"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.
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.
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.
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