Orleans: May 7, 2000 (Date on photos is wrong)

"While getting lost in all those

little things that seem so important,

don't forget the little things that 

matter..."

Virginia Alison

 I get up to find that the weather is nice, though windy as appears to be the weather's wont this year.  I decide that I will ride a century.  I can't say I am entirely comfortable with this decision.  While I have not let myself completely go to pot, I have definitely put on weight and have shortened the length of my rides.  Part of this was due to concern about having a mechanical and needing to call a sag because I don't want to infect anyone if  I would happen to be ill but asymptomatic, but then I realize my daughter has a truck and my bike and I could be hauled in the back.  It would mean a long wait for rescue, but the chances of needing her seem slim.  And it might mean "the look," the look that asks why her mom can't just be normal like other mothers and drive a car or take up knitting.


 I can't remember ever calling for sag other than when I was bitten by the pit bull.  Even then, I could have limped home if it had been necessary.  I did refuse the ambulance that someone had called though nobody would ever fess up to it. My husband came.  When I am hurt, I always want my husband, at least I did once I gave up wanting my mom. Anyway, if I am hurt that badly by a fall, a bite, being hit by a car, or something else, I'll probably need an ambulance anyway.

I decide on one of my easier centuries.  I have not been to Orleans for quite some time.  I have two century routes there.  I pick the easier of the two.  I  also consider the wind and pick a route where the wind will be at my back most of the return journey. Before I leave, I pack snacks and a sandwich and hope that my water supply holds as I do not intend to stop at any stores along the way.  

I question my choice the first few miles as the route goes through Medora and I have recently visited there, but after passing Medora my doubts melt as I come across a bonanza of late spring flowers.  The river is to my left and the railroad to my right for a number of miles.  Traffic is sparse.  I stop to eat a snack at an old abandoned bridge.

Despite the beauty, I find I wish for some companionship on my journey.  I have spent so much time alone recently.  I suppose that will continue for awhile as I have no notion of returning to going shopping or the gym or a restaurant until I see where this virus goes.  I try to stay away from politics in my blog, so I will only say that I do  not trust our government to care about me or those I love anymore.  

During my ride, I think about what is important to me: God, family, friends, home, stability, love, children, safety, bicycles, pets.  A friend recently let me know he has been ill and I think how I would not know unless he was well enough to let me know.  These people are important to me, they make my life richer and help to give it meaning.  They have made me laugh and cry.  They have accepted me, warts and all, into their lives and hearts.  It is so damned hard to be so isolated from them.  And I pray that each of them knows that they are special to me, that I love them.  For this virus has magnified what is important, truly important.  It reinforces the lesson on what means the most. 

The wind picks up as the day goes on and I begin to despair of my ability to finish out this ride, but still I know I will go on, turning one pedal and then the other because that is what distance cyclists do and that is how goals are accomplished. Distance riding is largely a mental exercise and a exercise of the will and refusal to quit.  The mind tires long before the body has to stop, but the mind is a liar and tells those lies to the body.  It wants you to quit long before you really need to. I think, perhaps, it used to be easier in some ways because I needed these rides to keep up with others, to build my base for brevets, etc.  Now my main reason is that I know how easily it can be taken from me unless I continue to push and not to yield. Most of my friends no longer ride centuries, at least unless it is a tour stage, and there is no Tour de Mad Dog this year. 

Clouds begin to to fill the sky and I find I am chilly with my arm warmers down when they block the sun and too warm when the sun is out.  The words of a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter come to mind, "Sometimes its hard to remember how tough we are to please." I stop for a quick sandwich at a bridge that seems perfect.  One side has a concrete wall that is perfect for sitting.  The other side has a concrete wall that is taller and perfect for leaning a bicycle on. 

The wind is now at my back pushing me home and even Bee Line Road does not slow me down.  Indeed, after the last climb I keep thinking there is another that never appears.  I am cautious on the descent after crossing the highway remembering that there is a rough railroad track at the bottom.  I smile thinking of the time I flew and it caused me to go airborne.  Luckily I landed the bike and all was well.  The feeling was exhilarating.

Soon I am on Quaker Road and home draws near.  Home.  Even the word is a siren song.  My pedal strokes grow stronger rather than weaker as the end nears and I know I don't have to conserve any more strength to be there.  This ride, a  little thing, but also something that matters.