New Years Eve 2020: Not Bicycling Related (random thoughts from a slightly inebriated brain;-)

"In the New Year, never forget to

thank your past years because they 

enabled you to reach today!

Without the stairs of the past you 

cannot arrive at the future."

Mehmet Murat Ildan

Another New Year, and I find that age has changed me.  Yes, I still look forward and anticipate  new and delightful experiences, but I pay tribute to the past and those that I held dear but who are no longer here with me.  I pay tribute to my failures and my successes. I struggle to understand the role that each played in my becoming who I am today. Sometimes I think that given the state of the world today, 1 lost in every 1,000 here in America so far and over a million worldwide, that it may be good they are not here to see this and for me to worry about; but I am glad to be here so perhaps, probably even, they would be too.  Regardless, many of the people who molded and who shaped me, the animals who comforted and taught me, are gone. Yet I am grateful to them.  They not only did but continue to influence me, to chastise me, to comfort me, to guide me. 

 

I miss my husband.  People think it odd when I try to explain that one of the things that I miss about him is the smell of him.  For months after he passed I would pick up his hat and cover my nose with it while inhaling as deeply as possible, feeling my body relax and luxuriate in that beloved scent.  I have never had an overly sensitive nose and before him, I don't know that I realized that each of us has a unique aroma.  And maybe we don't.  But he did.  And to me, combined with his arms, it spoke of home. I miss his touch and the shivers it would send up and down my spine.  I miss the sound of his footsteps, unique in all the world. I miss his laughter and the funny things he would say.  I miss how he cared if someone hurt me or I was upset about something, his advice that I often didn't listen to but still needed to hear.  My world is emptier without him but paradoxically richer because of him. My future would undoubtedly have been quite different had he not been in my past.

I miss my mother: not so much the tired shadow that gradually replaced the mother I knew though she too had her role, but the mother of my youth, the one who held me and rocked me, the one that took me to Cincinnati shopping and to have an ice cream clown.  I remember falling one year as I ran down the street, skinning my knee.  It was a rather nasty fall taking lots of skin with it and blood poured.  But I did not cry until I reached home and my mother's arms because she would care and somehow, her very caring so much, would make it better.  Such a strong woman, certainly not a perfect woman, molded and shackled by a childhood of deprivation and hardship and unkindness, condemned to growing blindness as she aged,  but a strong woman.  Sometimes I feel shame in my own weaknesses, particularly in the light of comparison.  But I miss her.  I miss her wry humor.  I miss her hands.  My mother had the most beautiful hands, capable of being so gentle, a trait she did not pass on.  And I owe what strength I do have, if indeed I have any, partially to her and the example she set.

I miss my big brother.  In my mind's eye, I have a picture of him near the time when I realized he really was going to die, that there was no cure and God was not going to perform a miracle but was calling him home.  I worry that I will lose the image as my mind and memory weaken with age.  Verizon would not help me, but my son helped me find a program to preserve the sound of his voice.  During my lunch on a recent solitary 13 mile hike on the Knobstone, I listened to it remembering how he loved the woods while growing up.  I remember snuggling in his arms while we watched "Bonanza" on television or listened to Bob Dylan, "West Side Story," Simon and Garfunkel, and the Beatles on his record player.  I remember how he could pick on me, but let anyone else pick on me and they would answer to him.  I loved Chris.  I will always love Chris.  And I miss him.  But I am who I am partially due to his being in my life.

I miss Becky Moore, her life cut short despite her beauty and her vivaciousness.  I was, perhaps, one of the few that knew the difficulties that she smiled through, that knew that her searching probably played a role in her demise.  Despite that and being a friend, I can't say I was never jealous.  Being a plain Jane, it was not easy having a friend  who had that certain something that drew every man within her radius toward the flame.  But I loved her and the friendship that bloomed between us.   Despite the years, I keep a gift she made me all those years ago and hold it close.  It makes me smile.   And I learned from her, from her life and from her death. There have been times when I have tried to live my life more fruitfully since hers was taken from her.

I miss my pets.  I miss Kitti and Pupik and Pooh and all the rest of them.  I hope they forgive me for the times I failed them, when my patience grew short or my knowledge was limited or flawed.  So many pets throughout the years for I love animals much as I love small children.  Unlike dealing with adults, with children and animals you don't have to wonder so much what they are feeling, if they have some hidden agenda.  What you see is generally pretty much what you get. Somewhere along the line, children grow and learn subterfuge, but that comes later.  Animals never or rarely do.  What you see if what you get. Kindness lights their day.  A harsh word breaks their hearts. Always giving more than they take. Yet each had an effect.  Each played a role in making me who I am today.  And I am grateful for their love and guidance.

And this leads me to my biggest blessings: my children and grandchildren.  I had hoped my daughter would find someone special, fall in love, marry, and have children.  I still hope she finds someone, but she is reaching the age where there would most likely be no children.  This does not seem important to her and I accept that, but I can't help but to think what a wonderful mother she would have been. My daughter has given me far more than she has taken, and I am thankful.  She also played a huge role in shaping the person that is now me.

 

 

 My son and his wife gave me two, beautiful granddaughters and in them I see my youth and my children's youth and their own precious youth.  Since COVID, I have not had much contact.  As something I read by someone I can't remember pointed out, in this new world NOT seeing family and friends has become the true act of love, but we did have a Christmas visit, the first physical contact I have had with them since last January.  Ivy and I had a dance party, the other adults looking on as if we were quite unhinged as we danced and smiled together, sharing a moment, a moment it is unlikely that she will remember due to her age and the insignificance of the dance,  but quite likely that I will.  It always has interested me how moments that may be of primary importance to one person are not recalled at all by the other, as if their world was not the same one and if that moment in time was not shared. I briefly held my newborn granddaughter, searching her face for a hint of who she is to become, looking for my husband in her, knowing that I would love this tiny, little person no matter who or what she is.

I have been blessed with all of these wonderful people and animals now gone, waiting for me when my time arrives. What a joyous reunion it will be. I am blessed with new pets who comfort me in times of sadness and make me laugh.  I am blessed with friends, old and new,  who accept me for who I am and who like to spend time with me, who accept my bad traits and cherish my good traits.  Friends who I can call upon to join me on a hike, or a walk, or a bike ride.

I am blessed with good health.  I am blessed with enough income to meet my needs, to keep a roof over my head and food on the table, a car in the driveway, and a bike in the garage. (Okay, kitchen or basement.  I don't have a garage;-)  I am blessed with eyes that while dimming, are not yet giving way to blindness through macular degeneration.  I am blessed with a mind that may be a bit foggier than it used to be, but still functions well enough to allow me to go about my daily business. And I am blessed with people in my past, now gone, that I loved and who loved me, who molded and shaped me, giving me the strength to move forward and to possibly love again.  Hopefully they have forgiven me for the times I let them down, when I did not cherish or use the gifts that they gave me as they should have been used.  I do realize that they gave me "the stairs" to climb to where I am today, and while it is not perfect, it is okay.  So long as I hold on to my memory, they are here with me, in the wind as it whispers and kisses my cheek, in the road as it changes while my bicycle wheels lead me forward, in my mind as I recall them and smile rather than cry, as a song bursts forth from my heart into the open air.  To them and to those that are still with me, who remain important to me, I say thank you.  And since I cannot do more, that must be enough.  

I wish you all a Happy New Year.  I hope that you have people that you love and people who love you.   I wish you an appreciation of those who have gone but who played a role in your development. I wish  you the ability to be appreciative of what they gave you, of the role they played in your life, in making you who you are today.  I hope you had the strength and wisdom to tell them what they meant to you while you could.  I wish you the strength to continue to hold strong and stay safe until the worst of the pandemic is over, and that you have the wisdom to dwell upon the things it has taught you about what and who is most important to you and to your world.  Happy 2021!   As Dicken's Tiny Tim wisely said, "God bless us every one."

 

 

A December Century

"In the sweetness of friendship let

there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things, the heart 

finds its morning and is refreshed."

