Yellowstone: A Different Kind of Journey

"Sensitive people feel so deeply they

often have to retreat from the world,

in order to dig beneath the layers of pain

to find their faith and courage."

Shannon Alder

 

I am worried that I will not be able to go on my planned vacation to Yellowstone with my daughter for I have been ill.  Fever and an attack on my lungs by some passing virus that thought I needed a spanking.  COVID tests negative.  But my fever breaks and while I am far from recovered, I am able to go and to not worry about infecting her or other passengers.  I have never been to this park and it gives me a chance to spend time with the woman I birthed all those years ago and to familiarize myself a bit more deeply with who she has become.  

 

When children are little, we know almost everything there is to know about them....when they wake up, what they eat, who their friends are, how they spend their time.  But that little slice of time does not last long, nor should it.  They grow, they change, they become.  As a parent, this means loss, but it also means pride....pride that she is self-sufficient and no longer needs me to ensure her survival, pride in her accomplishments, pride in decisions she made. 

 

I need this break for I have struggled since the loss of my brother, even thinking sometimes about just leaving this world so I don't have to lose any more people or pets that I have known or cared about.  I am weary of loss. I find myself withdrawing from friends a bit, pushing them away and keeping them at arms length, not really wanting to care about them, to run that risk of future pain. Never seriously suicidal because I know the damage that is left behind and because I have responsibilities and because God has blessed me by not allowing me to sink so low that there seems to be no other way out.  There are, after all,  cats that need to be taken care of and a few people who would grieve my passing.  There are grandchildren to be hugged and to be proud of.  And there are children who, while they no longer really need me on one level, will continue to need me on another.  And there is my new bicycle that has not yet arrived but which I eagerly anticipate.

 

Of course, the pool of those who give a damn is getting smaller.  Both best friends from high school are now gone.  All my family other than children and grandchildren are gone. I find myself sympathizing with Job, praying please don't let me lose what little is left. It is not impossible to leave these worries behind.  But there are parental responsibilities.  We never stop trying to role model appropriate behavior I suppose.  We never stop worrying about their well-being. And again, there are cats to be fed as they have no hesitancy in reminding me in the morning when I try to sleep in a bit. People say I am strong.  They don't know the cowering, shivering individual inside.  They see the shell that moves stoically forward and talks using intellect rather than emotion.  But while we may know something with our minds, emotions don't always mirror that knowing taking us in different directions.  

 

There is also  the realization that if genetics holds true, I probably have about 10 years or less before I join my siblings and friends.  Unless I am like my mother who lived to almost 100.  While we try to fool ourselves, human life, all life, is so darned fragile. 10  years does not seem like very long. But that is, I suppose, the thing.  If that is what is left it is so important to enjoy and make the most of it, to squeeze every little bit of pleasure out of life wringing it dry.   I just hope that when it is my time, I am fortunate enough to leave quickly, not lingering in one of the death warehouses that we call nursing homes. 

 

I don't mean to be critical of those that work in nursing homes.  They do what they can, often selflessly for little pay, but having witnessed them with my mother and sister, I do not care to be in one.  There is such a thing as living too long I guess.  One reason I try so hard to take care of myself is the desire to live on my own and be capable of caring for myself as long as is possible.  I detest being dependent, and I don't trust it. I have heard the begging and pleading in the voices of my elders, felt it seep deep inside me kindling a fear I had not known before. But I must look forward or be turned to salt I suppose.

We meet at the airport, both of us excited about going someplace new.  And our flight is on time, something that no longer happens with the regularity of the past.  Once in Bozeman, there is a long wait for the rental car, but then we are on our way.  (I was supposed to get a Ford Fiesta but they give me a Mustang.) We run to Walmart to pick up some groceries, and head for Yellowstone to check into our cabin. Travel and still not being completely well has depleted me and I will be glad to check in. 

The scenery is lovely, so different from home.  We drive through a long valley for what seems like forever before reaching Gardner and entering the park.  The drive from the entrance to Mammoth Hot Springs seems like forever despite being on three to four miles, but the curves need to be taken slowly.  We arrive and check in.  This cabin will be ours for four nights.  Female and younger elks are grazing nearby.  We cautiously make our way to the cabin door and put our things away before going to explore.  While out, I see two cyclists, bicycles loaded, enjoying a brief stop before heading onward to wherever they are heading.  I am briefly envious, but so glad to have the time with my daughter.

