.  There is something about endings, and this is the end to the season.

I will not see many, if not most, of these people until the next riding season.  Some will be "one and done" people:  they complete the TMD one time and never ride the series again due to time, dislike of distance, moving on, whatever.  And some, like me, fall in love with distance riding and the challenges it imposes.   They will make the time and they will return.  They may curse and grumble and vow they are not going to do it, but they will be there with secret smiles behind their gripes ready to get it done.

 Already I worry about if I will be strong enough next year,  if I again will be the oldest woman in the tour, and as age claims strength, among the slowest.  But regardless, I know I will be back barring accident or illness or misfortune. On the other side of the coin, there is a satisfaction in having completed the challenge again, of looking forward to slow riding and draining the last drops of the fall and sunshine from the season.  There is the anticipation of another spring where my eyes fill with delight as the earth swipes her fist across her eyes and color and sound returns spilling relentless from her blankets as she arises.  And the green, how I love it when the earth begins to bleed green, shy, tentative touches giving way to bold streaks and hues. The flowers that begin to garnish the earth dancing in the breezes that skip across the land.  In the spring, Ralph W. Emerson and I are on one page about, "the earth laughs in flowers."

But now it is fall and now it is the last ride of the tour. I love the sounds at the start of a ride.  Sometimes I take a few seconds, take a deep breath, close my eyes, and just listen.  Conversation mixes with laughter, different kinds of laughter: laughter speaking of excitement, of trepidation, of amusement, of nervousness.  Some of the voices are dear to me and I would recognize them anywhere; others I don't really know well or at all, but they all mingle to form a symphony, acrescendo. There are the sounds of bikes being readied, air being pumped into tires, front wheels being attached, bikes being removed from cars,  and there is the sound of bikes already prepared and moving as the rider checks that brakes are not dragging and all is in working order. I love the sights at the start of a ride.  The different colored jersey choices that people have made, the smiles on faces, that look on faces when one is involved in a joint effort to accomplish a task. 

I am so happy that people have come to share the day, the course, the festival, and the brilliant sunshine.  Most I know, some I don't know, but all are welcome.  Despite the cold, I hear Paul Battles say repeatedly throughout the day, "What a beautiful day!"  And it is.  The ride appears to go well and some of us gather for the celebratory pizza dinner afterward.  Thank you, John and Fritz, for the treat.  You are too kind.  For those that missed it, I hope that, if that tradition continues next year, you join us.  Thank you to all that rode today.  All of you made me happy and sad at the same time, and as an anonymous someone noted, "That's worth something."

Thank you, Bob Grable, for organizing the tour this year.  Thank you to those who took their time and captained the stages.  Please consider doing it again next year.  Hopefully some of the new TMD finishers will also step up to the plate. For those who have never completed a tour stage, now is the time to begin thinking of setting that goal in 2020. Training needs to begin early and needs to include some distance and some hills. It is a challenge, but you will feel a sense of pride in your accomplishment, or you should.  Will it be easy?  No.  But most things that are truly rewarding are not easy.  Effort spices the results.

Congratulations to all finishers (except maybe Dave King and Mike Kammenish and they know why;-), but particularly to the numerous first time finishers:

Paula Pierce

Dee Schreur

Tony Nall

John Fong

Fritz Kopatz

Tom Askew

Alan McCoy

Marta Mack-Washington 

Pennie DeTorres

I wish I had a picture of all of them together to share; however, I don't.  My helmet is off to the nine of you.  Great job!

Preparing for the Last TMD of 2019

 "You expected to be sad in the fall.  Part

of you died each year when the leaves fell

from the trees and their branches were bare

from the wind and the cold, wintry light.

Ernest Hemingway

The century course I have scheduled for next week-end does not look like it will happen due to a road closure, so I set off on an alternate century route to ensure there is no road construction or other obstacles that would distress a group.  It is different captaining a group than it is riding on my own.  You become responsible.  What would be an adventure on a solitary jaunt or on a ride with certain others becomes a burden and imposition, poor planning on a ride with some.  How differently individual riders accept the vagaries of the road. Some expect all to go as planned.  Others hope that it does not and a gravel road or a change in course or an obstacle excites them.  I think of one century where a bridge was out. Chris Quirey put a small plank across the creek.  After handing bikes over one by one, we began to cross, hoping against hope that we would not fall into the freezing water, only to find one rider would not, could not do it. The water was not that deep, the current was not that strong, and the fall would not have been terrible other than it was cold out.  But we can only do those things we can do, and for one this was not doable. 

 I am limited in my choice of centuries as I want to start from the same starting place the initial choice was scheduled to start from AND I want an easy century since it is the last of the TMD.  Because it is the last, it becomes most likely that I will be riding any centuries I ride alone until next spring.  Easier centuries attract more people. And I would like this last century of the TMD to have decent attendance.  I have come to accept that for what it is.  The riders I used to ride with no longer ride outside in the winter and the newer riders that do ride outside in the winter are mostly younger and stronger. So I grow used to my time alone and I have added hiking with the others to my routine.

But back to picking a century ride.  I like the Christy Century route better as I think it is more scenic and it is as just as easy; however, there were bathroom issues last time.  I like the Leroy Century better, but it is fairly demanding.  And so I pick an old standby:  Bethlehem. 

This century has so many memories, some of them quite pleasant, but the primary memory today is that it is the century that I had to cancel as it was scheduled for the day after my husband's massive stroke, the one that ripped him from me leaving me alone.  Only last year did I finally get rid of all the Christmas cards that had been written, stamped, and were awaiting that ill-fated ride to be posted. Perhaps there is sadness because his birthday nears as well as because it is fall; still, I have ridden this century since and found it quite enjoyable.  But for whatever reason, today I start by thinking of him.  And so I expect some sadness on this ride as fall is a time for letting go, something I have never excelled at. Still, I look forward to the ride.  While I sought company, nobody else was interested in riding a century despite the lovely weather, and there is a part of me that recognizes that it is quite awhile since I have had a nice, long ride alone. 

It is the first truly cool day on what has gone in the record books as the hottest and driest summer ever recorded and I set off with a pair of cheap cotton gloves over my finger-less riding gloves as well as a jacket.  The extra hot weather we have been having makes it seem colder than it should and the air brings a rosy tint to my cheeks. Normally I would have just modified the course and left from my home, but I need to check the GPS route if I am taking a group so I drive to the ride start and leave from there.  There is a definite bite in the air, yet not so cold that it is unpleasant.  Still I am glad that I decided to wear a jacket as I do not intend to hurry.  As I told a friend recently, I see no reason to beat up my legs at this point in the season.  Strength will lapse regardless and with luck and hard work and sweat, will rebuild in the spring.

The drought has sucked the green from the land as much as the season has laid waste.  Fields lie brown and grass is withered.  I know from my own yard that if I were walking on it, it would crunch and crackle. Corn fields not harvested are sere and brown.  Ears that once pointed toward the sky, green and strong,  now point downward, defeated by time and weather. The wind,  rather strong today, embraces the desiccated corn plants and gives them voice: a restless, rattling, rasping voice whose words I can't quite grasp, their language familiar but not well known.  They wait the farmer to ease their chorus and stop their complaints.

 I see none of the sorghum that I have been seeing so much of on other routes, something relatively new to me.  Indeed, I had to Google it to find out what it was.  Normally it is corn or soy beans in this area. There is no color in the trees and they mostly have leaves, but in the forested areas that I pass through the ground is already littered with dry, brown leaves that promise to crunch in the upcoming hiking season.  They rustle with the scampering of the squirrels and the other, unseen creatures, all of whom are realizing that fall is here and it is time to make preparation for the cold and dark that will follow.

I note a distinct lack of wooly worms this year.  Yes, I have seen a few, but not the swarm that normally covers the road, particularly during harvest time.  Before the descent into Bethlehem, I startle a  rafter of wild turkeys who hastily find their way into the field.  There must be six or seven of them, and while they disappear quickly, they do not seem particularly frightened. I suspect the drought has been hard on the wild life in the area making drinking water scarce and stagnant. In someone's front yard, there is a confusion of guineas and for a moment, I worry that they will run out into the road in front of me.  I grin thinking of the time when I was newly married when someone left a guinea at the farm I worked on.  Henry blamed me and blamed me as he hated guineas.  I don't know if he ever truly believed my protestations of innocence.  I think of how I saw him recently after numerous years, how he is now old and stooped and had to ask who I was.  Old age can be noble I suppose, but it surely seems it is mostly heartbreaking.

