Hardinsburg: End of Summer and Beginning of Fall 2025

"The past beats inside me

like a second heart."

 John Banville

 

The weather has been unseasonably cool and I have ridden, but it has been awhile since I splurged and took a day and rode the entire day by myself.  I decide on my Hardinsburg Century.  Normally this is a route I ride twice yearly:  once in the spring and once in the fall.  This year I  missed the spring ride.  I have ridden a lot of centuries this year, but not solo.  So I prepare my bike and head out into the morning choosing the Lynskey to be my ride.   It has been and remains such a dependable bike.  And is has seen both use and abuse since I got it in 2011, including one PBP.  

 

It has been so unrelentingly sunny that I am a bit surprised at the cloud cover.  Normally in summer, I carry an emergency poncho if I am not wearing a rain jacket, but not today.  I do, however, start the ride in a light jacket and with a pair of work gloves over my short fingered gloves, something I will later be grateful for.  I settle down into a steady pace soon hitting the first climb up Leota Hill,  a climb I have done hundreds of times.  It is steeper than its sister hill, but not as long.  The leaves are just beginning to hint that fall has been dipping her big toe into the waters of summer and there are leaves scattered along the ground and in the road though not as profusely or as colorfully as they will be in a week or so.  The weather person says we are going back up to or near ninety degrees, but today will be perfect reaching at most the low eighties and with only light winds which can be the curse of otherwise perfect fall riding days.  

 

As I climb,  I pass where the Knobstone Trail crosses the road to the Leota Trailhead.  Soon hiking season will be here.  While I don't long for it as I do sometimes near the end of summer, I do look forward to it.  I normally only hike when it is cold and the ticks are not so thick and the snakes are in bed for the winter.  I have crossed this road hiking with Diana when we did our through hike and other times, with Jon, with Chris, and alone.  I think how I will miss Chris this winter and while I am glad for him and his wife that they followed a dream, I am selfishly sad for myself.  I have been riding and met hikers crossing doing a through hike and encouraged them because I know the climbs that they will face shortly since they are going north.   Hills while hiking can be as demanding as hills when bicycling and just as debilitating and just as rewarding if you conquer them.  

 

After I crest, I eventually pass the house where I heard the story of the dog called Tripod because while he only had three legs, he would chase passing cyclists.  I don't remember who told me the story, but he (and I say he because most of the distance riders I know are male) said Eddie Doer named the dog.  Tripod was gone prior to my traversing the road, but for some reason I remember the story and, of course, I remember Eddie.   I first me Eddie when he was holding training sessions for the OKHT Time Trial all those years ago hoping to improve my cycling but not knowing he would lead me away from triathlons toward distance cycling.  I still hear him telling me to weight my pedal on switchbacks.  So hard to believe he is gone, too young, younger than me.  So many gone, I press harder on the petals attempting to leave ghosts behind for today is not a day I want to be morose and sad but to have fond memories that make me smile. 

 

I leave Eddie behind with Tripod and head on to Blue River and think of a family I used to work with who lived on the road wondering what ever happened to the children.  Abuse had left them where it was unlikely they would ever really be able to be independent.  Perhaps it is best I don't know.  And then I am at Pekin with memories still chasing me, some happy and some sad.  But that is their nature and they way they mold us as we become who we become.  

 

Bill Pustow comes to mind.  He  and I were riding this course one cold winter day.  One of us, and I don't remember which, had a flat tire.  While I don't remember which of us it was, I remember the sinking feeling because, if you have ever changed a tire when it is freezing out, you know how hard tires become and how cold hands can get.  A woman noticed us and allowed us to bring the bike inside into the warmth to change the tire, a living example that kindness does exist in this world, something easy to forget into today's world and political climate.  Sometimes it seems to me that the more we have, the less generous we become.  But perhaps it is my imagination that leads me down that path.  I think of how in the past, I could always get someone to ride a century despite the cold, but those days are behind me, one more thing lost to time.   How glad I am that I did them while I still could. 

