Off to Bagdad

"This is a wonderful day.  I've

never seen this one before."

Maya Angelou

Today was a club 60 mile ride out of Simpsonville.  Unlike the rides earlier this week which bled sunshine and blue skies, today is supposed to be overcast and windy.  There is a fairly strong possibility of getting rained upon depending on which weatherperson you listen to.   But the rest of the week looks problematic weather-wise as well and thus I decide to go and make use of the day.  I have, I think, been wet before, and it will be so much more pleasant with warmer temperatures than it was when it was in the thirties and I had so many miles to travel. 

Most of the people I have been riding with during the week will be there, and I think that I have become quite spoiled.  I thought about Wednesday when they sang to me for my birthday and Amelia brought cookies and Paul bought my lunch afterward and a smile comes to my face.  It is nice to have friends.  During the early days of COVID, I thought that it might come to the point where I only was able to converse in meows.  Don't get me wrong:  I love my cats.  Still they are not the most scintillating of conversationalists.

As mist envelopes my car during the drive to the start, I wonder how many will show.  The parking lot is filled with people, many of whom I have not seen since last summer and a smile lights my heart as well as my face.  Some I am not close to.  Others are wrapped in memories that I hold dear to my heart.  It is hard not to hug some of them, to feel, however momentarily, the beat of a heart besides my own, but the world remains unsafe for physical contact.  I mask and hold some at arms length that want to stray too close.

Mark brings a book of bike trails in New Zealand opening a dream of a bike trip there in the future.  I know it will not happen unless COVID is conquered, that it may not happen then, but how nice it is to dream.  I had not traveled with that group until last year, but I did enjoy the trip and their company and it would be great to see that friendship grow.  And it tells me that they did not end our week long trip thinking they did not want to ask me to accompany them on a trip ever again.  I briefly think of how well planned that trip was by both Jeff and Mark.

Today was the day three of us were to begin our hiking/biking/kayaking trip in Alaska, a different group, a trip that was canceled due to COVID, this years trip.  Briefly during the ride, I think of how it distresses me to lose a summer of active vacationing because I don't know how many I have left to me.  More years are behind me than in front of me, and of those in front of me, who knows how many will hold good health and the ability to bicycle and hike and do other physical things. 

But I sweep the momentary sadness from my brain and settle into riding.  Many women and men my age would not be able to cover these miles on a bicycle and I need to be appreciative of the gifts I have been blessed with.  The group I am riding with starts at a reasonable but not fast pace.   Last year, I would have called it a slow pace, but I know I am not as strong this year, mainly because we have been doing slower rides.  But I am fine with that.  I have come to appreciate the companionship in a way that perhaps I have not before, and I think how grateful I am for the friends that I have made through the years.  I ride for a bit with Bekki and think of  how kind she has been gifting me a couple of books she had finished reading.  And then I ride with others.  I hear Jeff went back to the parking lot after slitting  a side wall and wish I had been there as I  normally carry a folding tire.

Miles pass and the earth is lush and green.  Fields stretch out before us, and at one point we stop to let a tractor pass.  I remember how Thursday I talked with Lynn about how I love this time of year when everything is no longer new but still lush, green, and growing.   Orange tiger lilies border the road in clusters and I remind myself that I need to dig some of them after I dig out the ditch in front of my house.  I am hoping they will help with erosion so that it does not require quite as much maintenance.  I smile to myself thinking of the look on Leticia's face during the Scotland trip when she asked, "You dig ditches?"  as if it were the strangest thing she had ever heard.  Of course, I try to do the chores that I can do and digging ditches is one of those. 

Toward the end of the ride, Amelia digs in and takes off.  Paul follows her and I decide to pursue.  She is so strong.  Dave King is the rabbit.  It takes awhile but he is caught.  My legs ache and my lungs hurt from panting, but it is a good hurt, one I have not been indulging in recently. Earlier in the ride, not long before the store stop, I had caught him with the intent of trying to take the green sign for Bagdad.  I ask him how far it is to the sign and he says he does not think there is a sign on this side of town.  With his new beard, I am unable to read his face to know if he is lying and he is. Dave knows every green sign this side of the Mississippi and has an excellent course memory, something I was not blessed with.  He takes the sign, but I do make him work a bit for it and we both laugh.  How I love the sound of laughter ringing through the air before, during, and after a ride.