The descent is windy which restricts my speed, and it is somewhat technical, but because there has not yet been bad winter weather, there is none of the gravel or cinders that make cornering more problematic.  I enjoy the descent despite knowing that there will be payback, but also knowing that I am quite capable of the climb, particularly since I am in no hurry.  It still surprises me how much more difficult a climb is when you care about how fast you reach the top.  I pass the sad, closed post office and for just a moment I see the ghost of those who would ride with me to mail Christmas cards from that building when it was still open.  In an upstairs drawer in my house, I have one of those cards that I mailed to myself so I could see the special stamp they use during the Christmas season. I am thankful for those ghosts, for the memories, for the special times we shared together.  And I am glad that I am here even though I am alone.

Then I begin the long climb encountering not one car as I ascend.  I begin remembering the first time I climbed this hill, also solitary, and not knowing how long it was or how steep it might get or what lay beyond.  I was hoping to find a road shortly after to cut back down and ride along the river, but I have not yet done so.   I did do a ride where we were on another road by the river going east, but it was not a paved road and was on a gravel ride.

 I begin to feel hungry and decide that rather than eating mid-way at McDonald's or Subway, neither of which is my favorite place, to eat a Gaffney's near the 60 mile mark.  As I always do with small country stores, I wonder if it will still be open or will have gone out of business, but I know I have a gel that will pull me through if it is not.  As I near the store, I notice that they have erected a Dollar Store nearby and think how that will make the store struggle more than its location already did.  When I enter, it has changed.  The tables are now where shelves of groceries and goods used to be.  There are still a few aisles left of chips, etc. but they obviously are trying to make it as a place to eat rather than a grocery, switching their emphasis in an attempt to survive.

I treasure these small stores, the last gasp of a way of life that is quickly fading from the American landscape where survival depends upon being large.  Not only do they allow me to ride in rural areas more easily than I might otherwise be able to do by providing a resting place with drink and food, but they allow me to dream of a time where this country was quite different from what it is today.  But they are, I fear, ghosts.  I think of one small town nearby that had two stores and a restaurant when I first began riding there.  First one store closed, then the restaurant.  The remaining store has failed two or three times.  It is, or was, open again, but business did not appear to be too promising the last time I passed that way.

After a quick meal, I hop back on my bike ready to finish the day out.  I am fortunate in that it is sunny and the wind is blowing from an unusual direction so I have a tail wind home.  Riding, at least most of the time, feels effortless as my feet and legs turn the pedals over and over.  I think that I am glad that I made use of the day, of the sunshine and the open road.  Soon winter will grasp the earth tightly in a wizened hand.  The days will grow short and gray and I will fight depression and fight myself and the weather to get outside and ride.  A part of me will, as Hemingway says, die and get left behind.  But I also know that the sun will eventually return and that I will appreciate days like this all the more for the lack of them. A day on the bike is, after all, never really a wasted day. 

Summer's End

"There is something deep within us that

sobs at endings.  Why, God, does everything

have to end?  Why does all nature grow

old? Why do spring and summer have to go?

Joe Wheeler

 

Yesterday's century was hot and hilly: it was difficult and there were times I wished I were elsewhere, when I thought to myself that I am getting too old for this nonsense. Still, I am so very glad that I accepted the challenge and rode: not only because the course had some beautiful roads, but because the easy cycling season is about over. I will miss most of these people as many don't ride throughout the winter but change their focus to other things. I will miss the ease of riding just in shorts and a jersey with no jacket or arm warmers or leg warmers to carry. I will even miss the sweat of summer, somehow less sour and more cleansing than the sweat of a winter ride. Certainly less chilling. While there is a beauty in the winter, I will miss having color in the world. And I will miss light and the warmth of summer sun. Even after all my years, I still marvel at how the sun can shine but without bestowing warmth in the winter. I will miss the quiet talk and feeling of anticipation at the start of the ride, and the relief at the end. The camaraderie that comes from attacking a hill together. But to everything there is a season and each has, I suppose, its purpose. One more and the TMD is over for 2019 and all that will remain are the memories.

During the ride yesterday, I harkened back to my early cycling days.  I grin briefly remembering my thoughts when my husband bought me my first bike because he was concerned I was running too much. "What on earth," I thought, "will I do with this thing?"  I rode only so as not to hurt his feelings, for despite his tough,  exterior, inside he was a marshmallow, the exterior wall there only for his own protection. Sometimes I wonder if he ever truly trusted anyone not to hurt him, even me.

 

But I rode and and as I did, I fell in love with the way the wind whispered in my ear, teasing me with secrets that only she knows.  I fell in love with the sound of wheels turning and gears clicking and shoes clipping in and out.  I fell in love with the look of the jerseys spreading out before me, a tapestry of color and form.  I fell in love with the roads that lead me to new destinations and new experiences and challenges to overcome.  I fell in love with the companionship, but ironically also with the way my bike could take me on solo adventures and could give me time to think. This was so fortunate for me because, as he suspected, my hip began to hurt when I ran and I began to develop a foot issue.  Eventually running faded, and cycling was what remained.  

 

But I will miss the summer.  I miss those I have ridden with who no longer travel these roads, whose paths have lead them in other directions even while I am glad for them when it is voluntary and not injury or illness based.  Still deep down there is a part of me that echoes the thoughts and feelings in the words of Mr. Wheeler: "Why, God, does everything have to change?"  I add on the wish that God give me the strength to face these changes as they arise, for arise they will.  Until then, however, I will soak in every moment and bind them to my heart.   

Friendship

"Go oft to the house of thy friend,

for weeds choke the unused path."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

There used to be a web page called "The Big Dogs."  Distance cyclists logged their miles there.  They could write an entry describing the ride or just put the miles.  The main goal, at least as I, a late comer to the site, understood it was to complete a minimum of one outside century per month, no matter where you lived.  The site was extremely motivating at times.  I once read an entry by a Canadian cyclist who had to stop throughout the century to change clothing or unfreeze her bike, I can't remember which, and who could only ride in short circles around her house due to the cold temperatures, but she finished.  Others would log so many centuries that I wondered if it was indeed possible.

 I suppose the site also gave me my first introduction to the idea that people could ride so many miles and that  perhaps I could also ride these miles.  I went a long period of time, even after the site was shut down, riding a century each month until I was in a series of car accidents that ended my streak (hit by a sleeping driver who came into my lane and only about a month later rear ended by a teenager while pulling into my drive and cracking a telephone pole in two).

Unfortunately, the site is no longer in existence, but I have maintained a few friendships with cyclists that I would not otherwise have met had it not been for the site and for Hell Week.  Thus it continues to enrich my life.  Last year I traveled to Illinois and rode with some Big Dog members that I had never before met face to face as well as two I had.  But this year, it was only Steve Royse, Greg Zaborac, and I that got together for a few days of riding. 

Unlike our days at Hell Week when we were younger, we rode shorter mileage:  somewhere between 65 to 70 miles daily, but we had a blast, or at least I did.  Our pace was not what it once was, but nobody seemed to care. We rode from my house two days traveling some of my favorite roads and  we rode from around Steve's house one day.  Steve's wife fixed a wonderful lunch mid-ride and was a gracious hostess. 

Later we gathered with other riders that Greg knew and had ridden with before at Hell Week or on Tokyo for an excellent dinner sitting outside next to the Ohio River.  Mostly, we just enjoyed each other's company because we all still love to ride our bicycles and this thread continues to bind us enough that we each make some effort to retain and maintain that friendship.  Without that effort, I feel certain that the "weeds would choke the unused path."  And that would surely be a shame.

It is good to have friends, and even better to have friends that enjoy the same thing you do:  in this case riding bicycles. Until next year, my friends, ride safely.  Thanks for another memory to hold dear.  And I look forward to next  year and our hopes that a few more will join us on our rides wherever we decide to meet.

Just An End of Summer Ride

"Summer's lease has all too short

a date."

William Shakespeare

It is one of those rare, precious,end of summer days, the kind you want to savor and remember, made sweeter by the realization that fall approaches.  After days of humidity when the sweat pours from  your body but just sits there, un-evaporated, even on a bicycle, and days of high heat where you begin to think that you must be baked clean through, the morning has a chill in the air that promises fall is not far behind.  "How," I think, "did the spring and summer get away from me with so little time on the bike?"  But there it is, or at least that is how it seems.  "Maybe," I think, " you just can't get enough time on the bike. "

I used to laugh when retired people would say that they just don't have time to do things, but there it is. I have a cousin who told me that once he retired, he found he resented anything that he "had" to do, even things like doctor or dental appointments, and I find he is right.  I like having things I want to do, but I have no desire to have things that I have to do.  They are still there though, those chores and responsibilities, though certainly not as many.  They just feel differently. 