 

And that is one reason why I ride today:  because I still can and because I still love it even though at times it depletes me.  How much longer will I be able to do this, take off on my own to dream for an entire day..  How long will my mind and body heed what I ask of it before refusal.  For this is not an easy century.  There is lots of climbing that makes demands on the legs, lungs, heart, and mind.  Again I ask myself if we quit because of our growing bodily weakness or our growing mental weakness.  I have often repeated the words of my friend, Lynn, "When you get older it becomes harder to be mean to yourself."  

 

Leaving the store, I shortly make the turn onto Shorts Corner knowing that this road will hurt.  I remember Steve Rice once describing it as "annoying."  I remember he and I were together when we passed a young kid, much too young to have the tool he had:  a chainsaw.  I would guess he was at most ten or eleven.  Shorts Corner does hurt and also brings to mind when I was designing the Merango Mangler course and Grasshopper was with me.  We were coming the other direction and as we made the big climb going that way, he was obviously in pain.  I don't know if that is when he was riding with his broken neck, but I suspect so.  When we rode together last year, he was on an e-bike but still having neck issues.  Does he, I wonder, remember that day.  How I wished I could help him with his pain, but  unfortunately it was the kind of pain one has to bear alone.  

 

I near Hardinsburg and think how glad I am that they finally paved the swooping downhill that used to be full of pot holes.  When I first put this century together, before RWGPS or other on-line route planners, I intended to have lunch in Hardinsburg only to arrive and find that it was too early yet for lunch and that even if it were not, the only thing there was a dilapidated Dairy Barn, now closed, that looked too nasty to consider eating at.   So I rode onward, unsure of what was ahead and with a sandwich in my bag if needed.

 

As I head to Livonia, construction trucks keep passing me on what is normally a fairly quiet road.  And suddenly I am with Steve Sexton, climbing these hills while the others surge ahead on a winter century.  I don't remember if it was a Christmas Breakfast ride, but I suspect it was as this was often the route I chose for us to ride following the celebration.  I remember feeling weak, the wind was so very strong that year, and how we climbed together.  I feel certain he could have been with the lead group for he was always so strong, he who almost always rode in the big chain ring,  but instead he faced the wind and hills with me. He retired recently and I hoped perhaps he would once again ride with the Mad Dogs, but it has not happened.  Another dream I suppose. 

 

I pass a watermelon field filled with watermelons most of which appear to be rotting.  It seems I always encounter a few fields of watermelons or pumpkins that are grown but never harvested.  I have always wondered why.  Across the road is a field of pumpkins, their orange skin peeking through the green leaves that are still a strong green but beginning to fade. 

 

 

As I near lunch, the sky begins to spit a cold drizzle, and I have to stop for a one lane road.  The woman apologizes and I tease her a bit, but I don't mind having to stop half way up the hill and have a bit of a rest.  This is where the trucks were going to I suppose.  When she lets me pass, the sky opens and I am pelted by a cold, hard rain.  I giggle as  I hear construction workers laughing and talking running for the truck, all of them except the poor flag people who must remain due to traffic. I think that it is somehow uplifting to hear the laughter of young people. I don't want to stop because traffic coming the other direction can't proceed until I get to the end, so I pedal as hard as I can a bit worried about my phone and glad I brought a plastic bag to stick it in "just in case."  Once I come upon the second flag person, I pull over and put it in the bag and the downpour stops shortly after.

 

I pass what used to be the Dutch Barn and see it is becoming a volunteer fire station.  I grin thinking of Dave and how he said he liked the women employees, Amish or Mennonite, because they had "sturdy" legs.  Many the sandwich I ate there piled with ham or turkey and cheese and served on homemade bread.  How sad I was when it close.  But Little Twirl was where I would go before the Dutch Barn existed and is where I return to.  It was also the store stop on my Campbellsburg Century, the first I designed for the club, and I remember that Mike Pitt and Jim Moore were there the first time I put it on, the century designed by exploration and sidewalk chalk as I had no GPS and no real map.  How I miss them both, more than I would ever have imagined.  Jim so sensible and protective.  Mike making me laugh until I almost pee in my riding shorts.  I remember once following a ride waking up laughing and how weirdly wonderful that felt. 

