Campbellsburg Century Revisited

"You may not remember the

time you let me go first. Or the time

you dropped back to tell me it wasn't

that far to go. Or the time

you waited at the crossroads for me 

to catch up. You may not remember any

of those, but I do and this is what I have to

say to you:  "Today, no matter what it takes, 

we ride home together."

Brian Andreas

 

It is interesting, this century a week, reminding me of the early days when a few of us rode two centuries most week-ends, all of our free time spent with the bicycles, each other, and the open road.  That intensity passed.  There were other paths to travel, spouses to appease, other interests to pursue.  Despite becoming quite special, people became known, and as the saying goes, familiarity can breed contempt, or if not contempt a lack of appreciation. Life has a way of shaking things up. Change happens.  So I was not at all sure what sort of response I would get this year to scheduling a century every week-end  that I possibly could throughout the traditional touring season. 

 

So far, interest remains higher than I anticipated.  This week draws Mike Kamenish (who arrives after the start but is so strong that he quickly catches up), Larry Preble, Tom Askew, Tom Hurst, Bob Grable, and John Pelligrino, all of whom have ridden at least some of the centuries I have put on this year.  The centuries do not draw the huge crowds that the Tour de Mad Dog drew, but it harkens back to the closeness those of us who shared the roads  all those years ago knew.  Perhaps because the group is smaller.  Despite the different riding abilities, there have been rides like the last where everyone has pretty much stayed together.  So far as I know,  nobody has felt as if the pace was more than they could or wanted to handle and nobody has felt it was so slow as to be tortuous.

I have urged people to ride ahead if they feel the desire and the need, for in part I am reliving memories as I am putting on many routes that I myself designed.  This ride brings back memories of no map or GPS as I  planned the route, heading out with bicycle, pen, paper, and sidewalk chalk on that I used to mark turns on roads I was not familiar with so that I knew how to get back.  This ride brings back memories of cutting off some of my son's old tube socks to use as arm warmers as I could not afford to buy real arm warmers at the time.  It brings back memories of people that I loved who no longer ride at all or who no longer ride distance or who no longer ride with me.  And with that company, I have no fear of being alone.   But they do not drop me.  A few ride ahead, but we always regroup at stores and there is laughter and conversation as new memories are formed.  

 

I think of how when the Tour de Mad Dog began, despite differing abilities, people rode together.  It reminded me of the saying above.  Suddenly in my memory I am alone on a brevet at night in the middle of Texas after having a flat and watching the lights of the group I was riding with disappear leaving me in complete and utter darkness other than my bicycle light.  And I was afraid, not terrified, but afraid.   But it was not too long before they returned, helping, urging me on, assuring me I could fix the flat and finish, that we would finish together. And we did.  I think  of how when the Tour de Mad Dog began, fifteen people might stop and loll in the grass, talking and joking, while someone fixed a flat.  But I am brought back to the present by the riders with me. 

We arrive at the Red Barn store after the long climb.  Everyone nervously asks about the climb ahead for I have assured them it is a tough climb.  I believe that other than myself, only two have climbed it before.  I tell them of how my friend, Paul Battle, fell over on the climb.  Of the numerous people who walked, unable to turn the pedals due to the steepness.  I tell them of how you are riding along in a valley and suddenly you will see trees arching over the roadway, darkening the entrance to the climb, as if foreshadowing what is to come.  But we climb it and arrive at Little Twirl for lunch.  Some say they read a 26 percent grade, others a bit less, but everyone agrees it was a tough climb.  

 

Then we hit the head wind from hell and endure it for numerous miles before making the turn for a crosswind and lunch. As I take my turn pulling, I think that the headwind is as strong as was predicted and wonder about those of us who chose to ride in it rather than stay home with our feet propped up.  But despite the challenge, or perhaps to some extent because of the challenge, we are having a good time. 

I am concerned about how the food at Little Twirl will  be as I have not eaten there for some time, but the concern is needless.  While it does not have the healthiest selection of foods, it tastes good, particularly in comparison to some of the fine sidewalk dining at gas stations I have done over the years.   Little Twirl was the original store stop, before the Mennonite Store that came and is now closed.  It used to be open all year long, but now it opens only spring through fall.  New ownership.  Everything changes.

We leave and resume our journey into the headwind knowing that it is about to come to an end, and as we turn onto Beck's Mill it does.  At Beck's Mill, however, we find that the road is closed as the bridge is being rebuilt.  Workmen are busy.  Tom Askew is brave enough and persuasive enough that we are permitted to pass with the recommendation that we carry our bikes because of nails.  As I carry my bike, I wonder about how nail repellent cycling shoes are, but I don't bring it up.  Nobody gets a nail in their foot and I heave a sigh of relief.  And Larry gives Tom a Mad Dog name, Ambassador.  The naming of dogs, well, as T. S. Eliot says about cats, is serious business.  And it has been awhile since a Mad Dog has earned a name.  We are all grateful that the Ambassador saved our tired legs extra miles.  Nobody complains which is good because I did warn everyone I had not driven or ridden the route ahead of time.  