I have put a 66 mile ride on the schedule because the thought of riding the city club ride on a such a beautiful day is too awful to think about, but I have no idea how many will show to share this glorious weather with me. Many people, even those who used to ride other routes, have turned to the flat, rather ugly, city ride for whatever reason:  other riders, ease of the course, etc. As it turns out, there are seven of us.  Yet again, during the ride I wonder a bit at how the love of bicycling brings together such diverse people, people who otherwise would never have met and may not have even liked each other if they did. 

Our cycling abilities vary on this ride as much as the designs and colors of our jerseys.  But it is one of those days that are truly precious because nobody is in a hurry or has any desire to hammer the entire way.  There are even times throughout the ride where I approach to find those in front gathered at the side of the road, talking and laughing and waiting for us.  My mind harkens to the early days of the Tour de Mad Dog when speed was not as essential as staying together and the companionship it afforded.  I think of how even though I see some of those early riders rarely or even never, I retain a special fondness for many of them.

Everything is still green, yet there is  hint of change in the foliage of the trees we pass.  The Tulip Poplar trees are almost bare, and we decide that while they lose their leaves before other trees, it is not usually this early and may be related to the drought that broke recently.  Other trees show a tinge of rust, so faint that you could convince yourself that it is your imagination run wild.  We discuss briefly how there really was not much of a fall last year and how we hope that there is this year, those glorious rides of fall that tug on your heart because you know that all to soon it will be grey and cold out, that you won't see these people as often or at all until spring reclaims the land.  The ironwood is blooming and the purple of the flower again promises that the season is near to changing. 

After the ride, all but one of  us go for barbecue at "Rubbing Butts."  There is joking about the name, but the food is good and the companionship is better.  At one point I think how nice it is to hear laughter, to have people to share nourishment with, particularly well deserved nourishment.  And then it is over, but there is warmth inside that will keep me smiling and will even continue to curve my lips as I slip into a well deserved sleep.  Thank you to all who shared this day with me.  I hope your enjoyment of the day and people and the scenery was as great as my own.  Thank you for making it a true group ride, rather than a ride made up of individual groups.  Thank you for making it special. 

Scotland 2019

"Travel isn't always pretty.  It isn't always comfortable.

Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that's 

okay. The journey changes you; it should change you.

It leaves marks on  your memory, on your consciousness,

on your heart, and on your body.  You take something with you.

Hopefully, you leave something good behind."

Anthony Bourdain 

I don't know why I have this strange desire to go ride a bicycle in Scotland.  There are so many places here in this country that I have not seen.  They would be cheaper and easier to visit. There are so many other countries that I have not visited. I have been to Scotland before. My first memory of Scotland is from when I was a child visiting a farm on holiday with my parents.  The memory is not a pleasant one but one of cold, indifference from the farm wife when I became ill (the woman would not give me so much as a slice of bread since I was ill at supper time and missed the meal) and of fear when the next day a goose scared that dickens out of me, chasing and pecking me with her bill.  The second visit was as a mother when I did a quick drive through visit with the children. We did get to see some of Edinburgh and watch the Tattoo.  Perhaps it is the breathtaking scenery during this drive that draws me.  But for whatever odd reason, I want to return.

I have been through Hospice  three times since the end of 2014.   I have lost my husband, my mother, and my brother. I don't complain.  There are those that have lost more.  Death, inevitably, is a part of life.  But as I tell a friend, the loss that has laced my life has taught me that if there are things I want to do, I need to begin doing them and doing them now.  Time is a thief, illness pounces unexpectedly,  and I suspect that as the end nears and our abilities diminish, the biggest regrets are those things that we did not do as well as those things we did that caused others pain rather than joy.  During last moments with my husband, mother, and brother some themes from each were constant despite their varying lives, and one of the strongest was regret for things that had caused pain to others. 

Somehow I know Lloyd would be happy that I am doing this, venturing forth and exploring. He was the one who urged me to go to France for Paris-Brest-Paris. He was the one who came to my first road race. He was the one who sat waiting when I completed my first triathlon.  He was the one who bought me my first bike as an adult and urged me to try new things.  Even in death, memories of things he said encourage and support me though he can no longer hold me or pick me up when I make the wrong decision and fail, something that happens quite regularly I might add. Yes, I have lost many of those I love, but I am grateful for each of them and what they meant to me.  I am grateful for the memories with which they laced my life and of the lessons that they helped me learn.

Instead of Scotland, there are balconies overlooking oceans in warm lands where I could go and sit with a glass of wine in hand and read a novel, another favorite passtime.  There are beaches that beg for bare feet to leave an imprint and shells waiting to be found and examined. There are cruises to exotic places with strange names geared to tourists and pleasure.   But there it is, weird as always,  I  have the desire to go to Scotland, the land of Mary, Queen of Scots, and her Lord Bothwell, characters that have intrigued me since I was a child and read how she was outsmarted by Queen Elizabeth.  I fear my father was right and I am a dreamer.  I don't forget the look of disgust on his face when he said this, but I forgive him.  I can't help who I am, but he could not help who he was. And yet, death has taught me that for all our differences, we are kin. "Blood is a sacred poison."  (I can't remember who to attribute that quote to) And no, so far as I know having never done genetic testing,  I have not one drop of Scot blood in my veins. Native American, Italian, German, and English, or so I have been told from family lore.

During the cold of the Indiana winter, I begin delving into information on the internet on bicycling in Scotland and tentatively decide on a company:  Wilderness Scotland.  They have numerous options to choose from and I actually contemplate the possibility of a walking tour rather than a bicycling tour. Originally I even toy with the idea of just going unsupported, using a company for routes to follow but riding on my own; however, I am concerned about whether I would have cell service and whether I would feel safe traveling alone. What if I have a serious mechanical that I can't fix?  What if I get hopelessly lost?  What if I take a tumble and get injured and there is nobody there to help? All of the anxieties that  haunt me when I diverge from my familiar paths. All of the fears that have conscripted my life at various points and against which I have had to fight relentlessly. At some point in this process, I don't really remember when, Amelia Dauer expresses some interest in going with me.  I do know it is before I have paid any money or made any travel arrangements as she actually does most of the work in that area. And perhaps, despite my  trepidation at having a traveling companion and the obligations that brings along with it, that spurs me onward.  Dreams do, indeed, need foundations to become more than dreams.

Amelia truly does most of the work arranging flights and places to stay.  Apparently, we have waited rather longer than is recommended for planning such an adventure.  Buying an airline ticket appears to be much like buying a car.  There is never just a price.  This is what we will take for that car or that flight. We get a better deal on a flight by renting a car that we will never pick up or use along with the flight, something that still makes no sense to me. Eventually, however,  it is planned out.  We both are going to London for a couple of days, then to Inverness where we will spend a day before the ride starts, and then the bicycle ride with Wilderness Scotland from Inverness to Edinburgh.   We then will fly back to London and I will fly home from there while Amelia will remain to do additional touring for a few days.

When we arrive in Inverness after a brief stay in London and awaken to go exploring, one of the first things that happens is that a bird decides to poop on me getting both my sweat shirt and my jeans.  Luckily, much of it misses me, but there is enough on me that I  go back to the room and change.  The inn keeper laughs as I tell him and then informs me I need to buy a lottery ticket, something I don't quite understand as he seems quite serious.  I later Google it and find it is a Russian belief, or at least that is what the internet says.  My daughter-in-law is from Siberia and did not mention it when I e-mailed what had happened, but who knows?  She may have been too busy laughing.  In other words, yes, a bird pooping on you is supposed to mean good luck is coming your way.  I don't buy a lottery ticket, but I hope that good luck finds me.

