So Spring Begins

"When the first fine spring days come, and the

earth awakes and assumes its garment of verdure,

when the perfumed warmth of the air blows on

our faces and fills our lungs, end even appears to 

penetrate our heart, we feel vague longings for

undefined happiness, a wish to run, to walk at 

random, to inhale the spring."

Guy de Maupassant

 

Finally it is growing warmer and there are bicycles in dire need of being ridden, roads that have missed me, friends who I have not seen over the winter to hug and catch up with.  Pale green is stealthily seeping into the background, leaves poking forth, asking themselves if it is time to emerge.  Daffodils shyly raise their yellow heads, daring the frost filled night to dim their glow.  Frogs drench the air with their courting calls as I ride past wet areas, puddled to excess from all the recent rain.   Squirrels grow restless, scampering across the road with wild abandon.  Oh, how I have longed for this, the warmer days, the burnished, bright blue skies, and the sun, brilliantly beaming, a proud partner  to mother earth. And I am happy.  Thankful to be here for another spring, to feel well, to be on a bicycle.  

During these rides I have been checking out my new navigation tool:  The Wahoo Element.  After much thought and conferring with Greg Smith, a friend I trust who appears to understand my technological challenges, when my Garmin broke I changed to the Wahoo Element.  (Thank you, Greg, for the time and for not making me feel stupid as others have done as I try to master electronics).  It is almost too simple to use.  I keep expecting it to be difficult, for something to pop up that I am doing incorrectly, but it  has not, at least at this point.  The battery life seems to be much better than that of my past Garmins, plus it is easier to use.  For me, the Element was a wise choice. 

That being said, there are a few things I miss from my Garmin, the most significant of which is that I miss seeing road names on my map.  If you have a route programmed in the Element (something very simple to do), when a turn nears it tells you the name of the road you will be turning on, but otherwise not.  I also miss the louder noise the Garmin made alerting me to turns. In wind or when busy talking, this could be an issue, particularly on a brevet.  The map also does not pan out as my Garmin did, but that was not a feature that I really used much.  Lastly, with the Garmin you could get estimated calories on the ride.  The Element has this feature, but it does not appear to work.  I suspect it requires that you buy the heart monitor, but I have not yet contacted support to find out.  It is not important enough to me to buy a heart monitor.  As I tell friends, as long as it is beating, I suppose I am okay.  And there is the feature I think will be valuable but that I have not used that allows me to share the ride with people that I want to share with.  I need to experiment with this feature, but I think it would allow me to have my daughter or a friend come rescue me if riding alone and having a mechanical that I cannot resolve.

On climbs, as always in the spring, I find my heart beating quite strongly and my lungs working overtime to try to fill themselves.  But how glorious it feels to put these demands upon them.   There is a certain satisfaction in sharing this with others because truly nobody is in the best of cycling shape this time of year.  It helps that it is spring, that friends are present, that we laugh and talk and sweat.  At the end of my last ride, as I bathed, I noticed a slender red streak encircling my arm where my arm warmers had not quite met the bottom of my sleeve and I smile, content and sated, but longing for another warm, sunny spring day with my bicycle.  Soon there will be tulips and other flowers as color once again embraces the earth, all waiting for us to appreciate them.  How fortunate we are to be given the gift of yet another spring. 

 

 

 

 

 

Solo Century March 2019

"Behold, my friends, the spring is come;

the earth has gladly received the embraces 

of the sun, and we shall soon see the results 

of their love."

Sitting Bull

It is still cold outside, but it is expected to be only mildly windy and not below freezing.  I have winter legs, unused to hard demands being placed upon them and there is no time like the present to begin to remedy that.  It is time to ride. I have a course to check for a ride I am captaining later this month and there is no time like the present (Club policy has changed and signatures on a contract are no longer required in order to captain), so today is the day.  If I did not have an appointment the next day, I might have procrastinated, but as it turns out I am glad that I did not despite a rare (anymore) sleepless night.  I also am glad that a calendar glitch has kept me from posting the ride and having company.  There will be no pressure.  The time has changed so there is plenty of day light and I am alone. 

It is strange how different climbs are when one is alone and there is no pressure to "keep up."   How much more I seem to notice.  You just pedal and there is not the agony or pain of pushing faster.  Not that I don't enjoy company.  Often I do.  But each has its charms.  With the difficulty of today's course on weak legs, alone is probably best.  It does, however, depend upon the company.  One group I ride with never seems to be in a hurry though they maintain a reasonable pace.  The last I rode with them, they assured me that was because they are mostly mountain bikers and not road bikers.  But it is all good.  I think for awhile of all the nice people I have met through cycling and how blessed I am.  Recently, thanks to Amelia, I have been hiking with some of them that no longer ride distance and gotten a chance to catch up.  I really enjoyed a recent conversation with Ron Dobbs and seeing Vickie. There truly are a lot of good people out there.  I tend to forget this when I read too much or watch too much news.