It was a wonderful day and a wonderful ride.  After the ride, Tom has a cooler and offers me a water which I gladly accept. The kindness of people.  Never forget the kindness, particularly in the midst of what can seem like a quagmire of hate and division.  As Ms. Angelou notes, I have not seen this day before.  And of course, I will not see it again.  I am glad I made use of it and spent it with people that I like and some that I love making a memory.  Just think: with God's grace, tomorrow will be another. 

Red Barn Ride: June 2020

"True friendship comes when the 

silence between two people

is comfortable."

David Tyson

As I head out on my bike this late morning, I think quite a bit about the ride I put on yesterday.  I was surprised that eight people showed though I know it is a lovely course with little traffic.  It is a long drive to the ride start for my friends from Louisville, but then there was nothing else on the schedule.  And some are close friends, friends whose company I enjoy and who must enjoy mine.  As the bike club re-opens from COVID, I suspect some captains and some riders will not return and others will wait to see how the rides go.  But most of us that ride will continue to ride because riding is about more than the bike. Riding is about the jokes, the surprises, the friendship, the beauty, the trials and tribulations, the triumphs, the sweat and the chills, and so much more. 

Today I have decided to ride to Borden and get a couple of tough climbs in, something I have been avoiding lately.  It does me no good to avoid the climbs because that is the only way to truly build strength.  It would be better to have others to climb with to push my speed a bit as I tend to be lazy, but it is what it is.   I think I am fortunate that the weather today is moderate.  Climbing is so much easier when it is not in the nineties where the heat brings the sweat that drips in the eyes causing them to burn as if they were on fire despite one's headband.  Over the years I have learned to carry an extra bandana for such moments and keep it handy, tucked in my shorts.  People have laughed at the "tumor" on my thigh, but it serves its purpose.  Today, however, I should not need it.  Thinking of this makes me giggle about a sweat band  that I bought at Texas Hell Week, a rubber "gutter" that went around my head.  The guys laughed.  They were right.  Not only did it not stop the sweat from getting in my eyes, it gave me a headache. 

Interestingly, perhaps even Freudian  or because I am lost in my own head, I miss the turn to Bartle's Knob, but this does not save me, it only adds miles as it is a dead end road.  I have never ridden down this way and it is a nice road, secluded with attractive homes.  One lady is out spraying the weeds in the ditch by the road.  I always hate riding by anyone spraying weed killer or pesticides because I suspect it is decidedly unhealthy.  I never know whether to try to hold my breath or breathe shallowly and rapidly to try to keep it from reaching deep in my lungs.  This time I hold my breath.  On the way back, I breath shallowly.  I am halfway up the road before recognizing my mistake and understanding that somehow I am not on the right road, but I ride to where it dead ends with no trespassing signs before turning around. 

Before you know it, I am passing Wiley's Chapel on the way up the first climb:  Bartle's Knob.  The climb is long and for one short moment, my Wahoo tells me the grade is 18 per cent, but since I am not hurrying not really painful.  I should be pushing myself to go faster, but instead just go at my own, slow, steady pace.  I think of how I used this hill and the next to help train for the hills in the Virginia 1000 K a few years ago.  It seems so long ago, and yet not.  Sometimes things are like that. 

I crest the hill and debate how to get to Borden. I know that Daisy Hill Road will take me to Borden, but I am pretty sure that Jackson Road also leads there and is the other hill I am looking for.  I am right.  I "thought" I was right, but I could as easily have been wrong.  When I turn onto Jackson, I tell myself if I am not descending within six miles, I will turn around.  But descending I am, and at quite a clip at one point.  I think yet again to myself that I need to get new brake pads in front. The back are fine, but the front definitely need replacement.  I think about what type of brakes I will get if I get a new bike.  So many of the new bikes have disc brakes.  The guys said it is overkill on a regular road bike, but the people that have them seem to like them.  Oh, well, it will be awhile before a new bike comes my way.  I remain glad I bought titanium.  It  lasts. In fact, the only thing new on it since I bought it in 2011 is chain, cassette, cables, bar tape, and saddle.  Oh, and one shifter, one that Steve Rice helped locate for me on line. Everything else is what came with the bike.  I did buy new wheels this year, but I have not yet put them on. 

That leads me to think of how I feel  like  I upset the bike shop by wanting high spoke count wheels.  I don't think he understands how I ride, that I may be one hundred miles out from my daughter or may run into gravel that I don't want to take the time to go around despite it being a road bike.  That bike has been on some pretty rough roads in its time.  "Why," I ask myself, "do I sometimes feel guilty getting what I want for myself when someone else thinks I should want something different but don't."  I have no answer for this.  Of course, as long as he makes money, it should not matter to the bike shop, but it either does or it is my imagination that it does.