It is just too much to talk about London or much about Inverness, but I have to mention it because of being pooped upon. I must really be lucky.  You see, after we meet our guides for the tour, Tim and Scott,  and go to the Culloden battlefield to have bikes fitted, I find that my assigned bike also has been pooped upon.  I am beginning to feel targeted;-) They don't have wet wipes.  Luckily, I do normally carry some and that day was no exception.  I clean my handlebars and try it out.  The rental bike is a black Trek, a 49c rather than the 50c I normally ride, but it shifts flawlessly and feels feather light after my bike which is always packed with all the tools and repair items I think I might need while exploring on my own.  Amelia, who actually normally rides a smaller bike then me, is assigned a larger bike.  I offer to trade but she says that she will be fine and, as it turns out, she is. The bikes are equipped with a large front bag as well as a water proof carrier that one can put wallets and cameras and phones in to keep them dry.  We are told by the guides, Tim and Scott, that we also will have opportunities to place things into the van or get them out of the van throughout the day.  Briefly I think that it was, perhaps, a mistake not to bring my own saddle, but with the shorter mileage it turns out okay.  Another rider suffers a saddle sore, but my own butt remains fine throughout.

The first days ride is from the Culloden Battlefield to Grantown-on-Spey.  The strange names of the towns we visit and pass through are hard to remember, unfamiliar, slightly exotic.  Amelia and I almost miss the lunch stop.  Two other riders do miss the stop and the guides scramble to find them. I find I do best if I have them spell the town names, but still I forget and could easily have ridden by a stop. It is hard to get used to riding on a different side of the road, and this is particularly apparent at turns and round abouts. 

The Scottish scenery does not disappoint.   I find I can't get enough of it and even before the ride ends I know I would love to return. We ride for seven days through the Highlands down to the Lowlands and into Edinburgh.  The oldness impresses me.  For some reason, I normally prefer the old to the new.  I have a spoon my grandmother cooked with that I treasure.  My mother's silver hair brush and comb with the broken tooth. Stone cottages, walls, and bridges are everywhere.  Growth is lush and green from the wet and cooler temperatures. Some vegetation seems familiar, but some does not.  I learn that the yellow flowers are eggs and bacon enduring Tim's chuckle when I mistakenly call them bacon and eggs. Scott later laughs after telling us about faffing when I call if falafeling.  Their grins make me smile because they are kindly. 

  One day, before we leave the Highlands, we face an 8 mile climb with some 20 per cent grades.  I stop repeatedly throughout the rides to take photos, though not during the climb because of the dense fog and wanting to climb without stopping.  It would just seem wrong to stop, as if I were cheating.  It is a delicious climb and despite the length and grade, I am glad I have a wool base layer.  It is raining  and the mist is so thick that I can't see how far it is to the top.  I worry a bit about safety because of the density of the mist. Scott is waiting at the top and laughs when I giggle and ask if we can do the same climb tomorrow.  What a glorious feeling it is cresting a tough climb! I feel cheated on the winding descent, taken at a snail's pace due to the fog and the switch backs.  The climb itself reminds me of night riding during brevets where you climb and your light does not extend far enough ahead to tell if you have a little or lot of climb left or where you judge by the little red light from someone else's bike in front of you but I swear I have descended faster even in pitch blackness.  Near the bottom we turn into a quaint restaurant in the middle of nowhere to have lunch.  Everyone jokes about the short steep climb up to the restaurant.  Again I am reminded of brevets.  The Kentucky brevets start at a motel that has a very short hill that seems mountainous at the end of a 600K.  There are egg salad sandwiches and ham sandwiches with butter, dishes I remember from my youth.  The hot chocolate is rich and filling.  I switch to the dry socks I stowed in my handlebar bag to warm my feet. It feels nice when Tim compliments Amelia and me saying we are strong riders.

While I have worried about whether I was fit enough for the ride, Amelia and I are among the fittest riders and it is not a problem to stop for photos and then catch up.  Amelia tells me she never worried about whether she was fit enough, and I think of Lloyd telling me that if I said I was good at something, he knows to call the Olympics committee. Indeed, even if we were not as fit as we currently are, the guides repeatedly remind us that it is not a race and that we should stop when we like and take photos.  At one point, Scott and I do have a good romp where I was able to stretch my legs, but by that time we have left the Highlands and I am not so concerned about the scenery.  It felt good to use my legs and my lungs and to ride hard.  It is pretty at places in the Lowlands, but not breathtaking like the Highlands.  In the Highlands, I can believe in fairies and ogres and dwarfs, and  unicorns. I can see Lord Bothwell galloping, his horse's mane and tail streaking wildly behind in the wind. I see old backs, bent with years, faces carved by wind and rain, carrying hay to feed the Scottish cattle with their long forelocks or toiling in fields.  As we enter the lowlands, we see potato field after potato field: a crop I had not associated with Scotland. 

The guides, Tim and Scott, take turns.  Each rides a day or two then drives a day or two. At the start of each day, the plans and roads for the day are discussed.  I never have trouble understanding Scott and only had trouble understanding Tim once when he was talking with someone at a tea stop and they were conversing at a rapid pace.  Amelia said she struggles with the accents.  Perhaps because I spent a year living in England as a child and did visit Scotland?  I have heard that the brain screens language sounds that we don't hear or use as we age.  Indeed, I find the sound of both the Scottish and British accents soothing and melodic, almost comforting.  But remembering the names and spellings of the places we pass through is almost impossible for me. My memory, however, is becoming increasingly problematic, even at home.  Nothing to be done about it for I am growing old.

There are times when I stop and talk to people who are out in their  yards because it interests me to see how other people live.  The one man compliments the American Women's Soccer Team.  He makes me laugh when he said that if the men get hurt, they lay on the ground and cry, but  the women suck it  up and keep playing.  I learn he and his wife are staying there in his son's cottage for awhile helping out.  He is unable to help me with my mortaring question as it is not his home and he does not do the maintenance.  Another time, during a stop to photograph a Scottish cow,  I meet someone from Iceland who responds to my teasing by saying the door to his house is open if I want to visit.  Another man I talk to has three rescue dogs and has just moved to this part of Scotland.  He explained that the plastic tubes I see have trees inside and the tubing is to protect the trees from the deer.  He said he has not yet seen any deer, but he suspects they will come down from the mountains in the fall for the rut.  He talks about the many birds and he and I discuss the seagulls living so far from the sea.  Like me, he is a bit bewildered. He says that this has amazed him and his wife. Earlier that day I had spied a whole flock of them in a hay feet that had been recently bailed.  Crows and other birds also abound.  He and his wife enjoy feeding the birds and have numerous feeders handing.  I would have like to have talked more, but do not want to hold the group up so I move on.

One thing that interests me during rides or on walks through the villages is that not once are we chased by dogs.  I see numerous dogs throughout the trip, often not on leashes.  All appear so well trained, responding immediately when owners call.  I see not one pit bull, the dog that has become so common in the Kentucky/Indiana countryside.  I get the impression that here dogs are family members that provide companionship and love whereas at home the pit bulls are more about protection. For whatever reason, it impresses me.  I do intend to get a dog one day when my traveling is done, and it definitely will NOT be a pit bull.  During one conversation with a local, I ask about his sheep dog and if he works the sheep with them. He tells me that he does not, they are rescue dogs from the shelter and have no training. 

During the rides, we stop at various places for lunch and for tours.  We have drinks and snacks outside a castle.  We stop for a tour of a whiskey making facility  and have a picnic that Scott prepared (I could not participate in the tour as the smell of the malt made me nauseous so my vow to take a sip of whisky for the first time in my life was not fulfilled). To me the smell is an angry, dark smell, absolutely repellent, and I wonder why for others love it.  We tour Balmoral Castle and Glamis and other places. Some I have read about and some not.  I think it is fascinating how interests vary.  One man on the trip, John, says if you have seen one castle you have seen them all.  His interests lie elsewhere.  Me, I could stop at each and every one and go exploring.  I dream about what it must have been like to live here, now and 500 years ago.  At one point, I tell the guides that anyone who lived in the Highlands must have been strong, for the weak would not have survived.  They agree. Even with modern heating, I suspect many of the dwellings are cold, drafty,  and damp in the wintertime. The weather is great for riding as it is so cool, but never really gets hot.  The sun flirts with us, but never truly shines for any length of time.  Rain and mist taunt us throughout. Like home, proper riding clothing is essential for comfort, but the packing list they provided was good and I am never truly cold or hot.

