Solo Hardinsburg: Spring 2023

There is no doubt that solitude

is a challenge and to maintain balance

within it is a precarious business.  But I 

must not forget that, for me, being with 

people or even one beloved person for

any length of time without solitude is even

worse.  I lose my center.  I feel dispersed, scattered

and in pieces.  I must have time alone to 

mull over my encounter, and to extract its 

juice, its essence, to understand what has 

really happened to me as a consequence of it."

May Sarton

I wake up and decide it is time to ride my traditional spring century to Hardinsburg and Little Twirl despite the chill of the morning and a tough 62 mile ride the day before.  What is the use of being retired if one always has to plan things?  Just gather your things and go if you so desire.  Life awaits.  And one never quite knows for sure where your bicycle may lead you.  I realize that I desire.....I really desire to ride.   It has been a while since I have indulged myself with a solitary century.  It has been awhile since I have had the desire to do so. I meet the desire with open arms welcoming it back and hoping it settles down and stays.

The centuries I have put together mostly fall into two categories:  those whose goal is a destination and those whose goal is scenery.  Hardinsburg used to have both when the Mennonite Store was open.   Big, fat sandwiches on fresh, homemade bread.  An oasis that was rather in the middle of nowhere which may be why it closed.  

 

 

This left Little Twirl, a constant since I put the route together though it now closes for the winter months, something that it did not used to do.  Don't get me wrong.  I am fond of Little Twirl and it will always hold a special place in my heart.  I still grin thinking of Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish spinning around in the parking lot, index finger pointing downward and touching his skull, spinning like a ballerina, giving it a "little twirl." I remember the first group I brought this way, back when Sparky used to ride and kept me in stitches. So many memories. And their food is not terrible.  But it does not replace the lost sandwiches on homemade bread or the memories that store holds.  As I have said so many times, everything changes.  

 

I have always thought the Hardinsburg route was scenic, at least when your mind was not grayed out from lack of oxygen;-)  It has a nice blend of farm land and forest land.  It passes some of the Amish homes that sometimes have something interesting or different going on.  And it is low traffic.  Not once on this route has anyone threatened me in or out of a vehicle.   Sometimes I can ride for a half hour or hour without one car passing me or without seeing another person. 

Still, I also know that despite only having about 4,800 feet of climbing, it always leaves me rather drained.  There are, I suppose, two major climbs, or major for this area.  But there are rollers everywhere.  There is very little in the way of flats once you get out past Pekin and the flat Blue River Road section of the course until a few miles from the end.  Shorts Corner is such a pesky little road.  No major climbs, but it doesn't let you forget that it rolls.  And a steep but rather short climb that the Garmin registers as eighteen percent near Hardinsburg.  Is that major? 

 

 I laugh thinking of how I would hate it when people would call about one of my rides and ask, "Is it hilly?" because hilly to one is not to another.  Heck, now that I am older, what I considered not hilly seems mountainous at times.  Fitness, age, bike, other factors all play into the answer I guess. I remember one time, on a different century, we crossed an overpass that was not particularly steep but has a bit of a bump as most overpasses do and a new riders asking me if there were any more climbs like that on the course.  Leota Hill loomed ahead, a mountain compared to that bump in the road.  If I remember correctly, he bailed at the lunch stop....but that has been so long ago and the rider was not one that ever became near and dear to me so I am not for sure. 

On the ride I find that some farmers have not yet gotten around to spraying their fields so I am treated to large tracts of yellow flowers, so cheerful.  I used to believe they were wild mustard, but Duc told me differently.  Try as I might, I can't remember what he said they were.  Regardless, weed or no weed, they are a delight to the eye if not to the sinuses and I am in no rush today.  Probably a good thing as I have gotten as slow as molasses in January.  I do pass a few farm vehicles making use of the unusually dry weather.  But it is still too cold to do much.  When it is a large vehicle and  on a narrow road, I just stop and pull off to let him/her by hoping to engender good will and for the sake of safety. 

As I near the road that leads to Little Twirl, I think, as I always do on this section of road, of Steve Sexton.  I will never forget the cold December he and I rode this stretch together.  The others had pulled ahead.  I suspect he stayed back with me, not to witness the wind teaching me a lesson, which it did that day, but out of kindness.  Winter sometimes seems to leach the kindness out of us all.  We enjoy riding, but we also want to get it done and get somewhere to warm our bones.  Conflicted feelings I suppose.  I remember another time when a rider I did not know showed for a winter Hardinsburg and how he was averaging nine or ten mph and how I worried he would cause the whole group to get in after dark had fallen.  I tried to cut him loose and give him a short cut home.  He would not listen.  I left him but swept him in later with my car.  

After a small lunch at Little Twirl, the wind is, for a time, my friend.  It was supposed to shift to the west but stayed out of the south. Either will help me on my way home until the last mile or so.   I am not putting much effort into my pedaling, but my speed does not reflect that fact.  More memories pop up.   As I descend the huge hill on Cox Ferry, I think of the time a deer ran right next to me as I descended and my fear that she would veer out onto the road for the steepness combined with my speed made stopping almost an impossibility.  I remember the road crew betting on if I could climb that hill when I first came that way which made me decide to climb it or fall over trying.  I remember Paul Battle, after the descent, looking at me with concern in his eyes and saying, "You don't ride out here by yourself, do you?"  He didn't understand that I feel safer out here than I will ever feel in a city, but the fact that he worried about it touched me.  

Soon I am faced with the worst climb of the day.  It is one of those hills that you think you are doing fine on until you realize it gets steeper toward the top.  But I climb it with no issues.  Perhaps it is larger in my head than it is in reality?  Or perhaps because there is nobody with me to watch my slowness.  I can just take my time without worrying that someone is having to wait for me.   

 

It makes me think of how differently people ride.  Over the years I have found riding companions are different.  Some, like Steve Rice and Bill Pustow, would mostly stay with me and we would talk and share ideas and thoughts.  Bill always had an interesting book he was reading that he would fill me in on. Others, like Jon, like to ride ahead, each of us sharing the course and stops, but other than occasional interludes, riding our own ride. 

 

 I pop in to the Red Barn for my last store stop.  Amos is talking with someone but they leave when I arrive.  I notice his hair is graying as,  of course, is my own.   He talks about his daughter who is a service member and her new baby and I enjoy a bit of conversation before heading toward home and one of my favorite roads.  Low to little traffic, a canopy of trees in many places, and just scenic.

 

 I pass an Amish home where there are three small children outside, the youngest seeming to be about 18 months.  I grin from ear to ear watching her desperately but determinedly trying to keep up with the others dressed with her little bonnet on her head.  In the yard nearby graze two ponies with short, stubby legs and bellies so large they appear to be near to dragging the ground.  I come upon the mother, working in the yard cutting the grass with a non-motorized push mower.  And then I am isolated once more not passing another person or car for miles, able to enjoy the greenness that has drenched the forest.  

I reach home quite tired and quite glad to be there, fully saturated with the day, the sunshine, and the alone time that I still need despite living alone.  Soon I will be craving company, but with the weather becoming more conducive to riding I know that lies ahead shortly.  And in some ways, perhaps, I was not alone today.  The ghosts of cherished, loved friends were with me as I relived memories.  Some ride.  Some no longer ride.  But today, for just a bit, they were by my side.   I was glad to be alive and on a bicycle with no constraints on my time, able to look at where I have come from, where I am now, and where I am going.  Just me, my bike, and the road.  I am blessed.