Khalil Gibran

 

 When Jon asks if I am interested in riding a century with him on Friday, I am hesitant to answer.  It has been quite a while since I have ridden a longer ride, no less a century.  He "says" the course is an easy one, but easy to one person may be hard to another.  It reminds me of people would call to ask about one of my rides and ask if there are hills.  I quickly learned that what was a mountain to one rider was only a bump in the road to another.  And Jon is a stronger rider than I am. Still, he has ridden with me numerous times before and should know my pace. Will it be an imposition if it is a choice?  As usual, I don't want to be a bother.

 

  I ask myself if he truly wants to ride as slowly as I am likely to go.   I ask myself if I will be able to finish without feeling as if I want to die.  I ask myself if I will be able to get in before dark as if I have not ridden miles and miles in the dark.  I no longer ask myself if it is the smart thing to do as the answer to that question really doesn't seem to matter;-) I chide myself for getting so out of shape and think again how I miss the encouragement of the Big Dogs. When I answer I tell him yes, but that he can back out if he is not okay with going slowly and that I intend to have a working light on my bike for "just in case."  Things happen.  People bonk.  Mechanicals eat time.  Snack stops need to be made.  You just can't ride one hundred miles easily without eating and while I have done centuries eating on the bike, I prefer to have a bit of a rest. 

 

One lesson you learn from riding brevets is how to inhale food or gulp it down with minimal chewing.  As a friend told me about brevets, if you aren't eating, riding, or sleeping you are doing it wrong.  But in all truthfulness, I have always gobbled down my food.  With four siblings, it became a right of survival. And it always seemed there were more interesting things to do than to sit and eat. While we always sat at the dinner table for the evening meal unless mom and dad were going out, I don't really remember that there was much conversation.  

 

I do remember that Mom would, for some reason, fix only one small box of spinach, one of our favorite foods courtesy of Popeye the sailor man, and you never got to eat as much of it as you would have liked.  And so you ate fast, in hopes of snagging seconds. As I write this, a Popeye ditty that my husband learned in the army and used to sing comes to mind and causes a smile to flit across my face.  I do miss him.  He was not silly often, but when he was oh how it made me laugh.  I then remember my brother, Chris, now gone.  When I would ask him to pass a bowl of food, he would always ask me, "High or low?  Fast or slow?"  How I miss them, these people who loved me and that I loved.

Anyway, Jon shares the starting place and does not take the out I provided him with, so at 8:00 a.m. my bike and I are at the start in Madison, Indiana.  The morning is chilly, but there is sunshine and it is really not cold for the time of year.   Jon has a cue sheet. He is one of the few people I know that rides with no GPS.  I am riding blind. But Jon has no light, so perhaps we are equal.  He sent me the cue sheet, but I found myself unable to make the connections on the map to program the route.  It reminds me of when I first started riding with groups, prior to anyone having a GPS, and how dependent we were on sheets of paper.  I have read that GPS units actually are not good for brain function (mine never functioned that well anyway), but I look at them as being safer.  Two accidents I had while cycling were caused by one person turning while the other was not or vice versa.  Regardless, like cell phones, they have their good and bad and they are not going away. Had I been able to program the route in, I would have been using mine.  

 

 

The miles pass quickly and we are at or close to 40 miles when we make our first stop.  Jon suggests stopping besides a lake.  It is pretty, the water shimmering in the sunlight, the wind playfully nipping the surface, and the buildings around it are decorated for Christmas.  I would love to see it at night, lit up. I worry a bit about how the people who own the land will feel if they see us here, on their property, resting, but as Jon points out they would probably just ask us to move on down the road.  Jon is surprised when I say I am going to have my lunch sandwich, but I am hungry and know I need the fuel for the ride.  I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.  Instead I had an apple and some low sodium V-8 juice.....and coffee......lots and lots of coffee.  Jon, as he often does, brought lasagna.  Despite the early hour, he decides to join me in making the stop lunch and eats at least part of it intending to finish it at a stop down the road. 

Most of the fields we pass are now brown, barren, and littered with stubble, though we do run across a few farmers still harvesting.  Most of the farmers in this area have other jobs.  Their farms are not large enough to support themselves and their families on and so they work the land when they can, often using their vacation time and hoping that the weather cooperates. I think how there is something special in people working to provide for those that they love and even more special when they give to those that they don't. There is beauty here along the route if a different kind of beauty than is to be found in the other seasons, starker and more demanding, like the faces of old people that are etched with wisdom and experience lacking the smooth, soft innocence of youth.   Beauty surrounds us in different forms and sizes and ways.  Perhaps the realization that life goes on and is renewed, with or without us, is part of the plan.  Acceptance.

 

There is an allure in the developing friendship that Jon and I share as we travel these roads.  We are beginning to reach the point in our friendship where there are shared jokes based on history. How I love laughter, the way it makes me feel, the smile it brings to my face, the way it feeds my soul. We are getting to know each others likes and dislikes, the ways we are similar and the ways we are different.   There is beauty in our love of the bike and the freedom it brings, the hum of pedals and chains spinning.  Despite COVID, I have much to be grateful for, this new and still fragile friendship being of those things,  and finally, the Calvary appears to be one the way with a vaccine how being approved though not yet available. I still have hopes of being able to cash in on the cycling trip I won to Scotland over the winter.

 

  

As we ride, I notice a shoe in the road and joke that Cinderella must have left it behind.  And then there is another, different shoe down the road.  Jon spots its mate.  And then a sock.  Jon teases that if we ride long enough we will begin to find underwear and tells me the story of riding this course with its designers, Dave Fleming, and coming across a man clad ONLY in boots, no clothing, walking between his barn and his house.  Not long after he points out the house, we come across a group working outside and I notice that the one man has his underwear showing as he bends over doing whatever it is he is doing:  a lot of his underwear.  If my eyes were better, I could have told you the brand for it is written in large letters across the waist band. I crack up and ask Jon if he saw the man. He did not but we both giggle over my sighting.  Jon later says that if we had ridden a double century, we surely would  have come across someone completely unclothed.  Life has such humor in it if we open our eyes and our hearts, but it is much better when that humor is shared with a friend.

I complete the ride tired but in better shape than I expected.  While neither of us eat inside of restaurants anymore due to COVID, Jon suggests getting barbecue and eating outside.  We go to a most unusual place:  Hoboken Eddie's.  As it turns out, not only is the barbecue good, but Eddie tells us how he ran Alaska Iditarod Run.   An interesting place and an interesting man with excellent food though the hygiene reminds me a bit of Varnderpohl. But despite the warmth in my heart and soul,  it grows cold outside so we eat our sandwiches and  part ways sated by a day of friendship, laughter, and bicycles.  I am so glad I said yes and did not let my doubts define me.  I am glad for friendship and the pleasures it bestows.  And I am glad for bicycles.  What a sad world it would be without them.  Gibran is right:  it is in the dew of these little things that I am refreshed.

Early December 2020

"For everything you have missed, 

you have gained something else; 

and for everything you gain, you lose something."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

It has been quite awhile since I have blogged about a ride or a hike or pretty much anything.  It is not that I have been injured or sitting idle in my house, but for some reason the urge has not hit me to put hand to keyboard and share thoughts.  And I have had quite a few memorable and enjoyable moments. All in all, despite the pandemic, I am blessed. I have my health, my house, my bike, and enough money coming in to get by.  The weather thus far has been more to the good side than the bad.  Some days have been colder than normal, but not the majority.  Some have been cloudy or windy, but many have had at least some sunshine and quieter gusts.  So I can't blame the weather, just me.

 

As I rode recently on a sunny day where the day had started in the low thirties but warmed up to at least the high thirties if not the forties, I thought about how a number of years ago, there would have been a group of us riding together, probably on a century ride, enjoying the day, laughing and joking, but that just is no longer the case.  At first I thought perhaps that they were riding, but without including me as I have slowed with age and there has been a gap caused by different political beliefs and I was sad but okay with that, but my phone reveals that while a few of my old companions are riding, and riding at the same time, they are  not together and not outside.  They are on Zwift. And it struck me as sad, deeply sad, and I wondered if they realize yet what we have left behind. Was it a conscious choice or did it just happen, aided by the indisputable fact that it is harder to motivate in the winter? I almost inevitably enjoy it once I am out and doing something, but it is just harder to get out the door.  Or perhaps I ride for a different reason than do they? 