At night we rest at quaint motels where the beds are surprisingly comfortable and, as per my last European visit, I struggle with figuring out the plumbing.  At one inn, you had to turn the shower on from outside of the bathroom.  (By the time we figured this out I had given in and taken a bath instead of a shower, something I don't normally do in hotels).  As I tell Amelia, it is an IQ test and normally I fail.  Meals are taken late.  Normally we were seated at 7:00 or so.  Then the food appears a half hour or so later.  I find I am distressed at the change in my routine.  I don't like to eat so late or to go to bed on a full stomach.  I miss the rhythm of Texas Hell Week where we would spend the day riding, shower, eat, and go to bed to ride again.  If nothing else, this trip makes me realize things about myself:  some good and some bad.  My inflexibility is one of these things and certainly is not a strength.  Amelia is more fluid and adaptable and I admire that trait even while not emulating it, but then she is sleeping well and I am not.  Still, I feel sorry for her having to room with me.  Both of us are used to lots of alone time, and while we get some of that on the bike, we get little in the rooms we briefly stay in.  Perhaps lack of sleep plays a role and perhaps it does not.  Most nights I sleep a mere three or four hours.  This remains an issue throughout my time away from home.  Still, I fear it is my personality more than anything else.  Amelia does point out that it is always light here.  It does not get dark until late, 10 or so, and by 4:00 a.m. it is daylight again.  Indeed, a few days I got up and went out for a walk because I was up and breakfast did not open until 7:00 a.m. or later.

As the trip ends, I realize that there is a beauty in this lifestyle and wish I had been able to develop more of an appreciation.  I am disappointed in myself for not being able to better manage being outside of my comfort zone.  Dinner is, perhaps, supposed to be an experience, a time to relax and share company and stories, for filling the mind as well as the belly.  Shops should, perhaps, close at 5:00 p.m. Different is just different, perhaps, not better and not worse. Perhaps the lack of fast food in the small villages we pass through and stay in account for the lack of litter because I see very little trash alongside the roads.  Sometimes during the trip, however, I feel like all I am doing is eating. Yet somehow, and I truly don't see how it is possible, I don't gain weight during the trip, something I was sure would happen.  Indeed, out of curiosity, once I get home, I google the requirements to immigrate to Scotland, but of course I am old, unskilled, and not rich so would not be wanted there other than as a visitor. But perhaps I did leave something there, a bit of myself, in the remarks I made to our guides and to the random strangers that I stopped to have a conversation with. I certainly brought home memories, many more than I could ever recount in this blog post, memories that will make me smile and make me cry and make me feel.  Hopefully, I also learned a few things and will be a better, more receptive traveler in the future, for I intend to visit more places. Perhaps one day I will even be lucky enough to return to Scotland again.

One thing that surprises me throughout the trip is how much, for some reason, it makes me miss Lloyd.  It is almost as if I just lost him again, as if he is here and if I just turn quickly enough I would see him, hear him making some smart ass remark that would stretch a smile across my face and a giggle to arise from my stomach.  As I ride, he haunts me repeatedly and I ache with longing for the sight, sound, touch, and smell of him.  As I ride I realize that a part of me will die when I am no longer able to do this, to ride roads and feel the wind, to soak up scenery and to dream unfettered and I am so grateful for my health and for bicycles and for Scotland. And again I am thankful to my husband because he bought me my first bicycle, a gift I had no desire for at the time. (Silly me).  And in a sense, he gave me this trip, this adventure, and these new memories.  Thank you, love.  I am going to have so much to tell you about when we meet again. 

C & O and Gap Trail: A Good Time

"I would rather die of 

passion than of boredom."

Van Gogh

I quiver at the thought of my upcoming adventure for I have been asked to ride the C & O Trail and Allegheny Gap Trail by some friends who were asked by people I have not met.  I decide to go for it. Life has been rather routine and boring lately, and while boring is sometimes good and comfortable it is sometimes not healthy; it will be wonderful to break out of the rut indulging my passion:  bicycling. It appears there will be a group of six, two that I know fairly well and three, including the planner and ride captain,  who are unknown to me.  Jeff Carpenter, someone I have not met before, appears to have done the main planning though others have contributed, renting rooms for us to stay in, arranging side trips.  The arrangement is for Amelia and I to drive to Pittsburgh in one car while the other four drive together in a separate vehicle.  From there, we will take a shuttle Jeff arranged through a bicycle shop to Washington D.C. where our exploration will begin the following morning.  We will ride to our cars in Pittsburgh and then drive home. 

The first decision to make, other than tagging along, is which bicycle to take:  the Surly or my mountain bike.  Amelia is taking her mountain bike, but I decide I have ridden my Surly on some pretty significant gravel with no problems and I handle it better than my mountain bike so I will take it.  I depend upon Bob Peters at Clarksville Schwinn to help me with a rack after reading that the Surly I have is a bit difficult to put a rack on due to the disc brakes.  He also helps me to decide which panniers will best suit my needs though I decline his first suggestion due to their diminutive size and am later very glad I did.  Michael Ragan or Mark Phillips, I can't remember which, offer to loan me some panniers, but I heed the advice of  old Polonius, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be."  I think I will use them for more than this journey and I also don't want to worry that I might ruin them, particularly since I don't really know Michael or Mark.  This is followed by the decision on what to take, and I find that I really don't take much that I don't end up using at some point.  Score one for me, the over-packer.  At one point, Michael tells me that this is his weakness as well. 

I do worry about the gearing for any climbs as I know my bicycle will be much heavier than normal and I don't know the route and I also worry about my ability to keep up for I don't know Michael, Mark, or Jeff and how they ride.  I do know that Michael is coming off of a bike accident that involved a broken rib so has not been able to ride as much as he might have liked to prepare.  I hope that I am not a burden, and as it turns out the gearing is fine and keeping up is not an issue.  That being said, it may be at the end of the ride they were saying, "Dear God, we are so glad to get rid of her."  I'll never know.  But on Saturday, May 18th, 2019 I get up very early, drive to Amelia's home as we are taking her car, and the adventure begins.  After a long drive, including getting slightly lost in Pittsburgh and thus avoiding traffic we might otherwise have faced, we arrive at the garage just a few minutes prior to the guys.  The driver is waiting.  All of us grab our bags and our bikes to load for the trip to D.C.  The loading itself is problematic but the conundrum is solved and we are on our way.

I am keen for the adventure to begin and to be free of a gas powered vehicle, but the drive from Pittsburgh to Washington D.C. is not bad and gives all of us a chance to get to know each other a bit.  Jeff White, Jeff Carpenter, Amelia Dauer, Mark Phillips, and I met once previously to discuss the trip, but this is the first time I remember meeting Michael Ragan face to face.  Meeting people is difficult for me as I am not particularly vocal and always feel rather socially awkward, but before the end of the van ride the teasing has started and I begin to relax a bit. They tell a funny tale of a misunderstanding based on Mark's accent and the word hall and I am laughing. 

"I hope," I think, "that they like me or at least do not dislike me."  "I hope," I think,"that I like them or at least do not dislike any of them." I know I have a strong personality and that there are some who don't care for me because of this.  Paul says I can be bossy at times and I know he is right.  But as my mom often told me, "Not everyone is going to like you. Accept it and go on."  In fact, she herself did not care for the strength of my personality and tried, unsuccessfully, to change me into the lady she hoped I would become. By my age, however, most people have come to accept their personalities while still trying to be better people.  We rein ourselves in as best we can, but we cannot change our essence.  Are we more or less forgiving of ourselves with age?  This question haunts me as I have sat with those I loved and lost as they readied for and then moved onto the next plane.  The questions they ask?  The similarities in feelings and regrets.  Often, I think, in emphasizing our differences, our need to be special, we forget our similarities or that others are special as well. 

We arrive at the hotel and there is a large wedding reception taking place.  Guests mill about in fancy dresses.  It emphasizes my slovenliness as I have brought nothing I did not anticipate wearing on the trip, but at least I am not alone. We check in and wait for what seems to be ages prior to snagging an elevator for our ride up to our rooms.  We then meet for dinner and to discuss our morning plans, a trend that will continue throughout the trip.  We decide to leave early for "The Tour de Mark" as Mark has put together a route through the National Mall in D.C. before we head to the trail.  Four of us take a short walk after a rather mediocre dinner and then head to bed.

In the morning, prior to heading out, Michael starts his day with a flat tire.  Trying to insert air into his tire, he instead lets it all out.  But we are not delayed long before we begin.  It will not be the first mechanical we run into during our journey and is easily fixed.  He then finds that the camera he brought is not working.  I am disappointed for him.

