Campbellsburg Century in 2024

An Evening Bike Ride

by Gary L. Misch

Race toward the mountains,

Peddle through redbud alley,

Chase the blood red sky. 

The weather is to be nice on Saturday and I need to prepare.  Dave and I are, yet again, returning to Scotland, this time to ride across her beauty from east coast to west.  I feel relatively certain this will be my last trip there, but one never knows. Still, I intend to savor every moment and to do that, I have to whip this old body into some semblance of being in shape.  I have no intention of going all that way and then riding in the van rather than on my bicycle.  And so I put the Campbellsburg Century on the club calendar.  It is good to have some motivation to get out of the winter doldrums.

This was the first century that I ever designed and it was designed in bits and pieces, before GPS, without maps.  I would ride and mark turns with sidewalk chalk, searching for stores,  cobbling them together until they became a route I liked.  This would have been 2004.  Not only was it the first century I designed, but it was the first century I captained for the bicycle club.  But I have not had it on the ride schedule for a few years.  I knew it had some hard climbs, but I had forgotten how hard.  It is like looking back on long brevets and asking myself how in the world I did that. 

It is a small crowd just as I expected.  I suppose it should bother me, but it really doesn't.  There is a time and a place for such rides, and today is, hopefully, such a day. I rode this century alone when I first put it together and I have ridden it alone many times since.  It will be nice to have company, but if nobody shows I will make do.  At first I believe it will just be Jon and me, but I get a text from Dave that he is coming but running late.  We head on leaving him a cue sheet on the windshield.  I know he will catch us. 

On Eden Road, I begin to see the first of the dogwoods and I know spring is partially gone, stolen by my refusal to go out into the stormy, wet, windy, cold weather we have had recently.  Sure enough, the redbud trees, my favorites, while still retaining some muted color, have scattered petals along the roadside as if a marriage has taken place prior to our arrival.  It always saddens me a bit, this shedding of the redbud trees, despite the fact I know other flowers will now begin waving from the roadside, that the dogwoods will whiten and be around for a bit,  and that the trees are greening though not yet fully leafed out.  

I think about the cataract surgery I have elected to put off until the fall.  Everyone tells me that colors really pop afterwards, and I pray that I live to see another spring.  I have no reason to expect that I won't, but life has taught me that our time is limited.  I must admit, I am afraid of the surgery but of course I will do it anyway.  Watching mom's macular degeneration gave me more insight into the value of eyesight, even dimming eyesight, and while the risk of losing sight from the surgery is almost ridiculously low, it still worries me.  I shake it off, however.  Today is for enjoying company and the ride.  

Jon and I chat a bit to the first store stop.  At the large hill leading up to the Red Barn, he asks if this is the big  hill I had told him about it.  I tell him no.  It is a hill, and it is a tough hill, but it is not "THE HILL."  I explain to him that there will even be foreshadowing, that we will be riding along on a fairly flat road for a number of miles next to farm fields, and then we will see where the trees begin to hang over the road, branches like tentacles waiting to ensnare,  and a dark shadow will arc across the ground:  the start of the climb.  

Dave catches us when we reach the first store stop.   As we park our bikes, I notice a couple of robin eggs on the picnic table and wonder if Amos cleaned out a robin's nest from over his porch overhang, but I see no sign of mud or a nest up there.  Amos tells me there were those eggs plus a few others in the parking lot one morning.  He said that a man who watched the solar eclipse in his parking lot told him that the eclipse caused birds to lose eggs, but Amos points out if this had happened the eggs would have broken.  So the robin's eggs in the middle of a gravel parking lot are a mystery.  I later google it and learn that the eggs probably were either infertile and dumped by the parents or that they were stolen by a crow or bluejay who dropped them when being pursued by a pissed off parent, but neither of those explanations explain why the eggs are not cracked.  

Dave regains the energy he expended catching Jon and I as only the young can, and we are soon on our way.  Before you know it, we confront the "HILL" on Cox Ferry.  I remember my first time up that hill and how the construction workers bet I could not ride up it.  I remember descending the hill one time when a mother and her fawn ran parallel to the road and how I worried they would dart out as I didn't and still don't know if my brakes would fully stop me on such a steep descent.  I think about walking, but scramble up.  Dave admits to the same thoughts but also scrambles up.  Even Jon, an excellent climber, is  panting deeply, something I rarely see but then I rarely make it up a hill before him so perhaps that is it.  Both Dave and he had stopped to lighten their loads giving me a head start.  