I know all the roads the first part of the course, and as I check the corrected cue sheet, all the turns and mileage seem right.   I thrill on the hills of Shorts Corner when I come upon a quite unexpected site:  Easter flowers, or so my mother-in-law used to call them, some type of small, yellow daffodil, is just opening.  Despite being in midst of a climb and knowing that it will be hard to start back up once I quit pedaling, I have to take a picture if only to remind myself later that it is true.  I have seen the green stalks elsewhere, the promise of bloom, but no blooms. These are the only blooms I see all day.  Mostly there is brown mud.  The stark outlines of tree branches are muted with buds, but they have not yet opened.  And trash, I see the litter that people make everywhere.  I am not a neat freak, but I don't litter and I wonder a bit about why people don't take their trash in when they park at home or wait and throw it in the bin when they get gas.  But they don't.  We don't love the earth as we should. 

The squirrels are particularly active and chatter at me when I urge them to move off the road.  A gray squirrel seems intent on driving a brown squirrel away and I grin at his antics. Perhaps mating and territory related? I doubt gray squirrels mate with brown squirrels, but I really don't know. Deer abound and I see three different small herds throughout the day, bounding gracefully, white tails bobbing.  I think about how when I was recently reading about hiking the National Forest, it recommended wearing orange or red, but specifically not white.  Perhaps a hunter might think that the while was a deer tail. 

I stop for lunch at the Mennonite Restaurant and let them know that a group will be coming through.  She asks if they will arrive at once and I tell her probably not since we ride different paces.  I know she is trying to plan staffing requirements and I hope that I am right.  I love this restaurant.  If you ask, the sandwich is served on home baked bread.   And today is no exception.  The men at a nearby table stare at me and I assume I look a sight.  During the winter, I have stopped pulling my hair back when I ride as the balaclava loosens my hair band.  If they fall on the floor, Tom eats them if he gets a chance.  The few times he beat me when the band dropped to the floor, he vomited them back up, but otherwise I know they could kill him.  So I just look like an unkempt banshee.  For a moment I wish for short hair, but mine is so easy to cut without going to a beauty parlor.  I just pull it back, take the scissors, and cut straight across.  Money and time both saved.  It also saves me from having to sit and try to make conversation with a hair stylist that I don't know.  "Vanity, thy name is woman," may be true, but "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" either.  I just don't think I could make short hair look passable without going to a shop regularly, a time sacrifice I am not willing to make.  I also am dressed in layers of clothing and do a mild strip tease at the table.  No tips are thrown, but then I am almost 63;-)  As I tell people there comes a time when rather than saying, "Take it off, take it off," one is more likely to hear, "Put it on, put it on."  Time can surely be mean.  I have accepted that I will die without ever being breathtakingly beautiful to anyone, except my husband of course and he is gone. 

After lunch will be the major, unknown change. I am leaving out two of my favorite roads and adding a road that will cut mileage.  I had e-mailed my old boss, Mark, to ask about the road as in the past he advised me against riding it but I cannot  remember why.  He says it was because it had thick gravel for about two miles, but he thinks it has been paved.  And the first mile or so has been, though the pavement is bad in places.  And then, there it is, silently waiting, taunting.  A hill.  A magnificent, scary hill that appears more like a wall than a hill, winding upward toward heaven.  I know that at the end of this road, I will be turning onto a road that also has a long, tough hill, but it is not like this hill.  I take a deep breath and begin to pedal, then decide that I will walk it today.  My legs are tired already and I still am about thirty to thirty five miles out.  And so I walk, relieved but also a bit disappointed in myself.  Next time, I think, Mr. Hill, it will be me and you.  You won this round through intimidation, but perhaps next time the victory will be mine.  Still, despite walking, I enjoy the feeling of being on a new, unknown road. 

After I crest the hill, I find that Mark is wrong and there is still gravel.  It is sparse, however, and very rideable and nowhere near two miles long.  Even with all the recent rain, it is not muddy.  Good as pavement, I think, though I know that there are riders who will not appreciate it.  Then a descent and I pray that my brakes are good.  Of course, while steep, it is not a straight descent and there is a ninety degree turn at the bottom, but my bike handles it.  Then begins the next climb, the climb where I can still see Scott standing and saying, "Now that's a hill."  Being alone, I don't have to hurry.  I am surprised to find I don't need granny.  Perhaps I have not grown as weak as I thought.  But I am slow.  I think of the soy bean field I saw that was still unharvested, probably due to the excessive rain.  All along the route there is evidence of deep ruts in fields that have been harvested. 