 

I ask the woman working how their fish is.  She answers by telling me it is her husband's favorite menu item so I decide to give it a try.  I sit outside on the picnic bench glad the rain has stopped and wait.  Meanwhile, chilling a bit, I pull the jacket out of my jersey pocket and put it on glad for an additional layer.  She brings my food and I eat, needful of the calories to finish the ride.  The fish is okay.  Nothing to write home to mom about as they say, but not terrible either.  Since it was fried, I wonder if it is better for me than a hamburger?  At least it is hot and the warmth fills my insides as I prepare to finish the century out. 

 

I head out and think how unusual it is to eat and have a flat stretch before the climbs resume.  It so often seems we eat lunch on a ride, throw a leg over our bikes, and then ride up some big ass hill that makes you wish you had just starved.  Of course I have ridden enough distance to know that you must eat.  I know that when I am not hungry on a long ride, it normally means I am in trouble or about to be.  

 

I travel through Campbellsburg remembering the first time I got there on a bike.  It was quite cold out.  It also was the only time I have seen another person on a bike there in all the times I have passed through other than seeing other riders on one of my rides.  It was an old man, dressed in regular clothing a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he rode. smoke, breath in cold air mingling or both.  

 

I reach the top of Cox Ferry Hill, the large hill we climbed on the overnight this year, or I should say I "tried" to climb, in the big ring no less.  This time I am heading down the hill.  I remember the first time I descended the hill and how I startled a deer and it ran alongside the road with me on the descent.  How frightened I was that it would veer and pop in front of me, for the steepness of the hill with rim brakes does not make for easy stopping.  At the bottom I stop to photograph some artwork for the overnight that not one person spotted.  I then notice a large snake has shed his skin and think this would be an ideal place to live if one were a snake. 

 

 Suddenly I am thinking of Paul and how, after the descent, he looked at me with amazement in his eyes saying, "You didn't ride out here by yourself, did you?"   There is nothing here but fields and the occasional house.  Normally I don't see a car on this stretch of road.  I tell him I do and know he does not understand that I feel safer out here than I would walking down a city street.  I remember he liked the view and so do I.  It is wide and open and filled with different colors. 

 

As I progress I pass the house with the scary pit bulls that the lady appeared unable to control.  Either she has moved and taken them, she has gotten rid of them, or they did not hear or see me.  My breath comes easier knowing I won't have to try to evade them or defend myself, particularly after the long climb.  During the climb I think of Scott Kuchenbrod, someone who has not ridden with me for years.  Scott was a great climber and rarely stood.  Scott stood on this hill and I remember thinking that is one way to know for sure that it is a hard climb even if your legs aren't already telling you.  I am proud to find I don't have to switch to Granny this time.  My legs remain strong.  

 

I arrive at Amos's and he is sitting outside with a friend eating his lunch.  I buy my normal Snickers bar form him and also get a Gatorade, not because I really want the Gatorade but because I know he keeps it in just for me and when I bring riders.  When he hears how far I have ridden he laughs saying he couldn't walk if he rode that far.  We talk about the new pavement on the road that passes his store and the man sitting with him says the new pavement is because the county passed a wheel tax.  Regardless, it is nice pavement, not the hated chip and seal being placed on so many roads where I live.

 

I bid them farewell after listening to a conversation about a cow watering station and how big the concrete slab should be for the best performance.  The rest of the ride is largely on one of my favorite roads:  Delaney Park and Eden.   The sun pops out.  Once again I think of Steve Sexton and how he took a fall on this road one day.  None of us ever really figured out why. I think of Larry breaking a spoke on this road once going in the opposite direction.  I pass the entrance to the trail head where Chris, Jon, and I hiked last year and laughed about the man who disappeared on the trails there and how we joked he was a ghost.  He had been behind us, then passed while we were stopped for some reason, and we never passed him again but somewhere along the way there stopped being footprints, as if he had just disappeared.  I notice the wind picking up and am glad I near home though a part of me regrets that the experience is coming to an end. 