 

Don't get me wrong.  I liked Zwift when I was able to play it on my computer.  It was nice to have on cold, windy days when going outside held absolutely no appeal, particularly if one is riding alone, or when snow and ice cover the ground making riding dangerous.  Following a Zwift update, however, my computer, while only about three years old, would no longer handle Zwift.   My daughter is on a quest to help me with this, but thus far no luck. Up to that point, I tried all their suggestions to the best of my non-computer minded ability.  My daughter tried all their suggestions to no avail and she is quite proficient with computers. And I have not given up.  She is going to try something new this week-end, hooking me up through another avenue.  But despite that, even if she is successful, I think it is sad. Not that we  have Zwift and other such programs, but that it zapped the time we had riding outside in a group with others.  And of course, the pandemic has weighed in, but this began happening before we were cursed with that particular blight.

 

It reminds me of when cell phones first became popular and people no longer chatted with each other at store stops during rides sharing their recent happenings and jokes and stories, but glued themselves and their attention to their cell phones.  And I am not saying I am better or different.  Once I finally gave in and acquired a smart phone, I often found myself doing the same thing.  But I do realize there has been something lost, something precious.  And it saddens me at times, even if the gains are as great as the loss. I suppose everything in life has a cost.

Today as I rode, I thought about the St. Nick's Hick Ride I did on Saturday this week and how much I enjoyed myself.  (Link to video composed by Rich Ries:)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvSUjXaF3ps&feature=youtu.be  It was good to see everyone.  It is not that we are emotionally close to each other or even what I would even consider close friends, but we are bonded by the enjoyment of this yearly ride, by Rich Ries who is kind enough to organize the ride each year and include me, and by our love of cycling though they lean more toward mountain biking and I suck at mountain biking.  The weather was unusually good for a Hick ride.  Indeed, at one point, I joke about it telling Rich I wondered if something was wrong with him when I saw it was not supposed be zero degrees or colder.  The sun was shining and the wind was light.  The pace was relaxed and the only goal seemed to be to enjoy the world that God has bestowed upon us and each other. It was made more special by the lack of club rides due to COVID and because I know I must isolate as much as possible between then and when I go to see my new granddaughter, Lia.  I also enjoyed the short stretch of single track, something new to me and that actually did not kill me or cause me to break any bones;-)

 

If things never changed, however, there would be no Lia, there would be no Ivy.   Life has a habit of moving onward.   Some people remain in our lives and others don't.  Some people continue to bicycle and others don't.  I suppose the trick is, as Adrienne Rich pointed out, to love what you do and not what you have done, and to be thankful for those that remain dear to  you.  To appreciate what you had, but to concentrate on the gains rather than the losses.  To remain aware of your blessings.  And to move forward enjoying the ride. 

Goal to be Determined

"You are never too old to

set another goal or to dream

a new dream."

C.S. Lewis 

 

So with the upsurge in COVID cases, club rides are once again suspended.  But I decide I must make use of this beautiful day.  After over a week of cloudy skies with no hint of sun, the sun is out.  I wash and hang out three loads of clothes before heading out.  I decide to ride toward Salem taking the shorter route that I have not ridden for awhile. I think it is odd how I seem to ride a certain route for awhile and then realize I have not ridden another way for quite some time.  I think how blessed I am to be able to step right outside my door and take off with hills in one direction and flats in another and little traffic on most routes. 

 

There are now some trees that have completely shed their leaves and they stand tall, seemingly proud of their nakedness, but there are some who have not and there is still color that seems even more brilliant now that the sun is shining. I had thought they would be gone by now, but they are not.  Probably Sunday will take care of most of them as there are strong winds predicted.  The road is covered with leaves that have fallen and when no cars are near, I play my my game of picking one to run over delighting in the crunch.  But I am also cautious as the rain has left the leaves wet in many places, and wet leaves, like freshly cut grass, can mean a fall.  I feel the sun caress me despite his growing lack of warmth and I feel blessed.  As I age, sunshine seems to have become more important to my emotional well being.  

On Sawyer road, I am accosted by dog after dog.  I wonder where they have all come from as the majority that are there now did not live there the last time I passed this way.  I giggle at one I pass that has lived there and used to chase me.  He is old and just looks now, letting me pass.  How age changes us. I think that perhaps the pandemic has caused people to adopt more pets since they are home. I, myself, thought of adopting one since I cannot travel as planned until I saw how hard it was to integrate Murphy into my home when I had to take him from my sister.  Most of them appear harmless unless they happen to bump my front wheel, but a pit bull comes out that seems rather worrisome.  I stop knowing I can't outrun him and would rather be stopped if he bites than pulled from my bike. He smells me and I feel certain he can smell my cats,  but then he retreats seemingly satisfied that I am not a threat.  

On the way to Salem, I am facing a head wind, but my pace is leisurely and there is no rush so it is not a problem.  I know that there will be payback on the return journey, and indeed there is.  I blow home quickly and easily.  On my way I think about what, if any goals, I want to set for the New Year.  I come up with many ideas, but nothing that I settle on as a certainty. It just will take more thought.  But there will be a new goal and new dreams to sustain me through the isolation that comes with the pandemic so long as I count my blessings and not my losses. 

The Red Barn Ride in Autumn

"I hope I can be the autumn leaf

who looked at the sky and lived.

And when it was time to leave, 

gracefully it knew life was a gift."

Dodinsky

 

 

This is probably not the wisest thing I have ever done, not canceling my 64 mile, moderately hilly ride, but I am so looking forward to it after a hiatus from the bike due to illness and then injury.  And I have been conservative up until now, sitting around the house reading and using the computer and watching television until I want to scream.  I learned a long time ago that trying to ride or work out through injuries normally backfires and costs you even more time off the bike and more time unable to work out.  I have always believed that things happen to us for a reason, that there is something we are supposed to learn from the experience, so perhaps it is to aid me in acquiring more patience, a virtue I lack. 

 

 Yes, I rode a century two week-ends ago, but I was off the bike with a stomach bug that caused me to  lose 7.5 pounds in two days prior to that (negative COVID test)  and did not ride afterward as I developed an injury of the neck/upper arm/shoulder.....still not really sure or sure what caused it.   Per Gabe Mirkin, whose newsletter I adore, in just two week of inactivity we lose a tremendous amount of strength:  https://www.drmirkin.com/fitness/inactivity-causes-muscle-loss.html.  I believe him.

 

When making my decision, I decide that if I find I am in pain after a few miles, I will turn around and sweep the route by car.  I truly don't want to miss what is left of the fall.  I hope to see it from the seat of my bike, but if I have to turn to my car to see it I will.  What a wonderful thing eyesight is.  I think of my mom and how macular degeneration changed her life.  Before she developed it, I had never heard of this cruel disease that steals the central vision leaving only peripheral vision.  Better than total blindness, but still such a loss.   How important it is to squeeze every drop of beauty out of life while we can and to savor it and hold it dear, to look at the sky.  Our time is so short. 

I change the start time to a bit later due to the predicted cold temperatures.  Still, it is in the 30's when I arrive at the forestry.  I think how each year I have to relearn how to dress for cold weather riding.  I tend toward overdressing and that causes dehydration problems.  Drinking is always hard in the winter when it is cold and that exacerbates any overdressing.  One would think that I would learn, but it never seems to sink in.  I relearn this lesson every fall when the temperatures drop, just as I later will remember that there is beauty in the stark quietness of the winter landscape. 

 

With the frigid weather and a century on the schedule, I wonder if anyone will show despite the fact it is supposed to warm up to the sixties. I always wonder that, as if I could not ride on my own and enjoy it. Yes, regardless, I will ride.  Today is the Red Barn ride, and I like the route.  I suspect that Eden and Delaney Park roads will have some color to them.  It has enough climb to be interesting, one hill that is challenging, and scenery ranging from forest to farm land.  Plus, it is low traffic. 