I stop at Amos's store only to find he now closes on Monday as well as Sunday, but in my bike bag I have a sugar cookie I bought at lunch but didn't eat and I still have plenty of water.  I notice all the changes on Delaney Park. There are two new Amish home sites.  Laundry is hung out, something I look forward to doing but have not yet started for the year.  I dream of how nice it is to come home from a long ride to fresh sheets that smell of the earth and the sun.  At one home, there is a small Amish boy playing outside, I would guess about four or five.  I bid him good day, but he is shy and does not reply, only stares at the strange woman passing by on her bicycle.  I think of how odd it is that there have not been any other signs of spring other than that first small patch of flowers.  I caution myself to patience:  it will come when it will come. Technically, it is still winter.  I wonder if I should try to change back to the original route, and decide to think on it for a day or two.  Parking is the issue.  I decide I will measure to estimate how many cars I can fit and then decide. 

I am glad when I reach home.  I like my original route better and not because of the hill.  I just think it is more scenic, or perhaps it is because it has more memories.  Either route will be pretty as spring arrives and begins to show herself a little more, to pass on a bit of the love she received from the sun. Sometimes when I struggle on rides anymore I question why I continue to ride the century rides, but then I think of my husband when I stopped doing triathlons.  He told me that I would never be that fit again.  And I wasn't.  I think of Jim Whaley saying essentially the same thing  to me during a ride when he talked about when he gave up racing.  And I decide that, at least for now, I will continue to challenge myself.  Riding will season these old legs for another year anyway, I expect.  And so I continue.    102.7 miles.

The First TMD Century Stage: 2019

"One thing about the cold weather:

it brings out the statistician in everyone."

Paul Theroux

The first Tour De Mad Dog Century stage of 2019 and I am in terrible shape.  Yes, I have gone to the gym.  I have done Pilates and Barre classes faithfully other than the months a couple of broken toes were healing.  I have squatted and lunged and crunched until my squatters, lungers, and crunchers were sore, but I have not really ridden my bicycle much and I know it will show on a 100 mile ride.  Once, I think with disgust at myself, I have been on my old stationary trainer once this winter. So I actually go back and check to ensure that it was not a dream, that I did receive an e-mail saying the course is changed due to flooding and will be a much flatter course than the course originally scheduled.  I intended to ride anyway, and even with the change I know it will be painful, but I also know this course, one I normally will not ride due to the danger of high traffic volume and the lack of any significant scenery, will be less painful by far. I'm in.

The ride will go from the Outer Loop down to Lincoln's boyhood home and then return along the same route.  I know there will be memories, but I am unprepared for how they haunt me throughout the ride.  Many of my friends from those first years have given up the century rides for shorter, less demanding rides, but here I am.  Newer friends are not returning opting for shorter rides, but I am here.  And I decide it is time to evaluate why I am here and if I truly want to be here. Dave is the only one present today from the original group that rode the series starting 2004.  We were really not friends that first year, at least not in the way we later became friends, a friendship forged through countless miles on countless century and brevet courses.   Still, I doubt we will ride together and I am surprised to find we spend quite a bit of the day together.  Gayle is the only other woman present.  Again I think how last year there were, I don't believe, any new women to finish the tour.  But things lose their popularity, and the numbers definitely seem to grow smaller.  And it is hard.  Riding all these centuries is hard and seems to become harder.

I think about the brevets and how I purposefully did not do the Kentucky 200 this year.  The decision was abetted by a wedding I needed to attend the evening before that kept me out until midnight, but one I perhaps would have made anyway.  I keep hoping my desire to ride the long brevets will return, but just the thought of being that tired makes me tired.  Still, I am glad that I was that tired.  Personally, I don't believe that until you have ridden a 1200 K, you really to know what it means to be truly exhausted. 

I know how to dress for this ride, but I shiver at the thought.  This is one of those days that, while not really cold, will be one where you sweat and are chilly at the same time.  To prevent that, I would have to overdress which would not only mean a slower pace than the snail's pace I anticipate, but greater dehydration.  It is supposed to be in the low forties all day with a mild wind, and so I bite the bullet: thin wool base layer topped with a wool jersey, vest, and very light jacket, booties and my bar mitts, something I left on only because of the cold weather prediction for next week, a decision I am exceedingly grateful for throughout the ride.  Age, it seems, whether mental or physical, has lessened my tolerance for discomfort.  As my friend, Lynn, has told me, it does get harder to be mean to yourself as you age. 

Dave heads off before me, and I leave the parking lot in the middle of the fast group chasing him, for he pulled out on his own.  I hang for a few miles before dropping back knowing that I do not have the endurance to hang there the entire ride but pleased to keep up for as long as I do.  As with running, one thing I am good at is pacing myself, a valuable skill for anyone who does endurance activities. Indeed, it turns out only three riders do, but that happens further down the road.  When I drop, I am ride by myself for a number of miles before being caught by John and a rider I don't know when I stop to adjust the cue sheet.  I giggle to myself as I hear them chatting behind me expressing their gratefulness for the flooding because it caused the route change.  It is good to know that I am not the only wimp in the group.  But then, I think, other than Larry, I probably am the oldest of the group.  As I thought to myself last year, "You old fool.   You're 62 (now almost 63) and can't expect to keep up with 40 to 50 year old men." But today, for the most part, I do. 