 

I arrive home tired but happy and thinking how very lucky I am that I can still do this and that I have so many memories to haunt me.  I know there are many who think of this a whole day doing a century alone on a bike, as torture, but to me it is precious time that I would not spend any other way.  I love even the sadder memories, the memories that involve people I no longer ride with or who no longer ride.  They were friends and I hope they know I cherished them and I miss them.  In the end, are we are , I suppose, our memories come to life because there is no denying that these experiences shape and mold us.   One of my great fears is dementia and losing those memories, but we face what we have to face as best we can.  Maybe that experience will not be one that is on my plate or maybe it will.  Some things you can control, but many you can't.  Even if I don't remember them, however, they will always live inside my heart.   I am thankful for all I have been graced with in this life, however undeserved it might be.  Now, it is time for rest for the mind and body to prepare for another day. "Tomorrow's another day, and I am not afraid, so bring on the rain." (Jo Dee Messina)

 

Alaska: The Final Two Days

"I was trying to feel some kind of 

good-bye.  I mean I've left schools and

places and I didn't even know I was leaving

them. I hate that. I don't care if its a sad 

good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave

a place I like to know I am leaving it. If you

don't you feel even worse."

J.D. Salinger 

 

Today is a day that will bring both joy and sadness, the way endings sometimes do.  I am thoroughly tired, even teasing Greg the day before that I might just ride in the van today, a violation of the goal I set for myself on this trip.  Still, I felt strong yesterday despite being simultaneously weary.  I have, however, noticed it is taking significantly longer to warm up and for my body to quit protesting what I am asking of it.  As always, it interests me how much of riding can be mental.  At home, I would certainly talk myself out of riding like this day after day as the mind makes up excuses.  But, of course, the body also eventually fails protesting our abuse.  

 

Today is the day I have been looking forward to and dreading at the same time for reasons listed above but also because I know it involves the climb up to Thompson Pass.  Originally, I was quite worried when I read or heard somewhere that it was a twenty mile climb.  It is actually "only" seven or eight miles, depending on where I look.  Worthington Glacier is along the way.  And the pipeline, an important if not attractive stop. We are on our way to Valdez and my last night in Alaska.

 

As we head to the van to van to breakfast, I jump astride one of the carved animals outside the motel front door.  Dave follows suit.  I grin and think now  pleasant it is to start the day with a smile though I will say I missed having coffee in  my room.  It is, however, only a short walk to the lobby from my room and the coffee, despite being in a thermos, is not terrible.  

                     We eat breakfast, return to our room, gather our belongings 

                      and head to the ride start.  

 

It is not too long before we stop at the pipeline.  This really does not interest me, but I am not the only one of the trip.  My preference is for the road and how it rolls itself out before me, revealing all manner of things and leading my mind into new, old, and often different places. 

 

 

We don't spend  too much time here before heading back out on our bikes.  As Chris Stapleton notes in his song, "The road rolls out like a welcome mat," and I think that I will most likely never traverse these roads again but how glad I am that I am doing so now.  Next stop at the glacier. 

After the glacier, it is time for lunch.  I arrange the chairs away from the van facing the mountains.  This will be my last lunch on the road with these people.  So many endings in the air, and I don't do endings particularly well.

 

 The view is spectacular.  The air is filled with tiny white seeds floating the air.  They remind me of cottonwood seeds but have a much smaller kernel.  They seem celebratory. They are beautiful and don't seem to get in my airway and choke me like cottonwood seeds are wont to do.  I "think" they are from the Fire Weed, gone to seed, rushing to reproduce and survive as all  living things seem to do.  

 

While at lunch, L. makes me laugh telling me how much R. wants to beat me up the climb.  Well, he should.  He is younger, male, and has no body fat.  But I will ride my own pace by myself so that I can sing and view the scenery and truly appreciate the scenery without the stress of conversation or of competition.  My goal is to get there, though I would desperately like to beat Dave.  It is not as much fun to beat Dave at something as it was to beat Steve, because Steve really cared and Dave does not.  But I still like to tease him.  I fortunate I am for our friendship.  It is like having a younger brother.  