Dave tells me his GPS kept jumping from 24 to 26 percent, and we laugh about this, particularly as I keep making it steeper and steeper. You said 28 percent grade right?  I am glad it is behind us, but I am glad I was still able to climb it.  I think briefly of all the times riders have had to walk that hill and am grateful to my legs for their strength and determination.  A bit after this, a woman becomes enraged that we are on her road, giving us the finger from inside the truck with her right hand and then with her left  hand outside the truck.  None of us have any idea why she is so angry.  There was no car to block her passing or slow her down.  But regardless, she is.  Instead of allowing it to dampen our spirits, however, we just laugh it off.  Jon begins making jokes about her being ambidextrous. People do seem to hate cyclists, though I must say I see surprisingly little of this on the country roads that I normally cling to. Indeed, many people are interested and kind and bid me to be careful on my travels.

 

It is then that the wind seems to be seriously slapping us around.  I think how glad I am that we should have it mostly at our backs after lunch.  Lunch is at Little Twirl since the Mennonite store closed and I am elated when we arrive.  Jon and Dave get shakes with their meal, but I get a child's ice cream cone which is plenty.  Despite it still being a bit chilly, we outside in the sun at a picnic table.  

The ride homeward after lunch is delightful with the wind pushing us along so that we need barely pedal.  We earned this, this feeling of flying with little effort, and I intend to suck every last bit of joy from it.  The worst of the climbing is behind us and I am glad.  My legs, while better than during last weeks century at that mileage, still tell me that I am being a bitch asking this of them.  I don't cramp though, as I did at the end of BMB.  I NEVER used to cramp, and if I did it was normally on the drive home after a long ride or in bed that night.  This seems to be changing, however, and it worries me a bit, this along with the knee pain I am starting to have.  I know we wear out, that I will wear out, but I am not resigned to wearing out even while I accept it as a fact. 

 

We quickly reach the Cheddar Depot. I am surprised at the changes and decide I probably need to find another store stop, but not today. We sit on the front porch taking some nourishment before heading onward, soaking up the last of the sunlight.

After the ride ends, we all go out to dinner together.  Being single and living alone, it is nice to have human company and laughter for an evening meal.  The perfect cap on the day before we part ways knowing/hoping we will meet again on another ride.  Life is good when it holds bicycles, friends, hard hills, and redbud trees in it. 

Easter Ride 2024

"Spring drew on...and a greenness

grew over those brown beds, which, 

freshening daily, suggested the thought

that Hope traversed them at night, and

left each morning brighter traces of 

her steps."

Charlotte Bronte

As always, there is something about spring that makes me glad to be alive, to have survived another of winter of dark and dreary cold, and come out of on the other side.   I give a prayer of thanksgiving to God that he has let my eyes feast on yet another spring.  Today's ride, an unexpected gift on a day predicted to be rainy and stormy.  Instead, the sun bursts through the clouds and the sky is as blue as my granddaughter's eyes, and I suppose, as innocent.  Perhaps the greatest gift is that the wind is mild and not the strong, bossy, punishing wind of recent rides.  

I decide to take the Calfee, my new bike, rather than my old, dependable Lynskey.  I don't trust the Calfee yet, not in the way I trust the  Lynskey, and I spend part of the ride trying to decide why.  Don't get me wrong....I absolutely adore my new Calfee, particularly the electronic shifting.  The ride is smooth as silk.  It is a beauty with remarkable craftsmanship evident from stem to stern.  I think the only thing I might change in a do over is the disc brakes:  they seem rather an overkill and are still rather unfamiliar to me and what they mean for tire changing, etc.  

 

But I still love my Lynskey, the way it takes abuse without complaining, the triple that has gone out of style rather than a compact double though it was always rare for me to use the smaller chain ring.  I got the Lynskey right before the 2011 PBP and it has served me well.  I intend for it to be my go to bike during bad weather.  In the end, I think it is because the Lynskey has proven itself that makes me comfortable.  We have a relationship.  So many memories. The Calfee and I will have to spend time together to make that happen.  And with the spring, there is hope that there will be time.  