While I am by myself, I ride a road where I remember Mike Pitt having a flat 14 or 15 years ago.  I remember how we lazed at the side of the road while he changed it, laughing and joking, easy in our friendship.  I remember the warmth of the sun beating down on us, the greenness of the grass, the sweetness of the air.  I pass the gas station where Mike stole Tim's wheel and hid it. I remember Vickie, camera ready and then stealthily put away, no photo taken, when Tim became incensed and rode off by himself leaving everyone stunned by his unexpected reaction.  I remember another time, all of us sitting at the picnic tables, warm and sweaty in the summer sun, eating sandwiches,  and Mike Kammenish lying on the pavement easing an aching back prior to his spinal surgery.  Across the street is the restaurant we used to eat in where a toy train ran along a shelf at the top of the room near the ceiling, the restaurant where I got my first Mad Dog (removable) tattoo.  "Where," I think,"did the time go?"  "Where did the people go?" Yet still I ride.  "Is there," I think,"something wrong with me that I have not moved on as others do?"  But even on this cold day, a day where I chill and am uncomfortable any time I slow or stop, there is no place else I would rather be or any other activity that I would rather be in engaged in than riding my bike.  Curse or gift?  I don't know.  Perhaps a bit of both. But thank God for the health that allows me to continue to participate.

At the first store stop, Gayle and Dave are waiting and we share the road until Dave needs to make a pit stop.  Gayle thinks it is morbid when I am talking about the divorce of a friend and lamenting that he had not found the woman to live out his days with as I had hoped. My daughter tells me I talk of death too openly, and I can't say I am not afraid of death or that I look forward to death, but I also am not afraid to talk about it and have accepted that it is inevitable.  But she is right and people do find it unsettling. Still, I did not look at my statement as morbid.  I envy those who have life partners and I miss my own. And it is something that I wish for my friends:  loving and being loved. Even now, when I see something Lloyd would have liked, I think how I miss telling him about it or buying it for him.  I miss fixing his favorite dinner for his birthday.  I miss having a life partner.  I miss loving and being loved, and if I have another romantic relationship, I will wish for an enduring one. The words of a favorite song by James Arthur come to mind, "I want to stay with you until we're gray and old......I want to live with you even when we're ghosts."

The man I don't know behind me  has been complaining about his toes.  Sympathizing,  I give him the toe warmers I have stowed in my handlebar bag and he is hesitant but grateful. I ride with John and this fellow until the turn around. They stop but I roll onward.  I decide not to stop at the Subway that is the traditional lunch stop but to ride on until the third stop as it is still early.  At the turnaround, John asked the fellow riding with us our average.  He replies in kilometers, but that is not what John wanted, so I tell him we are at 16 mph.  Not fast, certainly, but not too bad after months without any serious riding.  As stated above, the cold has turned me into a statistician.  Throughout the ride, whenever I notice my discomfort, I calculate the anticipated finish time. 

Dave and I stop to eat at the third store stop.  As we sit there for what seems like forever, I realize I had forgotten how slowly Dave eats.  Never have I seen anyone who enjoys his food as thoroughly as Dave. It is a source of amusement, delight, and frustration. Though I enjoy hearing about the new bicycles he has bought (and have been lusting after the one he is riding), it seems an eternity as the statistician again takes over calculating the additional time it will take to finish.  My thigh muscles are tightening and I am chilling by the time we leave.  As often is the case after a stop, especially a prolonged stop during a colder ride, it seems colder than it did prior to the stop.   I wonder if I have another thirty miles left in my legs and realize I better have as I have no sag wagon.  Dave said the sun was supposed to pop out, but it never does.  Everything is dark and gray and chill, a chill and grayness made worse by the previous taste of spring.

Dave tells me about the brevet, about who rode, about the challenges of the course.  I ask if he is going to ride his new bike at PBP and he says he is not:  he is going to ride his green Kirk.  I ask if he rode with Steve and he says he rode mostly alone.  A part of me wishes I had ridden, but as much of me or more is glad that I didn't, particularly after feeling how tired my legs are after 100 basically flat miles. And then we are pulling into the parking lot, a lot that holds my car that has seat warmers that will be on high all the way home.  Unlike in the warmer months, we only hug briefly and don't hang out long afterwards before heading home.   I grin as I pull out calculating how long it will be before I am submerged in a tub full of hot water.  But I am glad that I rode. I am grateful for the time alone and the memories that surfaced.  I am grateful for the time with Dave.  Life is good and so is bicycling.  And spring will come.