As it turns out, there are ten riders.  Two of them I don't know very well.  We have met on prior rides I have put on the schedule and spoken a few words, but never had a true conversation.   Four of them I don't believe I have met before.  The two I have met are very strong riders, and it obvious that the group of six know each other and plan on riding together.  Despite my urging them to feel free to start ahead of the scheduled start time, something that is allowed and even encouraged by the club due to COVID and trying to keep groups to small sizes, they wait and we leave together.  But that is the last we see of them.  By the time we reach the store stop, they are long gone.  I am so glad that there was a group of fast riders because I know I am NOT going to be fast and I don't want to hold anyone back. And I don't want anyone riding alone unless that is their choice for the day.

I end up riding the entire ride with Mike Crawford, John Pelligrini, and Paul Battle.  I don't know if I am riding better than expected or if they are being kind, but they match my slow pace.  I strongly believe they are being kind as I know how powerful each of these men are on a bicycle. I grow slower in the fall every year, and with being off the bike for three and half weeks I am slower than normal. But we all seem comfortable with the pace and with each other.  We discuss politics and other issues and the miles simply fly by.

 

Paul mentions how different the course looks when we pass fields that have been harvested.  For some reason, the stubble always reminds me of a man who shaves regularly but has missed a day or two, perhaps because he is on vacation.  Suddenly I am back in the mobile home we lived in when the children were little remembering how when my son was small, he loved it when I would let him put shaving cream on his face and use a razor that was covered to shave himself.  I see him at the mirror, as serious as can be, as if there were even a hint of fuzz on those smooth cheeks, patiently shaving.  But with company, there is not much time for reflection.  

 

John mentions the woolie worms that seem determined to cross the road to wherever they are going and how many there are, but I think they are small in number compared to a few years ago.  I wonder if a new pesticide is what has decimated their ranks.  We certainly have not had exceptionally cold weather the past few winters that would have done this.  Always they are a sign of the coming winter and the change of seasons.

As usual when I ride with company, I don't notice my surroundings nearly as much as I do when I am alone, but it is pleasant being with friends and occasionally the beauty of a particular view takes my breath away.  This is the case on the descent down Old 56, a long, slow 2 mile descent near the end of the ride.  I seem to be in a tunnel with walls made of yellow and orange.  The wind tosses leaves like confetti. And in the midst of the beauty I realize I am really tired and my neck in starting to hurt a bit.  I am glad we near the end and slow further worried that pushing may hurt more than it helps.  I counsel myself to patience.  

It is no longer cool.  I am not sweating, but I think I would be if it were not for the strong wind.  The sky has been blue but is beginning to cloud over, but still is it a gorgeous fall day.  The company and the scenery did not disappoint.  Life is, indeed, as noted by Dodinsky, a gift, as is friendship and and the autumn of the year, and of course, bicycles.  Yes, I hope when my time comes, I leave gracefully, grateful for my time here.  But I also hope that time is many, many years away.  I have more living I would like to do, much of it on bicycle. 

BMB: No Bonking This Time Around

"Fear keeps us focused on the past or

worried about the future.  If we can 

acknowledge our fear, we can realize that

right now we are okay.  Right now, today, 

we are still alive, and our bodies are working

marvelously.  Our eyes can still see the

beautiful sky.  Our ears can still hear the 

beautiful voices of our loved ones."

Thich Nhat Hanh

Despite BMB being a rather easy century, I fear it.  I fear it because I have bonked on it numerous times.  Last year I bonked spectacularly.  Each pedal stroke took tremendous effort,  both mentally and physically.  Each climb, no matter how short or lacking pitch became the tallest mountain.  I hurt.  And I was slow, spectacularly slow.  This is bad when it happens near the end of the ride.  It is a living nightmare when it happens near the start. 

 

 Don't get me wrong, for some reason, I always slow down when fall gets here.  The desire to ride hard or fast rarely hits me.  I think that it is, perhaps, because I don't want the comfortable riding season to end. I will miss seeing friends regularly and hearing their voices. But this was a new low.  Dave King was the ride captain and patiently swept me and another rider in that year despite my pleas to just leave me be.  Brevets have taught me that I can go on, even when tired, even when discouraged, but it seemed terribly unfair to saddle another with the depth of my bonk.  I would make it in.  That was not the question.  The question was when.  That another rider was also struggling did not penetrate.  It was, in my mind, just Dave and me, and Dave could have ridden much, much faster.  But being Dave, he didn't.  Dave is the man who waits in his car while I finish out the last mile of a ride to ensure it is a century because he does not like the looks of someone sitting in a car who he feels might be a danger to me.  Dave is the one who has a conscience.  Dave is, indeed, one of my favorite people in this world for so many reasons.  He makes me laugh.  He gives me hope that there is goodness in this world. And it is for all those reasons as well as because he is a friend  that I don't want to be a burden to him.

 

I decide that I must do the ride if for no other reason than my fear of it.  It makes no sense to fear it.  It is not among our more difficult rides.  But having dealt with fear before, I know the best way to conquer fear is to face it down, to stare in its eyes and tell it you will not let it have power over you any longer.  After the pit bulls attacked me, it took me quite awhile to feel safe riding with others.  I made myself ride past the place where I was bitten by myself, tears streaming down my face, until I could hold my line, until terror did not make me stiff and until tears were on hold.  Don't get me wrong.  I still fear aggressive dogs that rush in the road.  But I hold my line and don't endanger others because of my fear.  Today is no different.  I am not terrified in the same way, but I fear bonking, that feeling of weakness, of hopelessness. But today Dave is not the ride captain. Paul rides with me, always patient, always interesting to listen to and talk with.  This may be more amazing because of our different backgrounds.  Bill once said that he had noticed that women always like to ride with Paul.  So maybe there is something about him that is comforting.  I think he is like Dave in that I can count on Paul to do the right thing.  But for whatever reason, he is a favored riding companion. 

 

The decision to ride the ride was made more difficult by Jon's offer of an alternative ride that would definitely suit my fancy because it involved: a. eating lunch at one of my favorite places that has outside dining, and b. stopping at a book sale.  Had I known earlier, I would perhaps have made that choice, but the die is cast and probably for the best.  I need to get over my fear of this course.  I will add that when I neared the end of my ride, Jon HAD to rub it in by sending me a picture of not one, but TWO, blackberry ice cream desserts;-) And I later learn he found not one, but FIVE books at the book sale.  Can you say jealous;-)

 

A large group of riders gather at the ride start and take off.  It is a cool, crisp morning with a bite to it.  Vests, knee warmers, jackets, arm warmers, and full fingered gloves are making their appearance on almost every rider.  And we are off into a bright morning where the sun is shining so brightly my eyes ache despite my sunglasses.  Dew shines on the fox tail.  Fields of yellow appear beautiful to my eyes if not helpful for my sinuses. Paul occasionally points out a beautiful vista knowing how much I appreciate scenery on rides. This is definitely not the most scenic course, but it does have it moments.  Conversation floats through the air before we split into groups.  Spirits are high and there is laughter.  Paul and I soon are bringing up the rear.  I tell both him and the captain that there is no need to stay back with me.  The ride captain moves on.  Paul stays. 

 

The ride is largely on main roads.  At times traffic makes it difficult to maintain a conversation.  But I see side roads with no yellow line and wonder where they lead to.  Paul tells me that Duc would know and I realize he is probably right.  Like me, Duc seems to prefer being a bit off the beaten path or perhaps he is just curious.   In Texas, there was a ride called "Fred's ride."  Evidently it was the favorite ride of someone named Fred.  But when we rode it, we wondered about Fred because the route was mainly heavily traveled roads, none of the side roads that I and those I ride with preferred.  Still, I know everyone has preferences.  I think of how Grasshopper enjoyed city riding.  I think of how last week on the century another woman said she could never ride a century alone because she would be bored.  Such comments used to hurt my feelings.  Now, as I told a friend, I look at it differently.  I like chocolate cake and others don't.  The difference is not bad:  just different.  I suppose our differences keep things interesting.

 

Mark drops back and rides with Paul and I for awhile and it is nice to have someone else to talk with for a bit. Mark is funny and often makes me laugh.  Mark, along with Jeff Carpenter, helped plan our bike trip from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh last year thus becoming a friend.  But at the next stop, he is off with a faster group.  I briefly contemplate chasing knowing Paul is more than strong enough to follow suit, but I decide to continue to ride cautiously, something I do throughout the miles.

