"Remember, remember,
this is now, and now,
and now.
Live it, feel it, cling to it,
I want to become acutely
aware of all I have taken
for granted."
Sylvia Plath
Since my solo century went well last week-end, I decided to put the ride on the club schedule for this week-end and share the course. I really like most of this route to New Orleans, particularly the stretch between Medora and Orleans, and I have not shared it with anyone for ever so long now. I like the way it meanders for a bit between the railroad tracks on one side and the river on the other. I like how the flowers grow alongside the railroad track, flowers shaded by the tree branches hanging overhead like a canopy. I like how the shade of the trees dapples the ground, ever changing in the battle between shade and sun. I like the old, metal bridge, no longer in use, that crosses the river only to end in a corn field, a bridge to nowhere, and how despite the rust and rotting timbers, it clings to life reminding us of usefulness and how it too passes. I like the climb up the Devil's Backbone and how the view you get changes so according to the season since the trees and grasses camouflage the valley to the side and below . And I like the anticipation of the descent down Tunnelton with its hazardous "S" curve at the bottom that includes a metal slab and grate that can snag any foolishly brave rider. Prior to their placement, sometimes I would find geodes, washed down the hill from the creek.
When I schedule the ride, the prediction is perfect: mid seventies and sunshine. Of course, by the time it rolls around, the prediction is for a record cold high for the day, lots of wind, possible showers, and little sun. Go figure. I must admit that at times I wonder if, perhaps, my rides are cursed. Sometimes it seems that the weather always wants to make them a bit more difficult than they might be otherwise. But it is all good. Now, now, now. I can ride. I can push the pedals and feel my muscles contract and release and I can feel the wind.
I toy with canceling, but I need to ride: emotionally as well as physically. Those who know me well know that in the past six years, I have lost three of the people I loved the most: my husband, my mom, and a brother. Earlier this week, my youngest brother, older than me but the youngest of the boys, called telling me something was wrong with him and wanting my other brother's number to see if he could get him in to see a neurologist more quickly. Hearing his slurred speech, I recognized the signs of a stroke, particularly when he says the left side of his tongue is numb. And indeed, he has had a minor stroke. All the horrors of my husband's death rush back over me for a moment, a tide of despair and fury at my helplessness. On the very heels of this, my nephew tells me that my sister is entering hospice. It is just too much. I ask myself how strong I am expected to be and I am feeling sorry for myself as if nobody else has to go through this when deep down I know that life holds pain and loss for each. I know from experience the best way to fight this, particularly now I have nobody to hold me and assure me everything will work out, is to ride leaving the emotions behind on the pavement. But, Lord, I am tired of being strong, and I do miss strong arms holding me and comforting me and someone telling me it will all be alright. The words of Plath come to mind and I briefly think how much we take things and people for granted. Between the Pandemic and the losses, perhaps this is the lesson to be learned.
I think of my nephew recently telling me that I am intimidating, a sentiment echoing the words of a friend after the death of my husband when explaining men's hesitancy to ask me out. Rather ironic if true. I certainly don't mean to be intimidating and it is not a quality that I think of being particularly admirable. If they only knew what a shriveling, weak, coward I am inside, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Standing still in life, well, it really isn't an option for any of us. How glad I am that Lloyd was not intimidated by me. Sometimes I smile thinking of how he once said that one of the things he enjoyed about being married to me was that he never really quite knew what I might do or try to do next. But now, now, now. The past is the past.
I wonder how many will show for the ride. John and Jon have both said they were coming, but the day looks bleak and it is in the forties. As it turns out, there are five of us. I am, of course, the weakest, and I sincerely mean it when I tell them that I don't expect them to hold back and wait for me. I warn them of the sharp turns that are easy to miss and perilous to those riding with abandon. I forget to warn them of the railroad tracks that can send you and your bike sailing through the air as I once learned but managed somehow to land, but I later remember and remind them at lunch.
