A Day on the Surly

"There are days when being alone is a heady

wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others 

when it is a bitter tonic, and still others 

when it is a poison that makes you 

beat your head against the wall."

Sidonie Colette

Today is one of those days where I am grateful for some time alone on the bike.  After doing some morning chores, I grab the Surly and head out looking for some gravel.  And looking for freedom.  Freedom to decide where I want to go at each intersection, freedom to ride fast or slow, freedom from any demands other than those I choose to place upon myself.  Sometimes I want to ride with others, to press myself, to mirror their pace, to have interesting conversations, but sometimes it is a treasure to be alone rather than a "poison" or "bitter tonic." 

Despite still being morning, the heat and humidity are obvious from the moment I step outside the door, so I actually am surprised to find myself enjoying the ride.  People who train warn about "junk miles" and the harm they can do, but sometimes it seems that "junk miles" fit the bill and leave me with my love of cycling renewed somehow.  There will be other days to train and push myself.  In the words of an old friend, "Do you feel the wind on your face?"  meaning that we can get so wrapped up in our rides with others straining to keep the pace, keeping a conversation, that we miss the scenery and the feeling of freedom that bicycling can bestow. Have you ever been on a ride with a group and passed a road wondering, "Where does that one go?"  By yourself, you can find out.

Despite the heat, the scenery still retains the June greenness.  We were lucky this June.  Unlike the past three Junes where we roasted in the 90's, most of June had cooler temperatures.  It also seems to have been windier than normal, but I am not a meteorologist.  The orange day lilies that appear in early June are still blooming, but I can tell that they are on the verge of leaving for another year.  It makes me rather sad.  Time passes so quickly.  I see the first of the cheerful, orange butterfly weed.  And the Black-eyed Susan continue to bloom making me think of the Laura Nyro song, "Lazy Susan," a song as beautiful as the flower.

I think about my up-coming century on Sunday and worry a bit about the predicted heat and humidity.   I used to blame my struggles with heat and humidity on advancing age, but read an article where it is tied to just not being as fit.  And I have come to believe it. I find I grow a tad lazier with age, less  able to push myself into the pain threshold, more satisfied with an easy, sustainable pace, more concerned with continuing my cycling and companionship than dropping others and/or improving my speed.  Still, I always feel as if it is hard to breath on tough climbs when the humidity is high. In my head or reality?  Does it even matter?


I find only one hard climb today, and that is when I am a tad lost and on Lick Skillet Road.   I remember the name.  I know I have been on the road before.  But was I going this direction or the other?  Where does it come out?  When you are by yourself and hit a hard climb, sometimes it is difficult not to talk yourself into not walking the hill, but today I persevere despite not knowing how long the hill is or how steep it will get.  I know it is for certain that same road when I reach the top of the climb and see a sign about the glaciers that used to be in the area.  I could use some ice and coolness after the climb, but not one glacier is to be seen.    The small store I stopped at last time I passed this way, a store some elderly couple had in their shed, is no longer there.  Why do I remember that of the small selection, I got mustard flavored pretzels? Or perhaps I am not remembering correctly and it was another ride on another day, but I don't think so. Memory is such a weird thing, and mine seems to be more so than many peoples.  Why remember this and not something truly important?

Today what keeps striking my eye are the clouds in the sky.  They just are so beautiful.  Some are flat, but some are fluffy with shades of gray.  Sometimes it seems the fluffy ones have a backdrop of flat, white clouds that bleed into a pale blue. I find I am paying more attention to the clouds than to the rest of the scenery.  They just seem different somehow.  I wish I had brought my real camera and not just my phone, but at least I am able to capture them.  When I get home, it is as I feared:  the phone just did not capture the true beauty.  Perhaps this winter I will try to paint the clouds on paper and I will remember this day, the feel of my legs churning up the hill, muscles straining and pleasantly aching,  the beads of sweat on my face and arms that grow until the weight of gravity cause them to run down my cheeks.  Perhaps this winter I will remember how green and fresh the forest was that borders both sides of the road on the climb.  And perhaps the dream of this will keep me moving forward through the icy, grey, coldness that enfolds the world and has been made colder by COVID.  As I told  people recently, at one point in isolation I was on the verge of speaking only cat. 

I descend down Rooster Hill and work my way over to Old Babe Road.  I smile thinking of Mike Kammenish and how he liked the name of the road as much as I did and as much as others must because you never know if there will be a street sign there or whether someone will have stolen it.  I begin to grow thirsty in the way that you do on hot rides even when you have water left, partly because I have not been drinking enough but partly because I long for something cold to drink, to feel the coolness course down my throat.  And so, with no stores anywhere close, I call it a day ending on paved roads that lead homeward, drunk on the day, appreciative of my freedom.  More than ready for an ice cold drink of water.