I worry about my mind going anymore, the way I struggle sometimes to recall things, to pronounce things, to draw the words from my mind to mouth.  I have no diagnosis, but I worry about dementia or Alzheimer's and how I will handle it if it becomes reality because, in this country, you don't have choices as you do in some other places.  But this day is for appreciation, for celebration of another spring, a day and season for HOPE. And so I thrust the negative thoughts behind me as forcefully as possible, leaving them on the road as can only happen on a delightful spring day on a bicycle. 

It always amazes me how quickly spring arrives.  I don't mean that the winter is short, but that once spring decides it is time, how quickly green commandeers the brown and gray of winter.  As I ride, fields are alive with purple deadnettle.  Soon the farmers will spray and till it into submission, but for now it is dominant and absolutely gorgeous.  It brings a memory back of pulling it in the garden to plant and a bee getting angry with me.  It flew into my hair getting caught in the strands and I ran indoors, screaming.  My husband took the sting in his hand pulling it free. How often he saved me pain.  Always the protector.  How I miss that. 

 

I decide to head toward Henryville for, despite the sun, there are predictions for afternoon thunder storms.   The daffodils still brighten the landscape, painting the roadsides yellow, though they are fading. I love  how they stare winter down, daring her to do her worst, how they laugh at the strong spring winds, dancing and showing how those that are flexible survive hardships thrust upon them better than those that are rigid.   

 

I pass Helen Trueblood's, her yard alive with color, and regret that, with her passing, these flowers will not be cherished and cared for as they were while she graced this earth.  But I also remember how you can almost always tell an old homestead, despite the house being dilapidated or gone, bones sagging with age, by the daffodils that someone once planted.  During a hike on the Knobstone, Chris and I found an old well he was looking for that way.    The house was long gone, but the daffodils remain.  The words of a Leann Womack song come to mind, "And that's something, something worth leaving behind."  The name of the artist long forgotten, but the beauty remains, a reminder that actions, perhaps, last longer in preserving our bit of time here. 

 

The wheels continue to roll as I decide what roads to take and pick a few I don't normally ride.  I think how we tend to become slaves to routes as we become familiar with an area, maybe because of terrain, maybe because a bad dog lives on a certain road, maybe just because.  I decide to ride past my mother-in-law's old house.  So many memories there, some my own some shared by  my husband while he was still alive.  

 

The sky begins to darken and I decide it is best to head homewards despite being reluctant to give up this precious time on the bike on a day that was predicted to be stormy and rainy.  The day, instead was an Easter gift, and Easter is, I suppose, like spring, about hope.  And despite the ride ending, I smile.  

 

 

 

 

A Shitty Day;-) LIterally Speaking That Is

"You just have to learn how

to fall down and get back up again.

You just have to keep going."

Maggie Siff

 

It has been quite some time since I have done a century.  Since I no longer count miles or how many years I do a century outside each month of the year, it is hard to tell.  Counting ended when the Big Dog site went down without warning a number of years ago. I don't remember the exact number of months that I had ridden an outside century, but it was somewhere in the realm of over twelve years.  I stopped not because data was lost, but because someone fell asleep while driving and came into my lane hitting my car with their car. I was hurt. Still, when that data was lost, I realized the futility of keeping track.  What does it matter?  We get older.  We get slower.  Most of us get fewer miles.  The true question is, do we still enjoy the miles?  That, I suppose, is what is important.

 

Age has, without a doubt, affected my memory.  I "think" it was  November when I last did a century, but it could have been October or December. I do know I have not been outside on a bicycle all January though I have done a few trainer miles on Zwift.  Mostly I have been hiking or doing Pilates or Tabata pump classes.   But I decide that I want to try a century, an easy century without much climbing, but a century just to see what happens.  Jon says he is interested and the die is cast.

 

There is a Mad Dog Century on Saturday, but I have no interest in it because it is a city course.  There are only so many centuries left in these legs, and I don't want to waste them on such a course.   Besides, it is supposed to rain on Saturday and may be canceled.   Friday, however,  appears to have little chance of rain and to be relatively warm at the start for this time of year. And since I am retired, Friday works.  I decide on Dave Fleming's century course over Medora because of concerns that Medora may be flooded.  I warn Jon that I will be riding conservatively and reserve the right to turn around if I am tired and think finishing will be a chore.  It is an impediment, the difference in our paces, causing him to ride slower than he likes and me to ride faster than I like at times.  But I mean it when I say I will be riding conservatively. 