The ride ends with my never having gone fast, but also with not feeling worn out and exhausted.  The groups ahead of us are mostly still in the parking lot enjoying the beautiful fall weather sampler and enjoying the refreshments the ride captain brought. I talk for awhile before climbing in my car for the ride home, a ride during which I can think about the things that were said and that I saw during the ride.   But I am glad I faced my fear.   The only regret is ice cream swimming in blackberries that went into someone else's tummy. As Mr. Hahn noted, "My body worked marvelously" today.  Thanks, Paul, for the support and the company, for not minimizing my fear of this course when you know I have ridden many far more difficult.  I value our friendship more than I can say.  And I value bicycles:  the friends I have made through them and the places they have taken me.

Nearing the End of Summer: 2020

"The morning had dawned clear and cold,

with a hint of crispness that hinted at 

the end of summer."

George Martin

 

I wake and despite tired legs, feel like riding.  I can't get enough of this weather. Yet when I leave the house, I find that, unlike yesterday, I need arm warmers, a vest, and full fingered gloves to be comfortable.  Perhaps I would wear less if I were sharing the ride with others for I would be riding faster, but that was yesterday.  Today I ride solo. And my legs are complaining.  It is my heart rather than my body that desires this ride. As I debate my choices, I decide to ride about sixty miles going through Pekin and on to Salem where I intend to eat donuts curbside for breakfast.  

 

 I think about why I can't get enough riding in this time of year.  Is it because I know what is coming, the end of comfortable, little laundry riding?  Yes, you can ride all year long in relative comfort, but it is not the comfort of grabbing your bike and slipping out the door clad only in shorts and a jersey, of knowing that other than your helmet, shoes, gloves, and sweat rag, you will be fine.  Yes, you might get hot, but there is nothing to do for that other than to endure.  And so little to wash compared to winter when it seems riding clothes make up load after load even though you actually have spent relatively little time on the road.  So much more planning revolving around winter or cold weather riding compared to the  simplicity of preparing to ride in the summer.

 

The world is still green, and today the fog is thick.  I turn on two taillights hoping that it will lift quickly.  It really doesn't, but the roads I have chosen to ride are very lightly traveled so it is not a huge issue.  I think again that it is time to buy a new helmet mirror.  The one I have is starting to move without being touched.  I can reach up and adjust it, but it does not hold the adjustment.  Normally that would be fine, but not where quick action is required.  My safety is worth more than a few dollars.  Sometimes I need to remind myself of this.  Spending a few dollars for protection is MUCH cheaper than a hospital visit, and a hospital is the last place I want to be during the age of Covid.  Next time I am at the bike store, I will buy one.  

There seems to be an abundance of wildflowers.  In the morning they are still sleeping, half closed, their petals waiting for sunlight to warm them. The Ironweed has been particularly impressive this year, its deep, dark purple a lovely contrast with the verdant greenness that still remains in places.  I think of how I need to pick a few and press them for some Christmas gifts I need to make.  I started on the first present last week.  Each year I try to give each child something hand made as well as bought presents.  Some years they obviously like them.  Some years they probably don't but try to act as if they do.  But I enjoy the effort and how it makes me think about them as I work.  

 

I notice that the polk berries are ripe.  Lines I wrote about ten years ago race through mind:  "Jeff and Tiff, The poke berries are ripe. Come home! Let's paint our faces, build a bonfire, and dance until, exhausted, we fall into the embrace of the evening cooled grasses, a heap of giggles. Today I missed you both."  How I miss those days when my husband was alive and my children were little and every moment had needs ten times greater than the amount of time would allow me to fulfill.  I miss the laughter of the children ringing through our home.  And I miss bedtime, the smell of a clean child and the feel of them snuggling in your arms, melting into you, while you read the last story for the day.  I miss the hour or so alone with my husband after the children were snugly tucked into bed.  And I miss the way sometimes we shared a thought without ever saying a word.  But I am so glad I had those moments.  I have truly been blessed with a full life.

 On the climb up Flatwoode, a road name I always find amusing due to the irony of this steep climb, I think how glad I am that Bob diagnosed my bike problem.  It is nice to be able to climb without the bike shifting down into granny ruining my rhythm and shocking my knees.  Evidently I had worn a tooth off of my middle ring.  He was unsure if he could find the part, but he did.  And it is shifting perfectly.  It will be a sad day when he can't find the parts to fix my triple.  It is not that I use it very often at all, but it is somehow comforting to know it is there if I need it.  It is also comforting to find that my legs have given in and quit complaining.  They do what they need to do to get me up the hill and I am in no hurry today.

 

Besides the cost, the thought of not getting a triple is one thing that troubles me about buying a new bike, an idea I have been toying with but keep putting off.  When is enough enough?  I notice on Delaney Park Road that the trees are beginning to hint of turning.  Leaves are starting to scatter onto the road and I amuse myself occasionally by purposefully running over one to hear the crunch.  Soybeans are starting to yellow.  Harvest approaches.  There are, however, as Paul noticed yesterday, very few walnuts.  The spring cold snap must have affected them as it did the local fruit trees.  

I end with 62 pleasant miles.  A century Saturday, 53 miles yesterday, and 62 miles today.  Perhaps tomorrow will be a rest day or perhaps the lure of the delightful weather will call me forth on my bicycle yet again.  Time will tell. 

 

 

 

 

A Long Holiday Week-end

 "I have learned that to be with

those I like is enough."

Walt Whitman

 

Labor Day week-end.  And what a enjoyable weekend it has been filled with pleasant weather, bicycles, and friends.  Friday the skies are blue and the sunshine still warming as Jon and I ride out of  Madison for a bike/picnic ride.  My newer bike is in the shop as I wore a tooth off my middle chain ring, so I am on the old aluminum Trek, entry level, that I rode 2007 for PBP.  The lights I used there are on it.  Lloyd put them on a bit before he passed  as I used the bike for commuting.  And so they remain on.  They have the older hub generator, the kind that has no battery so your lights go out if you are pedaling slowly or stop pedaling.  The bulbs are incandescent and you have to be careful not to touch them with your fingers when they burn out as the oil from your hand will overheat them and cause them to fail.  It gives my bike quite the retro look. Of course, the drag of the generator makes it harder to pedal, but it's all good.   Jon always rides an older bicycle.  So perhaps today we match.

Prior to the ride, when I attempt to attach my carradice holder, the one I have to have as my bike is so small the carridice rubs the wheel without one, I find I have to change saddles to accommodate it. I had forgotten that I rode a much different saddle at PBP.  Since I grease my seat tub yearly to prevent potential welding, however, it is not a chore.  While I mark each seat tube so that I don't have to adjust height, I do have to adjust it on a different bike.  When I give it the first whirl, my knees come to my chin when pedaling. But eventually I get it where it is about right.  I have made fresh veggie and pasta kabobs, the kind that don't  need to be cooked, and I have goat cheese and crackers.  Jon is bringing the main course which turns out to be a vegetarian lasagna.  So we have a feast complete with a glass or two of red wine.  

Jon tells me there is only the one main climb which is good with the extra weight and the drag of the hub generator, but I have no trouble with it, at least at the pace I am riding.  We ride to Hardy Lake and sit on the spillway, chatting and sharing a meal.  It doesn't get much better than this.  It is nice just to relax and not hurry, to share food and thoughts and conversation, to laugh, to have new thoughts thrown my way.  I do think of how Lloyd and I would come to the lake with the boat after he got home from work to water ski occasionally, but it is  a happy memory.  Time has eased the pain.  I miss him, but I suppose I have accepted it is how things are and can smile, grateful that we had our time together.  And here I am making a new, good memory with someone different.  I am glad I am finally open to that.  

After our feast, we head back toward Madison.  On the way, Jon decides to show me a historical college, Eleutherian College.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleutherian_College 

 I don't know if he suspects how much I will appreciate this side trip or not, but I find it very interesting despite the fact it is a work in progress.  Indeed, they are working on the roof during our visit and only the main floor is open.  We talk briefly about how sad it is that yet today we are engrossed in the same problem despite the passage of time, just to a different degree. Do we, as humans, ever really change?  Jon tells me how their bike club at one time held a fund raising ride for the college restoration.  Nice idea. 