I am interested to see how I ride with the panniers as I have always ridden with a carradice or a rear rack bag.  I did a short trial run at home, but it was very short.  Time just sneaked by me while I was engaged in other things.  I am surprised to find that I really think it is easier than either the carradice or the rear rack bag despite weighing so much more, I assume because the load is evenly balanced and has a lower center of gravity.  If I ever do PBP or a 1200 K brevet again, something I find unlikely though possible, I will consider panniers.  My bike is heavy though, so heavy that it is difficult to pick it up off the ground. Standing while riding still requires a bit of adjustment as I grasp for handling familiarity.  But gradually I become comfortable with the set up and how it rides.  With the weight, despite some beastly squeaking, I am glad I have disc brakes.  I remember touring on my road bike with a loaded carradice and how it was difficult to stop on descents.  That being said, I expect there will be little descending on this route and I am correct. Other than the detour, it is essentially a flat ride. 

As we leave, I think how this reminds me of when Steve Rice, Dave King, Bill Pustow, and I would ride into Paris a couple of days before PBP to have lunch and just to look around.  There are many times during the trip when I think of the trips I have done with other friends:  not better, not worse, just different.  I still see Dave at club centuries, but I have not seen Steve or Bill for the longest time. I miss them, but know that our paths have diverged and may or may not join together again in the future. Things change. As Narayana Murthy says, "Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck where you do not belong." I know Jeff is doing the same when he later talks about his travels with Mike "Sparky" Pitt and Jim "Grizzly" Moore.

Despite having seen many of the D.C. monuments and such while visiting my son who lives in Annapolis, I find myself thoroughly enjoying the sights Mark has put together.  At one point, it becomes hysterically amusing when two young, lovely, Chinese women grab Jeff White and begin taking selfies with him, pertly chattering and smiling the entire time, posing one on each side. My amusement fades a bit as I find I am their next victim, (odd how things are sometimes funnier when they happen to other people) but it is all in good fun and I find I am laughing, deeply laughing, for the first time in what seems to be eons.   They then move on to Amelia.

 I can't wipe this smile from my face as Jeff gets teased and the tour continues.  All of us seem to be eagerly anticipating the next few days and what they will bring. There is a graduation going on and we pass an attractive girl wearing a figure hugging white dress that has a triangle missing from the back with the tip reaching up to the middle of her bottom.  This dress shouts "SEX" and I think how my mother would have locked me in my bedroom before she let me out of the house wearing something like this despite my growing up in the age of short shorts and halter tops.  Plus, I never was built like that.  Music is playing and the mood is festive, but it is time to get our on way for we have miles to cover to get to Leesburg, Virginia, our first stop. I try to remember if that is where the 1000K Brevet I did in Virginia started.  I "think" so, but I remain unsure.  My memory does not hold to names of cities and the like, but I could tell you about the excitement in the air as we lined up outside waiting for the event to start, darkness still laying claim to the world.  I could tell you about the sounds and the smells.  But I could not tell you the name of the city.

I find it is beautiful along the canal though the trail is rougher and not as well maintained as I expected.  The water is still but for some reason does not smell.  Green moss covers it in patchily in places and heavily in others and I think how it is like a green, Chantilly lace tablecloth that is no longer serviceable yet somehow retains its beauty.  We pass a lock house, white washed and solitary, alone alongside the canal.    This is the first of many lock houses, though only at the start are they consistently white washed.  Some of the lock houses later in the ride are a beautiful, rich red.  I am told that the stones came from a nearby quarry and that we will pass the quarry, but somehow I miss it.  One lock house is open and the people who stayed there the previous night allow us to look around and tell us briefly about their night there:  no electricity, bed mattresses pulled off rope supports to the bottom floor as it was cooler on that level. 

At one point I see a white crane or egret, lazily standing one legged in the murky waters.  I wonder how one tells the difference between the two and learn that it is in the beak, neck, and legs, but I am not observant enough to remember.  Egrets symbolize strength and patience while cranes represent happiness.  I wish for both strength and happiness on this trip, and my prayer is answered.   I pass turtles drowsily sunning themselves on rocks, occasionally slipping into the water as we pass leaving only a slight ripple in the water to mark their passage.  What looks to be yellow Japanese iris is growing on the banks in spots. Later in the ride it is joined by purple. Everything is green, lusciously and richly green.  The blackberries are in bloom and in places their delicate, tiny white pedals have settled across the path. An elusive floral scent haunts the trail, and I don't know if it is from the blackberries or some other vegetation that is in bloom. Honeysuckle is surprisingly absent. My mind likes the smell, but my allergies don't. I ask if mules pulled the barges remembering a song from elementary school, "I've got a mule and her name is Sal, 15 miles on the Erie canal."  I am told yes. I soon learn to ask the man from New Zealand, Mark, if I have a question about American history.

What would it have been like to be the lock keeper or the lock keeper's wife?  Would you be isolated and alone like the light house keeper and his mate if he was lucky enough to find someone to share his lonesome solitude, or was there more human interaction for the lock keeper and his wife due to the barge traffic?  Did they worry about the children falling into the canal as they ran in the front yard, little legs pumping, breath steaming, laughter trailing like a melody in the breeze behind them, engaged in a serious game of chase, intent on eluding each others touch and becoming "it."  I don't know.  I will never know.  But still I wonder. The only thing that disturbs my day dreaming is the interactions with other riders and the need to keep my eyes on the trail for there are sticks and mud puddles and bumps that could potentially cause a fall or a mechanical.  I am not a mountain biker like Jeff Carpenter and don't have the handling skills of a mountain biker, so I try to be extra cautious.  I find it is wise to leave myself a bit of room and time to react, to pick lines, rather than riding up close and personal as I often do while road biking. One thing I do know is that each of us is responsible for our own front wheel and if I would touch and go down, it would be nobody's fault but my own.  Luckily, this is never an issue.  I remain upright throughout the ride.

One thing that plagues all of us throughout our time on the C & O is the cottonwood.  Despite concentrating on keeping my mouth closed and nose breathing, it sneaks into my wind pipe and fluffs up almost causing me to puke on a couple of occasions.  All of us fight it at times.  But still, it is lovely in places where it has delicately settled on top of the water.   I do find that if I can force myself to breath deeply through my nose and relax my throat while sipping water, the irritation does not last as long and is not as severe. 

We stop to have lunch and the man at the food stand is nice enough to take our trash despite the fact that everyone is expected to take trash with them.  The park even provides bags for this, though they are plastic, one use plastic, the worst kind. Is the cure worse than the disease?  Still, there is remarkably little trash along our way. 

Pedaling off, we reach the falls, and as always not only the sight of water but the sound mesmerizes me. The power of water and wind, the elements, is truly astonishing.  We are lucky that normally it is so gentle with us despite our continuous efforts to tame and make use of it.  Throughout the trail, I remain amazed at the stonework and wonder about the men capable not only of designing the canal, but capable of building it.  Large stones in intricate patterns piled highly and evenly.  Amazing. And the sound of the water:  throughout this adventure there is the occasional sound of running, untamed water, thundering on and over and around rocks and boulders for we often have river on one side and canal on the other.  So unlike the lazy, meandering Ohio River. I think of the irony:  on one side a tame canal with motionless water and directly opposite, a roaring river full of strength and bravado. And of course there is the railroad running endless beside us, persistent and enduring.  I think of Gordon Lightfoot's song, "For they looked in the future and what did they see, they saw an iron road running from the sea to the sea. Bringing the goods to a young growing land all up from the seaports and into their hands."  (Gordon Lightfoot:  Canadian Trilogy)

It seems but a short time before we reach White's Ferry where we need to cross to stay the night.  I am not really tired in a sense, but in another sense I am so there is a relief in nearing our night's destination. We are asked to allow the cars to board first.   We patiently wait though by this time we are all eager to get a shower and to fill our bellies.  I long for a cool drink.  Laughter floats in the air, warm and bright, familiar voices mingle with those that are not yet but will become familiar, a medley, and I briefly close my eyes and enjoy  the chatter as I begin to pair sound with rider, each voice and laugh individual and unique.  Will I come to love them as I have come to love Steve, Bill, and Dave, a love borne of the time spent together, wheels turning, difficulties faced?  It is strange, this caring, because I know their faults as well or better than my own as they have come to know mine, but still I care as if they were family to me.  I suppose in a sense they are.  But this is just a short trip and most of these people do not ride with me regularly.  My reverie is interrupted by the call to get on.  After we board, I brace myself for the start expecting a jolt, but the leaving is the same as the landing will be, smooth as silk.  After landing we ride to the motel that will be our home for the night. The short climb up from the river tests our legs which have grown lazy with the continuous flat.