I know I will be sorry when our rides together end just as I rue the day my riding ends period.  But I know the end of last year it had become a strain, the feeling that I was too slow, stealing the enjoyment of the ride and the miles from both of us.   When that happens, it becomes better to ride alone, without the demands, imaginary or real.  But as with other lost riding companions, it will tear my heart a bit.  So many lost companions over the year though for many different reasons:  Sparky....Bill.....Steve R......the other Steve R......Greg Z.....Joe C.....Steve S.....Bill P......Lynn R......and on and on and on.  

I turn my back on the thought of losses just as I intend to thumb my nose at the continuing grayness of the skies.  Day  after day with little to no sun.  Often rainy.  Or snowy.  Or cold.   "Godchidden" comes to mind, a phrase from a poem I read once...perhaps Thomas Hardy?

 

As I pack to leave for the ride start, I realize I need to go back over the list in my mind to be sure I have what I need to be comfortable.  All too well I remember a previous ride and riding back from today's third store stop inadequately clothed and, therefore, cold and thoroughly miserable.  I decide on a rain jacket despite the fact they are not calling for rain throughout the day, a decision I will be glad of for we do get some sprinkles though never any serious rain.  I don and discard a wool jersey, but do keep a wool base layer adding a regular jersey and vest.  I know  my hands will be warm enough with the bar mitts, but I throw in the new shoe covers my son got me for Christmas.  I also pack a light extra layer in a light backpack that I will wear just in case. 

Because it is winter, I throw a light on the bike as dusk falls early this time of year and head out to meet Jon at the start.  We are scheduled to leave at 8:00.  Despite getting behind school buses on a couple of occasions and having trouble putting on the new shoe covers, we leave at eight.  The first few roads are heavily trafficked with those heading to work and I am glad I turned my blinker on for a gray light cloaks the world.  Per the weather man, the sun is not supposed to shine today.

But once we are out the city, despite the occasional misting and the lack of sun, I find the beauty in the bare fields, brown and forlorn.  How patient they  are, imperturbable in their waiting, knowing there will, indeed, be a resurrection.  There is an allure in tenacity. As they often do, lines from Adrienne Rich come to mind, when she speaks of the "humble tenacity of things." 

 

 And it is while I am thinking such silly thoughts that it happens.  My front wheel leaves the road and, like a rookie, I over correct trying to regain pavement.  No, I don't fall in the water filled ditch on my right side.  I fall onto the pavement, tipping sideways, hitting head first.  Jon was ahead but hears me and turns around asking if I am okay.  And I think I am thanks to the helmet.  The foam is cracked a bit, and my rib and side feel painful, though not as painful as when I broke ribs in Texas, and I know I have a bit of road rash on my knee.  (I later find a bit elsewhere).  But  I am, indeed, blessed.  I can ride.   I check myself for what I know of concussions and seem to have no symptoms.

And so I decide to continue.  Imagine my surprise, when shortly down the road, a bird takes a dump on me hitting my glasses, my face, and my jacket.  The irony of it hits me immediately, but I desperately begin trying to find a way to clean myself.  Fortunately I find a wipe and Jon has hand sanitizer.  I tell him it is the first time I have used hand sanitizer on my face. Well, in all honesty, I can now say I have had a shitty day;-)

 

As I ride I think of my husband saying to me, shortly before he died, that while he didn't know if he could, if he is able he would take care of me.  Between God and him, they did a pretty good job today, better than I deserve.   

We eat and finish without a third store stop.  The pace is slow and I am hurting pretty good at the end, my big concern being that the aches has extended to include my neck and shoulders.  Remembering my head bouncing, I wonder if I have whip lash.   Having had it once before and remembering how painful it was and how long lasting, I am frightened.  Jon suggests that it might just be from riding and being on a bike so long when I have not ridden a century for awhile and he turns out to be right.

Still, I am glad to get to my car and head home even if I remember on the way home I can't take any pain killers because of possible bleeding.  But I am not sorry that I rode despite the accident and getting dumped on.   Life is, I suppose, just a series of getting knocked down and getting back up until, of course, one day you don't.  As Ms. Siff points out, "You just have to keep going." And there is beauty out there, even in the midst of a dreary and dark winter.