I love the look of the stone, the mortar that holds it firmly in place, the window sills.  Such artistry in the construction. We walk behind the building to where I suspect they had a garden to meet their food needs and Jon confirms that he has heard they grew their own food.  It is lovely and I am so glad we took the time to stop.  If I were alone, I would be making up tales in my mind about those who came here seeking an education, women who were discouraged from learning, slaves who were seeking freedom and to better themselves.  From what I understand, the area was also part of the Underground Railroad.  Interesting!  Would I have had the guts to risk ruination to help others or would I have been a coward, believing but afraid to do what needed to be done?  Would I have even believed in equality and emancipation?  Sometimes I wonder who I would have been had I been raised in a different time, or with a different color skin, or with a different gender.  A friend once told me another rider had said she believes I want to be a man.  As I told him, I don't, but I do envy the freedoms and opportunities  that men had/have that were not given to me because of my gender.  Briefly Adrienne Rich's words come to mind:

Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mold straight off.

 

Perhaps she is right.

 

Saturday is Mike Crawford's ride starting at Clear Creek Park in Shelbyville.  On my way to the start, I reminisce as this was where I completed my first triathlon, scared but excited, accompanied by my husband for courage.  It was only a sprint triathlon, but it was something new, and if I remember correctly, it was in February and cold.  The swim was a pool swim where everyone was seeded according to swim times they had presented.  But my dreaming is interrupted by arrival.  Mike and Steve Rice are there.  Steve thought the ride started a half hour before it did.  

While I had intended to ride at the back, Dave and Steve call to me when they leave and so I leave with them.   While we used to all ride together regularly, it has been a long time since we have all ridden together and I have others that I regularly ride with now.  My life has moved on as has theirs.  I know, however, that my new friends will forgive my riding off.  

The hilliness of the course is mitigated by catching up a bit and talking and laughing about memories.  It is fun to tease and be teased.  Teasing requires a certain level of comfort with the other person, the assurance that they will not be offended by what one says, that they will feel the underlying fondness or that they have the ability to appreciate their flaws or idiosyncrasies.  It was an integral part of our past friendship.  Everyone seems comfortable with it.   I call Steve a "wuss" for not putting on his traditional Pam century on Derby Day.  He teases me right back. 

And then there is the ride I put on Sunday  in the knobs of Southern Indiana.  There is a relatively large turnout for the ride, most of them much faster riders than I.  I breath a sigh of relief seeing a few of the people I normally ride with as I  hoped for some companionship and for a day when I was not riding with my tongue hanging to the ground.  The ride does, after all, start with the long climb up Spikert Knob. And I get my wish.  I spend the day riding and chatting with John, a person who I find to be funny, interesting, and agreeable.  Unfortunately for John, on this ride, while climbing one of the hills, an insect decides  his nostril looks inviting.  He blew it out and luckily it could not or did not sting, but it still was a shocker. Paul, Mike M. and Amelia are not too far ahead and Amelia has already told me that she will join me for curbside pizza afterward.  

Mike declines the invite, but John, Amelia, Paul, and I spend a few more moments enjoying each other's company over pizza.  John kindly insists on treating.  The pizza is so filling that I only need a small snack for dinner.  It was good pizza, but it was made better by the company.  I am so lucky to have such friends and to have my health and a bicycle.  Like Whitman, being with people I like is enough.  And I have had time with lots of people I like this holiday week-end.  I am truly blessed.

 

Just An End of Summer Ride: September 2020

"Summers lease hath

all too short a date."

William Shakespeare 

 

It can't be September, but yet it is.....summer again has slipped past me in a blur.  Soon it will be time for nature to dress herself in russets and oranges and yellows. Her multicolored skirt will rustle and swirl, patchwork, in the swelling winds of fall.  Green grass will fade and yield to brown, lusterless dullness. Fields will be harvested, broken stalks whiskering the ground, a reminder of what was. A promise of what will be again.  Bicycling will mean arm warmers and jackets and morning air crackling with crispness as breath becomes visible as we speak and laugh. 

 

But not today.  Today is overcast and misty, unseasonably cool and unusually humid, but it is still summer and I cling to that. Twelve show for the ride,  more than I expected.   It makes me a tad nervous.  I hope they like the course. The ride is short, only 47 miles, but I think it is a nice course. It has two nice climbs on it:  Liberty Knob and the ironically named Flatwood.  Most of it is on little traveled roads.  Pavement is good in places and acceptable in others.  Few of the roads we will travel are in need of repair.  Smiles still dance across faces and the pace is relaxed with none of the intensity that seems to come with colder weather.  Even those who normally ride hard, and will do so later in the ride, stay together.  Perhaps the fog, perhaps the camaraderie.

 

The bike I normally ride needed a new middle chain ring.  One of the teeth had worn to where on a steep grade, it would jarringly drop to granny making my knees ache and causing me to lose my rhythm, and so it is being repaired.  Luckily for me, despite the age of the bike and the components, a  part was available.  So I am riding my old Trek, the aluminum bike that got me through my first PBP in 2007, a bike my husband bought for me.  The lights I used on that ride are still attached, and I do not have the heart to take them off as my husband was the one who put them on for me. No, they have not been on there since 2007, but they have been on there for a number of years.  It is an old hub generator, the kind with no battery, and on that PBP when I would climb my front lights would go out as I was not pedaling fast enough to power them.  If I remember, he reattached them for me to use for the occasional trek to work.  But they were his hands who placed them and so they remain.  I don't think I have ridden this bike outside since his loss.

 

I think how lucky I am to have them as we roll out into a dense fog: they will come in handy.  Switching bikes, I forgot to add a tail light.  Fortuitously, Larry Preeble has an extra that he loans me.  So I have lights both fore and rear.  It is foggy, the kind normally described as being thick enough to cut with a knife.  And it does not appear that it will lift early or be burned away.  The prediction is for cloud cover most of the day.

 

The fog does not overly trouble me once we get off the main road out of the ride start as I know from there on out, there will be little traffic, but I still remain cautious.  While we are on Bloomington Trail, Mike Crawford's chain slips between the cassette and his frame.  I can see John look and struggle with his decision to move on, but it does not take all of us to work on this and it is the right decision.  To my surprise, Mike does not have a quick release in the back and the screw to loosen the wheel appears to be stripped.  Three riders approach that were not with our group.  They are on an unofficial SIW ride to Leota and Little York.  They kindly stop and assist.  The wheel is loosened enough for the chain to be pulled back out and the ride is saved.  Thank yous are given and we are on our way, our paths soon diverging. I wish I could remember their names, but I don't.  I could blame the lack of memory on age, but I have always struggled with names. I would, however, know their faces if I saw them again, or so I believe.

 

As we climb up Liberty Knob, the first of the two main climbs, Paul tells me his legs have not recovered from Saturday.  Eventually, however, he finds that the problem is not his legs, the problem is that his rear wheel is rubbing against the rear brake.  Briefly I think of a 300K where that happened to me.  I was almost halfway into the ride before I figured out I was not just having a bad day.  It has always struck me as odd how you can prepare for a ride the same way, eat the same the evening before and the morning of, get the same amount of sleep, but one day you have a strong day and another a weak day.   Sometimes it is something like a brake rub, but sometimes you just aren't strong.  I try to make it a habit to check both my front and rear brakes before each ride, but sometimes a rub appears later regardless.  Anyway, it is a good feeling when you find out that was the problem and that  the problem was not with your own motor.  

 

Most of the others have waited at the store stop, but we intend to stop for just a bit and send them on. I think of how much more comfortable I am doing this now that the majority of riders ride with a GPS unit.  It also is so much easier to design a route, though I will always be fond of the days I grabbed my bike and headed out onto unknown roads armed with sidewalk chalk to help me find my way back home.  I will always be grateful to my husband for encouraging me even on those days when he was lonely or in pain, preparing me for the independence we both knew was coming however undesired.  

 

As we head down Bartle's  Knob, I am glad that I remembered to warn people to ride with caution.  A smile flirts across my face as I think of Roger Bradford and how he almost went down on that descent after his rear wheel skidded in a turn.  He was already so proud of completely the Mangler successfully, and then to pull out of a skid with no injury, let me just say he was beaming.  I am glad I got the chance to know him and to watch him complete the Challenge Series I used to put on.  

