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.