When we head out the next morning for one of my favorite days, we again cross the ferry.  Today is one of my favorite days, a mix of the path and a detour around the washout at Catoctin Aqueduct.  Early in the ride Jeff has a rear flat. While we all have bicycle pumps in our bags, pump after pump fails to work until Mark produces his.  I find this quite amusing.  Jeff later remembers that his pump has to be changed from Presta to Schrader valves, but at the time that thought did not hit. We all laugh at the pump dilemma and I think of the brevet I rode with Grasshopper where pumps and CO2 inflators failed after I flatted on the rise of a metal bridge. And a lesson is learned.  Before I travel alone, I need to check whatever pump I am taking and ensure that it works.  So many lessons I am learning, lessons that I may take into the future with me for other journeys. 

There is some discussion about which detour to take, but the decision is to go through Virginia and what a decision it is.  Yes, there is climbing, but the views are absolutely spectacular.  Some of the roads are paved and some are gravel, but all are lovely and have very little traffic.  I find myself softly singing to myself as I climb, content with the world. I decide that I will return here, drive to a small town, ride a day or two, load my bike, and move on.  It is just too lovely here.  Once back on the trail, we stop at one point and a few of us soak our feet in the river.  The water is frigid but feels so good on the feet.  I am glad Mark has this idea.  I thought the water too cold for swimming, but Amelia later laments that she did not swim and only soaked her feet.  Early on at Brunswick we stop at a coffee shop that used to be a church. It was not originally our intent to stop at that place, but it was the only source of food open in the town and it turns out to be great though a tad pricey. 

 While at Brunswick, I have my first mechanical issue of the trip. No, it couldn't be something simple like a flat tire.  I have to try to move my bike by the saddle.  The metal support pops out of its holder and nobody seems to be able to put it back.  I think I could ride with it like that, but I suspect it would quickly cause the plastic frame at the back of the saddle to break.  So, since we are already at a bike store, I ask about getting it fixed.  The mechanics struggle because they lack the basic tools they need to do the job, but the man works trying different things until it is fixed.  I hate it that I am holding the group up, but I still think it is the right decision. If they had not been able to fix it, I would have bought and carried another saddle, but I am very sensitive to what saddle I use and get sores with many of them.  My friend, Greg Smith, helped me discover the saddle I currently use at a time when I was near despair at finding a saddle I could use on longer rides.  

This is also the day, I believe, that we stop to visit Harper's Ferry.   Because our bikes are so heavy, the men help Amelia and I get them up the steps.  As we cross the bridge to the town, I notice that along the top of the wire at the side of the bridge, there are padlocks of various sizes and shapes. I ask about it and am told that lovers clasp their locks there together and throw the keys into the water below, thus pledging their undying love for each other.  Evidently, in some places, because of the weight, they have to be removed. I wish I would fall in love again and feel that my heart was locked to another, but  I know it would be extremely difficult for me to give up the lifestyle that I have become accustomed to after my husband's passing.  I think how grateful I am that I had him and how I still miss him so much and suspect I always will. We just are not as flexible when we age as we are during our youth, but I remind myself that this is not a good thing. 

When we reach Harper's Ferry, some of us have ice cream and others a sandwich.  The ice cream is rich and cool, sliding easily down the throat.  Jeff W. laments breaking his vow not to have ice cream as he eats ice cream. How easily we lapse from good intentions, and not just those about food. We then explore a bit before heading back down to the trail.  A man introduces himself as being from Amsterdam and ends up helping me down with my bike before we part wishing each other safe travels.  He tells me he bicycles at home, but not during his visit here. As we pass bridge after bridge during the ride where railroad bridges have been turned into bridges used for pedestrians and bicycles, I wonder why the railroad has resisted doing something similar with the bridge in Louisville. Surely the liability issues would be the same?

Leaving Harpers Ferry, we continue on to Shepherdstown where we stay the night.  The days and cities are beginning to run together, so I hope my fellow riders and readers will forgive me if my remembrances begin to blur.  The hotel has laundry facilities next door so we do laundry.  Michael decides that he does not want to talk to dinner, so goes to an Italian restaurant near our hotel while the rest of walk to town to a pub.  I "think" this is the pub that was supposed  to have "bangers" and "cornish pasties," but every time those with me order, the waiter returns saying they don't  have it.  Meanwhile Michael sends a photo of spaghetti and meat balls that looks delicious.  Amelia laughs as she orders spaghetti after they were out of whatever she ordered before and the joke becomes that the meal is "the best we ever had." I think it is interesting how we begin to have jokes that have no meaning to anyone outside of the group and I think how this has happened on my other travels. Humor, one of the best of human traits. 

We leave Shepherdsville the next morning on our way to Hancock.  Jeff and Mark are excited as they are staying at the C & O Bunkhouse.  The rest of us opt for a motel.  After seeing the bunk house, I can't say I am truly sorry that I did not stay there, particularly as it is the or one of the coldest evenings we have and would have meant adding a sleeping bag to what I am carrying, yet a part of me does wish I were staying.  Jeff W. later tells us of the campfire and the man playing the banjo.  But the thought of having to get up and go to the port a pot at night that is located across the gravel lot is not so appealing.  Despite staying in separate places, we do meet for dinner that evening at a local restaurant.  At the start of the trip it was decided that we would avoid fast food and patronize local eateries. And we manage to do this and to eat as a group other than the one night Michael headed off on his own.


Mark has arranged a side trip to Antietam Battlefield and we arrive there early in the morning, even before the welcome center has opened.  A man is there dressed in civil war attire and riding a horse.  He allows me to pet her and I realize how much I miss having a horse to care for, but alas they are too expensive.  He says he is early but is dressed to address children that are coming there on a field trip from school.  After speaking with us, he rides off and there is something poignant and moving about seeing him silhouetted against the morning sky, flag high and gently rippling in the breeze.  At one point, we pass and read about the "bloody lane" where 300 or so died one day and a shiver runs down my back.  I think of how terrible it must have been for them, their wives, mothers, fathers, sweethearts.  Having suffered so much loss in the past few years, this needless waste of life and love bothers me.  I remember my brother saying that America presently has not been so divided since the Civil War, and I am overwhelmed.  I  yank my thoughts away for I don't know these people well enough to muddle through this morass of disordered thoughts with them.  I don't know them well enough, even those I do ride with more often, to cry as I want to at the futility of it all and our failure as a race, including myself, to understand what is really important. 

I could have stayed and explored longer, but time is burning and there are roads to travel, so we set off from the battlefield for Hancock. When with a group, one has to bend because each of us is an individual with different interests and ideas.  At times the canal path becomes monotonous, but the side trips have offset this and it is beautiful.  We begin to see more wildflowers along our route:  white and purple.  I soak in the greenness and take lots of photos so that I can remember this, the sounds, the sights, the companionship, these people.  At times we chatter and at times we ride alone.  Amelia later points out that this has given us each some alone time, something we both have a need for. As I so often do, I think how strong my husband was to tolerate my need for independence and for alone time and I send a thank you up to heaven and once again ask God to give him a hug from me. 

Prior to arriving at our destination, Mark, Jeff C., and I take a detour to see Ft. Frederick while the others ride onward.  The visitor's center is closed, but the fort itself is open though not the rooms.  I peer through the window to see that each room appears to be furnished.  I wonder about the difference from Kentucky forts which are wood while this forts outer walls are stone, but Mark points out the obvious:  this fort was for the Civil War whereas the Kentucky forts were geared for protection from Native Americans. 

After a good night's sleep at Hancock (at least for some of us;-) we head to Cumberland.  The highlight of the day will be the trip through the Paw Paw Tunnel; however, prior to arriving there, Jeff W. unwittingly runs over a stick and shreds his derailleur and derailleur hanger.  The trail has become two ruts in the road and as he crosses the grassy area, he hits it. Chain tools seem to follow the lead of the pumps.  The first two don't work.  I could not find my chain tool and had not purchased one prior to the trip as others said they were carrying them.  Jeff tries to turn his bicycle into a single speed, but as soon as he takes off the chain drops off.  (He later finds that the frame is slightly bent).  He is very patient as everyone gives him advice and I know he would like to duct tape our mouths, particularly those of us who know so little about bicycle mechanics, but being Jeff he doesn't. We feel badly, but we take off leaving him to walk the approximately 7 miles to the closest town while we ride ahead. I see a truck at the side of the road, a State Forest worker, but he says he can't go on the path to get Jeff and he won't be able to give him a ride when he gets to the intersection. We pass through the Paw Paw Tunnel shortly before town. When we reach the closest town, we have lunch and ask the diner owner if she knows of anyone who could sage Jeff to Cumberland.  She does.  All of us text the information to Jeff happy that we have cell service. 