Soon, I am sitting eating a small twist cone that seems pretty large but tastes pretty darned good.  I don't know how it will sit with the big climb up Jackson, but for now it is fine.  The biggest problem on the return is getting across the road.  Cars zoom and those that turn seem not to use turn signals, but finally I am across and ready to climb.  As I pass the elementary school, I giggle to myself remembering the look on the faces of the kids at recess when they realized that I was about to climb that huge hill on my bike a few years ago. 

Halfway up the steepest part of the climb, a bug flies into my open, gasping mouth and rather than being swallowed, it lodges in my throat.  I try to ride through it, but end up stopping and taking a few swigs all the while wondering if I will be able to turn the pedals and start back up or will have to walk. The road is wide enough to allow me to go sideways, much stronger because of the additional protein I just unwittingly downed, and finish the climb.  The grass alongside the road is still green despite the fact that we are starting to need rain.  Daisies, black eyed Susan, and lilies line the road in places. Later on, I see bales of hay lay waiting to be dragged to barns. Last year there was such a shortage of hay due to the drought. 

On the ride home I think about the company yesterday and find myself with a wide grin on my face.  I have blessed with many friends in my lifetime.  How much poorer would my life be without them?  How much richer are experiences when shared?  Sometimes we talk, usually we talk or at least I talk, but sometimes it is enough to ride in companionable silence.  It is nice to have friends like that.  It is nice to have friends that will drive quite a distance just to be with you and to share a course that you put together. I am truly blessed.  They listen at times when I feel they must think, "Will she never shut up?"  They bear with me at times when I have nothing to say but feel the warmth of their company.  Thanks to those that came.  It was a good ride.  And today is a good ride today.  Life is good despite COVID, at least at this point. 

Hardinsburg: The Closing of the Dutch Barn

"Not til June can the grass be said to be

waving in the fields.  When the frogs

dream, and the grass waves, and the

buttercups toss their heads, and the heat

disposes to bathe in the ponds and streams,

then is summer begun."

Henry David Thoreau

The weather is supposed to be perfect, not so hot as it has been, and I decide to head out on a solo century.  Despite lots of foam rolling yesterday and a gentle walk to get blood moving along, my legs still ache from a tough Tabata session a couple days before. But I thoroughly expect them to meet the challenge and to perk up.  Unfortunately, they don't cooperate with my expectations.  Rather they complain and gripe the entire day, particularly on hills, but still I move forward.  In retrospect, this was not particularly wise as I could have easily cut the ride short fairly early in the ride and still gotten a nice sixty miler in, but I plunge onward.  I think that this is the type of day that  used to upset me when I was working because I could not make good use of it by bicycling.  So even a bad day on the bike is, perhaps, a good day.  My legs, however, never do agree with my mind on this particular day.

Later I will ask myself why, and I have no answer other than it seemed too perfect of a day to waste and I have been interested in seeing how I do on a century with COVID and trying to keep store stops minimal.  I have only done one so far, and the weather was much cooler. Prior to heading out, I pack my lunch and some snacks.  I have tried making and freezing a turkey sandwich with cheese on whole wheat.  As there is no mayo or condiment on it, I expect it to be fine, but just in case I have a mix of walnuts, almonds, and raisins as well as peanut butter crackers to fall back on. 

I debate between the Story Century and the Hardinsburg Century, but settle on Hardinsburg despite the additional climbing involved. I have not been climbing enough.  Also,  I have heard that the Dutch Barn, one of my favorite stops, has closed it's doors, but I want to verify that and see, if it is true, if Little Twirl remains open. 

What interests me on this ride are the different fields I pass.  I see wheat that obviously will be ready about the time it normally is ready:  late June or early July.  The green is just starting to hint of gold.  The wind, stronger than I expected, whispers as it dances with the wheat.  Briefly I wonder if they will also use the wheat stalks as straw. They used to, but often they don't bother anymore, plowing it under. Truly, we have become a country used to waste.  It was on this century when a rider from another country showed to ride.  It was the fall of the year and black walnuts were on the ground everywhere.  She was amazed and let me know that in her country people would have been fighting to harvest them to have food put back for the lean times.  That being said, having harvested them, it is a arduous chore. 