 

The ride ends and a few are waiting.  None of us eat inside restaurants anymore, but we get Subway sandwiches and sit and dine curbside, sharing a few more of those last of summer moments, heading home reluctantly to do chores.  Shakespeare was right.  While it is not my favorite season, summer does not last long enough. It is not the fall I fear.  I love the fall.  It is what comes after, now made harder by the Pandemic.  I know my grass is waiting and want to get it cut before the predicted rain. And as strange as it sounds, I will miss that as well.  But the world turns and season change.  It was a nice if uneventful ride shared with friends. 

Summer Time 2020

"Summer afternoon-summer afternoon;

to me those have always been the two most

beautiful words in the English language."

Henry James 

 

Two glorious days of riding despite predictions earlier in the week for a mostly rainy week-end.  Summer time.  Perhaps not as hot as the past few summers the last couple of weeks, but certainly more humid.  Recently the weatherman said we were up seven inches of rainfall for the year and I believe it.  But still, while not my favorite season, I love the summer despite his occasional brutality.  Previously I wrote that August is a male month:  hot, steamy, demanding.  I stand by those words.  Riding is difficult in August, particularly when it is hot and humid and the sweat stands and beads on your skin rather than evaporating. Lungs gasp for usable, refreshing air and pull in syrup instead. But the rain combined with the heat and humidity has caused everything to stay green and lush.  Mowing my yard has been more like preparing hay for baling. The green is beautiful appealing to my eye and providing a nice background for the flowers that I pass.  I had thought the Black-eyed Susan's were gone, but find there are still occasional patches littering the roadside.  Queen Anne's lace is blooming and the Golden Rod begins.

Yesterday was a club ride that had two climbs but was otherwise flat and fast.  I spent the first part of the ride talking to an old friend as the road unwound before us.  Time changes us and changes others, but I suppose it cannot change the past though perhaps it tempers how we view it.  Links forged through hours spent traversing different roads leave their  marks as do rifts in that chain caused by the choice of different roads.  Friendship is such a valuable thing.  It is a shame that so often we allow it to lapse.  Memories are good, but better when combined with the making of new memories.  But life changes.  We change.  And the world changes around us. Paths diverge and sometimes lead in different directions.  That is okay.  As I read recently, it serves to remember that not everyone deserves a seat at my table, nor I, perhaps, at theirs. 

 

Later in the ride, another friend and I escape potential tragedy when a delivery truck tries to back into a driveway hooking two electric lines.  As the lines strain and appear to be on the verge of giving way and breaking, the driver luckily realizes there is an issue and stops.  Had he broken the lines, I feel certain they could have/would have snaked around and hit us. The incident reminds me of a class at the Y where they had us put elastic bands around ourselves and someone tried to hold us as we ran.  Mine snapped and hit the woman holding the tube, bruising her knuckles and causing her to cry.  I felt so badly for her and was thankful that nothing had broken.  Despite the fact it was totally unintentional, I felt so guilty and responsible, particularly since she had young children with needs to tend to. 

 

Today's ride is from Madison and is not a club ride. Jon and I head out from near the Ohio River for Vevay.  Because we are not taking the busy road bordering the river, this means the ride starts with a climb.  It is long but not really steep. I think that Jon has planned this route to avoid too many hills to test my legs but this is pure conjecture on my part.  I don't yet know him well.  We already have a pace difference and hills accentuate that difference.  The roads he chooses are lightly traveled and so beautifully rural.  We meander along creeks and pass areas with field stone walls.  One is being repaired and the others not. Both need it. The words of Robert Frost come to mind: "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."  Still, I love the stone walls even half fallen.  The effort someone took to erect them, hauling stones from the field and patiently putting them together.  I picture him, sweat dripping from his brow, hands roughened by the constant contact with the rough stone, back bowed by effort.  Prying stones out of the field. Trying this stone, then that stone, trying to make the best match, one that will resist the ground swell. And at  home, she waits, tending to the children, baking the bread, hauling water from the creek for water to wash in.  The people who built this country were truly amazing people, strong people, determined people.  Making do, creating something from nothing. Finding ways to use that which surrounded them. But I ride with someone.  My musing ends.  Focus.  

We stop in Vevay and both purchase drinks, sitting outside and eating bags of snacks we have brought.  It is so different from club rides or from brevets where there is an emphasis on downing a quick drink and snack, then getting back on the bike.  Today there are no controls and no hurrying.  But as we sit, clouds roll in hinting of rain.  I use my phone and see that there really is nothing locally, but up north it apparently is storming.  We ride out into the grey sky and increasing wind.

I am glad Jon is patient with my pace for he is a much stronger rider than I am.  I suspect it helps him having ridden a solo century yesterday after his run the day before while I was at the club ride. Energy has been drained. It is nice to be on new roads but it would not be nearly so nice if I had to push myself to ride faster.  The course he has plotted is overwhelmingly beautiful and at times he has stories to tell me about them, stories of memories from previous rides for these roads are not new to him as they mostly are to me.  At times I worry that I will drive him crazy with my chattering and questioning, but he takes it good naturedly.  Perhaps he is like Paul who I find often only is half listening, or perhaps what I have to say interests him.  I don't know him that well yet.  We are new friends tentatively finding our way and making memories. Needless to say, since I have no idea where I am or what road to take next, he can't in good conscience ride off and leave me though with a GPS and phone I would eventually find my way back.  As I told Grasshopper long ago, if you ride long enough you come out somewhere.  

As we near the end, Jon points out that there is a plane parked behind a church we are passing.  We decide to turn around and look.  When we arrive, we immediately are asked if we are from the press.  While it seemed half joking, it also seemed half serious.  Evidently the plane, a small two seat Cessna, was losing oil and had to make an emergency landing.  The men were getting ready to remove the winds and load it on a trailer to take it for repairs.  We chat for a few minutes before moving on and finishing our ride both glad that the landing was made with everyone being safe.  I think how odd it is, a plane down in the middle of nowhere.  The pilot was lucky to have a rural area with some open fields.  

When we return to Madison, we have lunch down by the river before parting ways.  While sitting there, an older man informs us that the city has taken over responsibility for the pavement on the hill and trucks will not be allowed.  He expresses concerns about the finances required to keep the road usable. But of course, neither of us reside in Madison. The skies have cleared, but the wind remains. It is a good day, a summer day, and there are no so very many summer days left in 2020.  Here's to bicycles, rural roads, and friends, old and new.  Here is to summer. 

 

An Untroubled Century Ride

"At these times, the things that troubled

her seemed far away and unimportant:

all that mattered was the hum of the bees

and the chirp of the birdsong, the way the

sun gleamed on the edge of a blue wildflower,

the distant bleat and clink of grazing goats."

Alison Croggon

It seems impossible, particularly after the blazingly hot, humid days of the past few weeks, to have the prediction for a high in the low 80's and little humidity.  Each day recently, upon awakening, I would find so much condensation on the windows that it was hard to see out and 90's with heat index near or over 100 degrees a broken record, relentlessly repeating itself. But this morning there is just a hint around the bottom of the pane. And here it is, the forecast for cooler, less humid weather, and even the night before it is not changed.  The only club ride that would possibly have tempted me would have been a long one, and there are none.  So I decide to head out on a solo century, a journey that has been calling me for awhile but which I have weakly resisted due to the hot, steamy days that making breathing more difficult as if the air had thickened to consistency of honey.

Coolness wraps  its arms around me, bringing goosebumps to my uncovered arms, and I wonder if I should have worn light arm warmers.  I giggle to myself thinking of how when I first started riding and lacked many of the essentials, I cut the toes off some old tube socks so they could serve as warmers.  And when I am done giggling to myself, I realize I no longer feel the chill in any way but a pleasant way, one of the odd phenomenons of riding. I suppose the exercise warms the body. I have decided on the Christy century, and early in the ride I pass the spot where, long ago. I came upon a fox, sitting in the middle of the road, enjoying the morning sun as if he did not have a care in the world.  I remember thinking he was a dog until I drew closer, and then worrying if he was, perhaps, rabid, since he seemed in no  hurry to run from the bicycle that was bearing down on him.  Up he got and slid seamlessly into the nearby woods, disappearing all too quickly yet not seeming hurried. 