Amazingly, when we reach Cumberland and the Inn we are staying at, Jeff arrives at exactly the same time, bicycle fixed and ready to go.  Cumberland is a nice little town and the place we stay at is one of my favorites of the trip, perhaps because the owner has chocolate for us in the kitchen.

The next day is when we leave the C & O and make the climb to the Mason Dixon Line and the Continental Divide.  I laugh at how I worried about my gearing.  The climb is long but hardly qualifies as a climb despite going on for twenty miles or so.  I find I am using my big ring easily once I realize it is not going to increase in grade.  The vistas are lovely. We pass through another tunnel.  At one point we stop and there is a man who is also cycling but is taking a survey about our thoughts on our President. When we reach the top, the sky begins to threaten rain, something it has not done this entire week.  Jeff W. says he is going to ride anyway and I join him only to be hit by a deluge along with thunder and lightening.  We pull to a covered shelter with picnic tables to wait it out and find the others just behind us following our lead. Everyone is nice about being caught in the storm.  When we take off, we meet Vince and Beki going the other direction.  They warn us of hail and storms ahead and we warn them of sticks.  I urge moving on quickly, leery of the weather, but we stay and chat quite awhile before moving onward.  We hit no more rain the entire trip.  God has blessed us with nice weather.

When we arrive, we stay at the Hostel Bunkhouse.  We laugh when we ask about dining places and the woman says pizza.  Most of us have had so much pizza on this journey that even I am tired of it.  In one town where we stopped for lunch, there were two restaurants:  both pizzerias. We do end up eating there and have the best homemade chicken potpie I have ever eaten. And I am NOT joking. I manage to cram in a sundae for dessert and think how I will have gained weight on this ride.

All of us will be sleeping in the same room.  Everyone wants a bottom bunk, but Mark is a good sport and says he will take a top bunk.  As it turns out, none of end up on the top bunk because one of the private rooms has not been rented out, but I remain grateful.  Jeff W. is relegated to that room because of his snoring and Mark takes his bunk. I don't sleep but a half hour or so at most that night.  Michael has made friends with a man named Joe, who is also sleeping there and will ride with us a bit the next day.  He takes over the common room which made my insomnia all the more annoying.  Everyone else, however, appears to have slept well and I am glad because I worried that my constant tossing and turning would keep them awake. Mark comes across a journal entry from someone who had ridden the trail the previous year and warns people not to ride the "cow path."  Jeff C. and Michael had intended to do this trip last year, but had canceled with the rain.  This entry justifies their cancellation and brings a smile. 

In the morning, we head out for Connellsville.  As we ride, we discuss the possibility of riding further than originally planned so that our last day will be shorter and we will arrive home earlier, but the motel will not allow us to cancel and some have reservations about riding such a distance.  At this point in the ride, while still enjoying ourselves, most of us if not all are feeling the pull to get home.  Home:  even the word brings thoughts of safety and comfort.  As I ride, I think of the words of Charles Parkhurst, "Home interprets Heaven.  Home is heaven for beginners."  For me, I think, home is home mostly because of the memories.  I hear the voices of the children as they play within the walls and feel the warmth of my husband's embraces.  Their ghosts linger.  I think of  how I should move closer to my daughter to a smaller home, not that mine is use, but how reluctant I am to leave these things despite the fact I know I will carry my memories with me until my mind lets them go.

We stop at Ohiopyle for a bit to use the bathrooms and to see the falls.  It is rather crowded, but lovely.  We cross numerous wooden bridges across the water these days.  During the day, I think about things I have come to learn about the people who are my traveling companions.  I have known Jeff White the longest of any of them though I would never have described us as being close.  Like me, Jeff believes in God and his religion is important to him.  We have a couple of faith based talks during our journey.  Jeff is kind and obviously has restraint or he would have told the lot of us to "bugger off" when he broke his chain and we were making suggestions.  He accepted what happened in good spirits and is not a whiner.  Jeff Carpenter I don't know as nearly as well, but I see a rather wry sense of humor.  He seems to be one of those people who makes a joke and everyone doesn't catch it because he is rather unassuming.  I thank you, Jeff, for putting this trip together.  From that, I also learned that you are a planner, and a very good one.  The GPS course is unfailingly accurate.  Amelia and I have ridden together for a few years, but again I would not describe her as being a close friend.  I wondered how we would do as roommates as usually I get my own room.  We both live alone and are used to privacy.  I learn that she is very thoughtful and goes out of her way to ensure that things run smoothly.  She is kind.  She also has a good sense of humor.  When she has a mishap, she is able to laugh at herself and go on, a quality I admire.  And she is smart. Mark is funny and constantly talking.  He has an interest in history and the area he is passing.  Thank you, Mark, for the side trips that you planned. Mark takes his oldest son on bicycling trips and obviously is committed to his children and spending time with them, something I admire.  Michael is dependable and has interesting stories to tell.  He is determined to complete this ride despite having been injured during the preparation time.  It is hard to spend this much time with people that you don't know well without conflict, but we manage to do just that.

Our last night is at the Melody Lodge.  It is quite a trek from the trail on busy roads, but when we get there a smile crosses my face.  This is obviously a very old motel.  I tease about being disappointed that the beds don't have "Magic Fingers," a machine from my youth where you put in a quarter and the bed would shake.  Still, there is a bed and WI-fi and there are no bugs.  Also, per the signs on the building and the mirror in the bathroom it is protected by a detective agency.  We walk to a restaurant/bar that Michael wants to go with and find we are the only customers.  The cook had not shown up for work and the waitress had never waited tables before.   Jeff C. comments on how so many of the places we have eaten are overwhelmed when a group of six walks in and he is right:  this place is one of them.  After eating, we determine that we will get breakfast from Wal-Mart and eat at the hotel in the morning and take something for our lunch and eat along the trail.  I will miss my coffee, but I buy a coke so as to get some caffeine.  When we awaken, there is no water.  This makes me laugh.  I am laughing to the point where I almost have an accident.  Luckily, Michael had bought a jug of water the evening before, something I guess the others made fun of him for but turned out to be fortuitous.  He is nice and shares and I am able to fill my water bottles knowing that I can't ride over sixty miles, even easy miles, without water.  Without meaning to, Jeff W. has added a wonderful memory to this ride.

While I vowed I would not stop for constant photos this day, I do stop to take a few.  At one point we pass a red waterfall along the trail and then a white one.  The white one looks as if the water is frozen. Mark suggests it is salt.  I stop and cross and taste it but there is no saltiness to it.  Just beyond it, there are some men working on the path.  I stop and ask and find that it is aluminum nitrate and that the red is magnesium nitrate.  He says there is was a coal mine above them and that it gets it colors from the minerals on top and below the vein.  The intensity of the color depends upon the amount of rain.  He says this is the best it has been for three years.  I would like to stop longer, but I need to catch the others and head off.

We stop for our picnic just short of Pittsburg.  There does not appear to be much available in this town along the trail, so we are bemoaning the fact that we are going to need to find a place to fill up bottles when a woman stops and enters the hostel next to the shelter.  She allows us not only to fill up our water bottles but to have an ice cold canned soft drink.  The cold drink is delicious in the heat, like ambrosia, but we need to move on as we want to get  to our cars for the long drive home.  She offers us cupcakes and brownies, but we have already eaten. I think how people like this give me faith:  kindness is still alive.  Alas, Jeff has yet another rear flat.  A rock has punctured his tire.  This time, the pumps work and the fix is quick. Amelia, Jeff C., and I sit in the grass in the shade while he fixes it.  Mark and Michael ride ahead, smelling the barn.

As we near Pittsburg, the trail becomes paved but uglier.  There are a few tiny climbs.  All of us are ready to be done.  It also is more crowded, but it is a holiday week-end.  I think how amazed I have been at the number of people, not just here but all along the trail, who do not wear helmets.  I suppose it is like when seat belts were first introduced. It is then that I have my last mechanical, one that nobody knows about except for Amelia who I tell in the car on the way home.  My bike stops shifting in the front and I am stuck in the small chain ring.  "Could be worse," I think, "it could have happened earlier in the ride or something far worse could have happened."  I can finish.  I've got this.

We finally reach the garage, say our good-byes, and head homewards.  It is nice to arrive home.  I am thankful that I was able to participate in this journey and for new friends that I have made and older friends who my relationship with has deepened along the road.  Here's to future journeys.  Like Van Gogh, I would rather die following my passion than from boredom. May opportunities for shared adventures continue to arise!