The corn is a different matter.  Some of it looks great and is about mid calf to knee high.  Other is barely above the ground.  I don't see may soy beans, and what I do see is just peeking through the soil.  It seems to me that normally they are farther along this time of year, but perhaps my memory is incorrect. I pass barren fields that  normally scream of life this time of year.  I assume from  spring rains yet again interfered with planting. And I see hay, some of it freshly baled and some cut and drying.  I pass a field where the farmer is turning the hay, bottom to top, so the bottom will dry.  There seems to be more hay than last year and I wonder to myself if that has anything to do with the drought last year and the sparsity of hay.  I think of the years Lloyd and I put up straw and hay that I would then sell at the track.  It was hot and sweaty work, but I loved the smell and I loved working with him and the way my body felt at the end of the day, soreness promising new strength.

The Dutch Barn, one of my old favorite lunch stops, looks forlorn as I pass.  At first I think perhaps someone has bought it and re-opened as there are cars in the lot, but it is not.  I go up the street to Little Twirl and find that not only is it open, but it appears to be thriving.  I am not feeling strong at all and decide that while I have avoided stores, I will get a coke to go with my sandwich and an ice cream cone.  I order and wait.  People come and go.  I am the only one in a mask.  Finally I ask if I have gotten lost in the shuffle.  She apologizes and quickly fixes it. 

The sandwich is fine.  Needless to say, with the heat it is no longer frozen.  The turkey is not hot or cold to the touch.  The cheese, provolone, is a bit soft.  But it tastes fine though not as good as the ice cream. 

When I reach the bottom of the steep hill, the one that has brought so many riders to their knees and the one where Paul fell over, my way is blocked  by a road closed sign.  I decide to  ignore it praying that I can get through.   If I can't, today's century will turn into probably 110 miles and two major climbs will be added.  I have no doubt that I CAN do them if I need to, but my legs remind me that I sure don't WANT to.  I ride for a few miles seeing no road construction, but as I reach the very end of the road, I see a back hoe parked across the road and store piled up in front of it.  It appears that  nobody is working so I decide to see if I can get through.  The bridge is torn out, but the creek bed is not so far that I can't walk through.  Feeling smug, I step on rock crossing the creek only to find that when I hit the mud, I sink in to over the top of my shoes.  Luckily, my shoes don't come off, but they and my socks are covered with thick mud. 

I laugh thinking that some people pay for mud baths and here I got mine free.  The lengths people will go to in order to avoid a few hills and extra miles;-)  Wimp.  I remember a time when I was little and my mom had just bought me a new pair of red Keds, the kind that had the white half circle of rubber on the toe.  The guys and I were playing in a mud pile at the gardening center, a place we weren't supposed to be, and I sank in so deeply it pulled my shoes off.  I thought for sure I was in for a beating when I reached home, but my Mom just took me and bought me another pair of shoes.

Up the road a bit, I find a place where a field is across from a creek so there is a road directly to the creek.  I stop and clean up a bit.  The mud has dried around the circle that tightens my Boa closures to where they won't turn until I stand in the water for a minute.  I realize that in some strange sort of way, I am enjoying this difficulty.  These troubles are the things that make rides more memorable.  My favorite riding companions have always been those that just roll with the punches without getting upset or angry at these types of obstacles. Chris Quirey, throwing the thin board across a deep ravine for us to cross over on.  Steve Rice and Steve Meredith wading thigh high waters to get back from Medora and avoid having to retrace miles.  The Wacky Tacky group with Duc Do who arrived at Mammoth Cave to find there no longer was a road where one used to be.  The power cut climb on Tokyo.  I remember these rides partially because of the obstacles.

The first of the orange day lilies are blooming and the Black Eyed Susan flowers are scattered here and there.  The white daisies are still blooming but already wilting in places.  Summer goes so quickly. 

It doesn't cross my mind that this route will allow me to see if the Red Barn store is still open when I near Salem as I have a ride scheduled to go by there on Tuesday, but it does.  The Red Barn is open, but unlike Little Twirl, no customers are there.  As I enter, well masked, I caution Amos that it is me and not to shoot.  That is just how it is when a store stop is also a gun store. You use precautions if you are entering with a mask covering your face.  I don't know what being shot would feel like, but it is one of those feelings that I could live my entire life without finding out and would have no regrets. While my legs definitely would not agree today, I am not at all into pain.

Amos is glad to see me and asks if there are others.  I tell him no, grab a drink, and sit by myself out side before heading  out to finish out the century.  The rest of the way back is on one of my favorite roads.  Best of all, at least for today, most of the climbing is done.  The last major climb is right before the Red Barn.  All that is left are rollers.  My legs are thankful.  I am thankful because for some reason, I am unusually tired.  My house is a welcome sight and I am glad I don't have the drive home to contend with.  And while I am tired, I am glad that I did not waste the day.  The extreme heat and then the cold will arrive soon enough.