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.