 

We get up early each morning and drive to different places.  Once to Old Faithful, once to Lamar Valley, once to Fairy Falls.  We hike.  We talk.  We soak up the beauty.  And we laugh.  It is so nice to laugh together.  We laugh at the call of 24, an older bull elk, as he proclaims that these females are his.  Once he is right outside our cabin and the sound is as loud as if he has joined us.  We rush to the windows.  I don't see him but my daughter catches a glimpse as he charges around the corner of another cabin.  We laugh the next day at how a young elk still needs and wants his mama despite the fact his legs have grown to where nursing is a chore. We laugh on a hike at a ground squirrel and how his tail disappears as he enters his burrow.  We laugh at his caution in emerging and then his cheekiness in trying to join us once he smelled our food. And each laugh is a breath of life, a reason to endure. 

 

We see a fox, a coyote, buffaloes, a raven, and other wildlife.  We experience Old Faithful. We hike and we ride and we just enjoy the newness and each other. The only real issue is the food.  Unlike the Shenandoah Park the food pretty much sucks though my daughter had a few vegetarian meals that she thought were okay. 

The trip home comes all too quickly.  I treasure the time we had together, this child who once was inside of me, totally dependent, but now stands on her own two feet and who is kind to me, patient when I forget something or get confused or anxious or sad.  I treasure this child who shared laughter with me helping me heal. This time was not about bicycles, but about family, about finding the strength to move on, and perhaps realizing that I am not quite as alone as I thought that perhaps I was and that perhaps I matter.  The child who was part of helping me find once more, if only for a bit, faith and courage to move onward as I shuffle through the different blows that have been dealt to me in such an amazingly short period of time.  

So, to friends that have noticed me backing off,  I am sorry.  I am just trying to find my balance on the shifting sands beneath me and to reconcile recent happenings.  It is not you.  It is me.  But this time away hopefully helped.  And being with you, despite my pushing hard against the love I have for you, will hopefully help.  And bicycles, bicycles and the freedom they bestow, will hopefully help.  And eventually, perchance, I will heal, though possibly not as I was, who I was, before.  Eventually a scab will form and despite my weakness, I will put one foot in front of the other and move forward until moving forward is no longer a choice and the time has come to rest. 

Steve Montgomery's Lexington LeRoy Century

"God give me hills to climb,

And strength for climbing!"

Arthur Guitermen 

 

It is going to be a great day for a ride.  The weather has turned unseasonable cool,  the skies are overcast, but it is still warm enough for just shorts and a jersey.  The course is one I have not ridden for a few years, a course I  put together in honor of an old friend, Steve Montgomery, who wanted a ride that went through Bethlehem but where lunch was at LeRoy's in Lexington.  Unfortunately, he no longer rides, but  this route will always bring him back to my mind. Of course, that was back when LeRoy still owned LeRoy's.  Now it is owned by others and, unfortunately, has changed.  LeRoy and Bernice kept the store neat as a pin.  The new owners,  not so much.   Indeed, I debated putting this century on because of the changes, but decided it would be okay.  I have done too much curb side dining to be too particular.  If you are going to ride, you have to eat.

 

And so, off I go to the ride start.  I know two are coming, but I also know it will be a small crowd.  It is not a tour stage and only the tour stages draw large crowds of riders. In some ways, I prefer that.  It is rather nice when people take a bit of time on a century to talk and tend to stay together at least part of the time. I smile inwardly thinking of Lynn Roberts and his words after a century where we went less than 14.  At the end he said something to the effect that he did not know you could do a century and still feel so good at the end.  Pace and route, do matter.  As I remember it, that route was a medium in difficulty but it was a long time ago and that route went defunct as the middle store stop went out of business.  Today's route a bit more challenging hill wise.

 

"To everything there is a season." (Ecclesiastes).  There are times to ride hard and times to ride at an easy  pace.  I smile when Mike "Sparky" Pitt comes to mind remembering him talking about a pace line on a ride and telling me there was nobody's butt he wanted to look at that long.  With the challenging hills, I hope for a moderate pace:  not snail like but also not where I feel like dying at the end.  And it happens.  There are hills, wonderful for training and for the scenery they bestow, and for today I have the strength to climb  despite issuing a disclaimer at the start that there was one I just might end up walking.  

