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.