I wonder what the day will hold for me because you never really know, particularly if you are on a bicycle. We often think we know how our day will go, reeking with boredom, only to find that it just does not go that way. Sometimes it is a relief when the unexpected happens and sometimes it seems a curse, but perhaps these changes are a blessing, even though we don't like the way our routine is disrupted.  It is hard to remember sometimes that change can be good and that variety is, indeed, the spice of life. 

I think briefly how different preparation for a ride or other outing is different in the time of COVID.  I have packed a mask and neck gaiter for the anticipated run into stores.  I have brought a snack for the first stop, but did not pack a sandwich for lunch.   I miss the old days. On some rides, like the Willisburg Century, lunch was one of the main attractions. And I miss old friends.  I think of Bill Pustow and how when he rode this century with me, he was so shocked at the lunch town Halloween decorations.  And they were, indeed, sacrilegious, or some of them were.  I continue to wonder if that was the intent or if someone just did not put two and two together.  Regardless, I am glad for the miles we rode together, for his company and the stories he would tell, for the times he made me smile and for the times he made me think.  I don't like changes, but things change, and he no longer rides with the club or with me, but I am glad we had the time we had.  Memories of the many rides we rode as companions lace my memories and will for as long as I can hold my memories tightly.

Before I know it, I am passing Cliff Stream Farms where Jon and I recently rode for lunch and where I took Diana for her birthday lunch, a new favorite not just because of the delicious food but because of outside dining, another COVID change.  It is too early for it to be open, but maintenance is hard at work, the roar of the mower sounding through the morning air, the smell of cut grass perfuming my passing. Again, I give thanks for friends, for how they brighten days and moments of our lives. I decide I will stop for my first break at the bridge nearby, one that I loved from the moment I first laid eyes on it while out exploring these roads. 

At the bridge, I come upon a sign and I am not quite sure what it means, but it sounds as if the bridge may be torn down and replaced, something I have seen happen repeatedly on the roads I ride. What does it mean to "reuse" a bridge?  I don't know the answer to this question. Sometimes the things that appeal to me aesthetically are not really useful for most people. Is utility, should utility, be the main goal, or does/should beauty fit in there somewhere?  Perhaps others find beauty in the new bridges, their structures, their size.  Personally, I gravitate toward the old.  I lean my bike against the railing and eat the homemade peanut butter crackers I have brought as I mull these things over in my mind.

Before I reach Vernon, my destination, I have another unexpected event.  I reach a road that says it is closed as a bridge is out.  Of course, scoff law that I am, at least on a bicycle, I skirt the sign and proceed hoping that the people will not be working and that I will be able to pass.  When I reach the bridge, I see a workman sitting there.  Hoping against hope, I wave and approach telling him I am not from around here and wondered about a work around.  Without my asking, he tells me I can cross through the creek if I don't mind getting a bit wet.  He even offers to carry my bike for me, an offer I refuse but appreciate.  I don't stop to take pictures after crossing as more workmen are coming and I worry he will get in trouble for his kindness in allowing me to pass.  I suppose it has been fueled by lawsuits, but it certainly seems that not many are helpful anymore.  In allowing me to pass, he has saved me what I would estimate to be about five extra miles, not a big deal in summer on a day like today, but a big deal when daylight is less abundant or when the sun is scorching every inch of your skin like a blow torch .   

I love the roads on this ride, particularly the first 65 miles or so. Some are more lanes than roads.  All have tree overhangs shading providing shade that dapples the ground.  Certainly, it makes spotting potholes more difficult, but oh how pleasant it makes the trip.  I realize that Ms. Croggon is right.  Whether it is the bicycle, the scenery, the weather, or a combination of the three, things that trouble me fall behind me on the road.    I think that is one of the things I love most about riding, how often you can leave behind the negative. As usual, I appreciate the deep, rich greenness.  The hot, humid weather has ensured that things have remained green.  In the corn fields, however, I spot the first signs of the coming fall.  Silks are blackening, edges of leaves are hinting of browning. Black Eyed Susans are pretty much gone as are the daisies.  I see the first of the Sumac and think how, when Lloyd was living, I would have told him as they are good honey producers.  Yellow flowers, tall and beautiful, perhaps wild sunflowers but whose name I don't really know, are blooming.  Insects buzz. As I pass wet lands, I hear a frog still pining for a mate.  And because I am not with others, I can sing, loudly and robustly, as I have not been able to for quite a while.

I pick up the pace after lunch finding that my legs feel better than expected.  I have been riding slowly all year, and while I still am not riding quickly, I am riding hard for my fitness level and it feels good.  My lungs start to heave a bit and my thighs ache, but I know I can hold this pace for a long while, pedals churning.  And all too soon it is over and I am home and I wonder why I hurried.  And I wonder if I will ever figure out how to correct the date on my camera;-)  But it is all good.  And this day, a brief respite from the merciless heat that is August,  a brief respite from the things that trouble me, has been a blessing.  Oh, yeah.....bicycles.

A Cooler Day During Summer's Heat

"Turbulence breaks a tree's

branches, but only tickles an

eagles's wings."

Matshona  Dhliwayo

Yesterday I rode 47 miles with friends in the cool break from summer's oven, and at the end I wanted more:  more time with friends and more time on the bike and more lush, green scenery.  I wanted to bathe in it, to feel it fill me to the brim until it seeps deep into my soul, to cherish it and hold it dear. Today is also supposed to be reasonably hot rather than scalding.  And so I decide to ride. A friend recently lost her stepson and I opt to ride to Salem and bring back some treats from the bakery for her and her husband.  So my bike heads toward Eden/Delaney Park Road. 

Today, my friends, is the day of birds.  I am not too far into the ride when I see something I have not before seen on a ride:  an eagle.  I first spot it sitting in the road and assume it is a vulture.  But the white head and tail as it takes off tells me I am wrong. Breathtakingly strong, heartrendingly beautiful, there is no need for acrobatics in the sky to make me take notice.  Indeed, I am stunned, questioning myself and what I am seeing as each strong flap takes it further and further away until all that remains is the memory.  Later on during the ride, I see a red tailed hawk being peppered by an angry, smaller, bird, probably protecting its young.  Whatever its reason for chasing, it must be serious as the hawk is six times its size. I heard the hawk's call as it floats across the sky. I smile thinking of when my daughter helped to rehab such a hawk before it was released back into the wild. And I also think of Grasshopper and how he loved it when we spotted a hawk on a ride.   Later, near the end of my ride, wild turkeys cross in front of me before ghosting into the woods that border the road.  I realize it has been awhile since I have seen them.

The turkeys take me back to when I first saw a wild turkey.  The children and I had a path we liked to follow through the woods to Father Mills place.  At the end of the path was a burned down house, probably a mile or more off of the road.  One had to cross a creek to get there, and then the path wound upwards.  The way is now blocked by whoever bought the property, but I will always remember at the creek startling a wild turkey.  It took me awhile to figure out what it was that we had just seen.  And of course, nobody had cell phones or internet access to help.  I remember feeling quite privileged.  All the time I spent playing in the woods as a child, spending entire days embraced by the forest that surrounded my house on three sides stretching all the way to the Ohio River, and not once did I see a turkey.  Or an eagle.

I reach Salem and decide that I will pick up something for my friend when I return for grocery pick up as I want to ride farther and not just head home.  I am afraid the heat will ruin the treat that I want to take her.  I treat myself to a donut, sitting on the curb as is my wont during rides, relishing the gooey sweetness.  Once done, I head toward Pekin and the nearby knobs.  Like the eagle and the hawk and the turkey, I am unfettered today and may do as I  please so long as my strength holds. 

By the time I return home, I have somewhere in the area of 67 miles in, some of those miles on roads I have not ridden for awhile.  I seem to get in patterns of where I ride, and I need to stop that, to be more like the eagle and the hawk and even the turkeys.   And I hope to make them matter.  I hope they keep me strong so that the wind gusts that break branches merely are a bother, a tickle reminding me of my strength.  I hope I can be like the eagle.