At the start, there is the usual joking. Everyone is complaining about the cold weather and how they had put cold weather clothes away a week or two ago. But of the five of us, four are in tights and the fifth has knee warmers. Everyone has full fingered gloves of some type, and most are dressed in three layers. The only rider I know who regrets his clothing choice is the one dressed in only two layers who wishes later in the ride that he had a third.
We ride off at a brisk pace on roads that were already damp and as we pull out of the parking lot it begins to drizzle. I smile remembering a ride when I first started riding with the club and how we were caught out on a century with no rain gear when the rain began. At a store, we bought and all donned trash bags, tearing openings for our arms and heads. And I remember how it warmed us and how I laughed telling the others I didn't know I would be riding with white trash. And as I dream, I wake up to the sound of chatter around me as the riders that showed, as Tom Hurst, Jon Wineland, John Pellegrino, and Larry Preble catch up on all that has happened recently. And the drizzle has passed only to be repeated once more and never for long enough to drench us. For that I am thankful. Now, now, now.
The pace is brisk, at least for me, but I manage to keep up until almost Medora when I drop back. I see a few have stopped for a photo opp at the covered bridge, but I ride on so as not to hold them back. I become worried, however, when they have not caught me and turn back around thinking perhaps one has had a mechanical. Instead they were just taking photos and doing other necessary things. They seem to be enjoying themselves and I remind myself to hold on to the things I enjoy about all of them. While I don't know him well at all, I like how Tom's eyes crinkle and reflect his amusement when he laughs. I like the obvious pride he shows when talking of his daughter. I like Larry's ability to recognize and capture beauty with his camera and his patience with my slower pace. John, and I sincerely hope this does not offend him if he should ever read this blog, reminds me of a golden retriever, all smiles, laughter, happiness, and acceptance with no malice at all inside him. He is a great conversationalist. And then Jon and his beautiful mind, a boon and probably also a curse. His sense of humor. Yes, now, now, now. Appreciate these companions. Don't take them for granted. I may stop riding or they may stop riding or something else might happen to prevent our sharing the road in the future, so hang tight and soak it up, make a memory.
At the store, we laugh at how the clerk is from New York (John is able to not only identify her as a New Yorker by her accent but guess where in New York). She tells us she has lived in this area 10 years. But still her accent gives her away. And we each briefly wonder about how someone from New York City ended up in Medora. Talk about contrasts.
The lunch stop is not until we are past sixty miles. By this time, Jon, Tom, and Larry are ahead. While I know he, too, could forge far ahead of me, John and I ride in together and find them at Speak Easy Pizza, two of them already served. Last week I was amazed at the speed of the service and this week is no different. The guys tell me it is because of the brick oven. As I look around, I again remind myself that this is "now and now and now," these smiles, these people. Some will continue riding, some may not. My pace may slow to where it becomes a burden to come to my rides rather than a pleasure, but not yet. Or I may stop riding...one dreaded day. As I often do, I think of the many who shared these miles with me and no longer ride or ride shorter distances or ride little and seldom with me. Each has their own special place in my heart. And so will these, the men gathered around the table, who came to ride despite the cold and the bit of rain. And we are cold when we leave the restaurant, but I know it is merely from stopping and that the hills that loom ahead will warm us.
Larry, John, and I finish the ride together while Tom and Jon ride ahead though we all meet for a brief time at the last store stop. And this is good. Even if they all rode ahead, I would be fine. I am just glad that they came to share the day and to give me another memory to cherish when my riding days fall behind me. I am preparing for those days. I have taken up painting in my quest to find other hobbies. And hopefully I will find other hobbies as the days and months and years pass. But I want to concentrate on appreciating what is now and what I all too often take for granted and be grateful. And I am fortunate that I have much to be grateful for in this life despite the fact that it is filled with losses, huge losses, losses that leave holes that can never be completely filled in. My legs are tired, but I am sated for the day. Beauty, bicycles, and some companionship. Now, now, now.
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