At one point, and I can't remember exactly when, we all do a double take when passed by an Amish couple on bicycles.  She has her bonnet and her dress on and he is also dressed traditionally.  No helmets.  I didn't look but I feel certain no cleats.  But they are both intent on their cycling and look to be as fast as the wind. I have run into Amish cycling once before, a number of years ago, but it was a group of young Amish men. 

And then we are at the end.  No Dog has been left behind this day though one of our number began to get leg cramps from the heat.  But he persevered and finished.  I suspect that now he has adapted to the heat, he will be fine.  And what a wonderful day it was.  Perhaps I can give back a bit of what I have been given, for there have been many rides when others could have gone on and left me but chose not to. "No matter what it takes, we ride home together."

 

 

Short Frankfort: Century of the Week 2021

"What makes something special

is not just what you have to gain,

but what you feel there is to lose."

Andre Agassi 

 

The night before the ride, I wonder if the century will be a go as there is talk of severe thunderstorms and high winds, but things sound a bit better in the morning with most of the bad weather staying north.  So I leave early for the ride start as it is quite a drive for me.   I am looking forward to the ride.   It has been awhile since I have ridden these roads.  Since I am playing with centuries this year, I am trying to vary the ride starts so it is not always a long drive for the same people, but when I think about it the participation has mostly been varied this year.  And today is no different.  There are five of us that are going to ride, and only three of us have done a century this year.  Tom Askew, Larry Preble, Gail Blevins, Trey (last name unknown), and I head out into the cool of the morning well aware that it will not last and is supposed to get into the ninties.

At first I think that the group will split early into two groups because of the different ability/fitness levels, but it turns out to be one of those special days when everyone seems content to ride together and enjoy each other's company.  There seems to be no rush to get anywhere or to finish.  We proceed not at a break neck pace, but we aren't crawling along either. People  talk to each other for a bit, then talk to someone else in the group, and when the group does split a bit on a hill or when someone is feeling their oats, they  stop and allow the others to catch up and regroup.  

 

I love these types of rides, the rides where there is just the company, the scenery, the challenges, and the bicycles.  The type of ride where nobody is in a hurry, where everyone seems to know that no matter their level of expertise of fitness, what is important is the overall experience of the ride:  the sound of conversation, some serious, some frivolous, the sound of laughter, the sound of wheels turning, the look of smiles on faces, the startling greenness and lushness that surrounds us, the feel of the wind caressing our faces,  the wonder of being alive and being on a bicycle.  I hold these things close, treasure them, memorize them, hoping to use them as a shield when the day comes when I can no longer participate.   As Agassi says, I am gaining from this ride, but the appreciation also comes from knowing what I, and the others, will eventually lose.  I send up a silent prayer pleading not yet, not soon, well aware of my selfishness for I have been given so much.  How grateful I am for this day and these riders.  How cognizant I am that these types of rides can't be forced.  They either happen or they don't.

Despite the temperature being in the nineties, the  cloud cover and wind make it seem like it really is not overly hot.  Even the long climb into Frankfort, not steep but long, does not seem overly demanding.  The only disappointment is, upon arriving at Qdoba, the traditional lunch stop for the Short Frankfort, they are not open due to staffing issues.  We eat, instead, at Panera where Gail keeps everyone in stitches throughout the meal.  I don't know if she realizes how funny she is, but everyone is giggling and enjoying themselves.  Larry takes photos.  As for me, I try to make an image to retain in my mind.   I try to memorize the sounds of their laughter, the timbre of their voices, the ways their  lips curve when they smile.  And I know, despite the fact nothing unusual has happened, that I will remember this day and this ride.  

Perhaps if all rides were like this, they would not be so special.  They would become ordinary...mundane...repetitive.  But most rides are not like this, not with the differing levels of ability.  Like everyone else, I have days when I want to ride  hard, to feel my lungs heave and gasp for oxygen, to feel my muscles burn, and other days when I want to poke along at a snail pace, stop and take photos, lollygag.  But for now I am glad for this day, for these people, and for bicycles.  It is practically guaranteed that I will, eventually, lose contact with most if not all of them.  I have watched it happen before.  It seems a lot to lose. The thought makes my heart ache,  but oh, how much I have gained from this day.  And I am grateful:  grateful for the laughter, for the camaraderie, for our health, and this gray day that sheltered us from heat that could easily have stolen the laughter and turned it into curses.  Once again I am grateful for bicycles.