 

Those who are coming are capable riders and are not whiners.  (They leave that for me;-)  Chris Quirey also shows, and I know he also is strong and competent.  It is a nice mix with two extremely strong climbers and two of us who are more moderate in our pace.  There is Jon Wineland, Steve Meredith, Chris Quirey, and myself.  Yet neither of the two stronger riders are the kind who are impatient riding a bit more slowly than is their norm or uncomfortable with going ahead.  One problem I have run across as an older, slower ride captain is that some people feel they must stay back with me despite my assurances that I am fine and they should go ahead.  This can be miserable for both as I try to go faster than I should so as not to be a burden and they go slower than they want to go or are comfortable going, particularly if they have somewhere to be after the ride.  

 

This is really not a good course for a first century for most people. (says she who did the Old Kentucky Home 102 Time Trial as her first century;-)  The store stops are oddly spaced and it is quite hilly, particularly the last third of the course with the climb out of Bethlehem and the climb into Charlestown on Tunnel Mill and then all the short, steep climbs back to Henryville that seem unrelenting to tired legs. Today this concern is not an issue.  Yes, anyone can have an issue, mechanical or physical, that impairs their ability to finish, particularly in the heat of summer,  but barring anything unforeseen and unpreventable, it won't be this strong group who are all seasoned.

 

The first climb in a moderate one up Liberty Knob and then it is off to Flatwood.  The irony of the name does not escape me, for Flatwood has quite a nice little climb on it, but I do love the road though hate it that a house or two have gone up that block what was  once a wonderful view.   Everyone seems to be content to be out here, on their bikes, taking in the green while it is still here and, in places, vibrant.  Indeed I am shocked a bit further on the ride when I note a corn field that is ready for harvesting, stalks and leaves withered and brown, some ears facing downward.  I then notice some of the soybean fields are browning around the edges.  But most or the corn or soybeans still are far from being ripe for the harvest.  I know what is coming:  fall. 

As always, fall will be beautiful.  As always, my legs, despite still being strong, will push the pedals slower and slower.  Speed will being to be too much of an effort despite the cooler temperatures.  There will be chilly mornings and warmer afternoons.  Jackets, arm warmers, and leg warmers will begin to appear.  I will pull out my work gloves to put over my short finger gloves.  But not yet.  Soon, but not yet.  I think that I wish it is a beautiful fall.  Still rather morbid from all the loss, I realize that every season could be last and I want to soak them up inside my heart.  I have been so privileged to experience so many seasons and so many personalities on the bike.  I don't take this lightly or without being grateful. This year the retired group has had most of their rides on Wednesdays, which often don't work well for me, but I am grateful for the days I could participate.

After the first store stop we continue to Lexington where we sit outside at a picnic table eating our lunches.  Flies and yellow jackets abound,  but we remain outside despite their constant interference.  A few jokes and stories are told, and then it is back on the bike heading toward Bethlehem and the worst of the climbs.  I find that neither Chris nor Steve have climbed out of Bethlehem in this direction.  Jon thinks it is the hardest way to climb out.  I think I agree.  I grin thinking of Paul on an earlier ride this year where we climbed out the way we normally enter.  He griped the entire way yet never faltered in pushing the pedals.  As  I pointed out to him, when a group of us did the Bethlehem Century in the spring, a group of young men were at the top of the climb resting from their exertions.  Paul and Mike, in their seventies, did not rest nor did the rest of us, all in our sixties I believe.  Before my world crashed yet again.  Before  I struggled back onto my knees trying to stand once again.

We descend the hill into Bethlehem that we  normally climb out on and I realize I forgot to warn Chris that the road the route is plotted on was taken over by the quarry and a new road was built a few years ago.  Google Maps just has not yet caught up with the changes.  Sure enough, I come upon Jon stopped waiting for Chris.  I text him to head back this way and shortly thereafter here he comes. I  get to the new turn just in time to see Steve riding off in the wrong direction.  He hears me and turns around, and we are together until the climb when Jon and Chris leave us as if we are standing still.  But I do not walk.  Nobody walks.  And I realize the coolers temperatures have made the climb much easier than  it normally seems.  Still, it is not the last climb.  There will be Tunnel Mill and then a series of short but constant climbs between Charlestown and Henryville.

Still, while my legs are complaining at the demands I have placed upon them, they are not screaming at me to stop.  And I know that they grow stronger, hopefully strong enough to last the fall riding season before I largely place the bike aside in order to hike.   Jon and Chris are in the parking lot when Steve and I pull in and the ride is complete, somewhere between 104 and 105 miles at a pleasant pace.  I am tired, but not exhausted.  Perhaps, tonight, sadness will not haunt me as I continue to climb away from grief and self pity.  Truly, I am blessed.  Blessed with friends, blessed with health, blessed with bicycles.  God, help me to count my blessings and not my deficits.