 

I don't sit long before mounting my bike as my legs are stiffening.  The road continues to slope gently upward, and most of the climb is gentle though there are a few places where it steepens and demands.  Dave and I teased each other the day before about getting the Thompson green sign.  He is already at a disadvantage after lunch because I leave before him or any of the others.  R. catches me sitting on my wheel and I expect him to do as Dave and Steve used to do and sit there until right before the sign, drafting in the easy chair, and then at the last few moments popping out and giving it all they have.  This doesn't happen and I capture the sign.  When Dave arrives I remind him that thus far I have taken every green sign in Alaska.  We stop here as Greg has asked us not to being the descent until every one gathers.

 

While waiting for the group, I climb a short path upwards that Greg recommends that we climb due to the view and it is lovely. There is some purple flower that is really beautiful.  But the gnats or mosquitoes are everywhere and there seems to be no escape.  I begin to eagerly anticipate the downhill.

 

And when we finally are given the go ahead, what a downhill it is.  Dave and I whoop and holler leaving the others behind, but I can't keep up with Dave:  he surges ahead on the descent no matter how hard I pedal eventually taking the Valdez sign.  My understanding is that we drop 2,500 feet in six miles into the Lower River Valley.  And what an exhilarating six miles it is.  On the left we pass a tunnel opening and I wonder because there is no road or path leading to it.  I later learn it was a railroad passage that was planned but not completed.  We pass Bridal Falls and there is a young lady there dressed in a fancy, white dress.  And a short time later, we reach our stopping point:  Horsetail Falls.  It is easy to see how it got its name.   

Everyone gathers and the bikes are loaded on the van one last time.  I am ready for a rest day tomorrow, but I know that a part of  me will regret that the adventure is over and that I am not yet again throwing my leg over the top tube while my legs curse me.  We van to the final motel and our final dinner together where, with my customary grace or lack there of,  I manage to spill my water all over the table, but fortunately without drenching anyone.

 

The next morning we are at the van at 5:45 a.m. to catch the ferry.  It will take us five hours and fifteen minutes to get to the dock just outside Anchorage.  This includes a drive through the tunnel from Whittier.  Greg tells us, "There is nothing shittier than being stuck in Whittier" as the traffic is streamed one at a time through the tunnel (old railroad tunnel I believe) and if you miss it, you wait an hour.  And we make it hauling with us two bike packers that we met on the ferry.  One rides with us to Anchorage, but the other just rides through the tunnel.   One is not allowed to bicycle through the tunnel.

 

We reach Greg's storage unit and unload the bikes.  They are done for the year.  This is the last trip offered by Bike Alaska and, per Greg, their hardest trip.  We each get a t-shirt and a bracelet and a water bottle.  Then we are dropped off at various places.  It is somewhat disheartening knowing that, other than Dave, I will probably never see any of these people again.  Not that we have really become close, but we have shared an experience over the course of days.  So I suppose we are close in that sense. 

 

Dave and I leave our bags at the hotel where we stayed the first night and then head into Anchorage again for a bit of a goodbye since our flight does not leave until ten p.m.  We have a meal while there, or at least an appetizer.  I am not hungry enough or desperate enough to spend fifty dollars on a meal and neither is Dave.  I think how glad I am that our payment covered meals.  I was surprised at how much more expensive everything is.  

 

Our plane takes off.  I am on the aisle seat and Dave at the window.  Unfortunately, at least for me, the man who has the middle seat is quite large.  He puts up the arm rest and spills into my seat, so I suffer the long flight, tired as could be, with only half of the seat I paid for.  He can't help it and I am not angry with him, but I am uncomfortable and sleep is impossible despite my being so tired.  

 

In Minneapolis, our plane is delayed because the flight crew is not there.  They are not too late, however, and we are finally on the final lap of crossing four time zones and being home.  We near the run way when they turn around telling us a "check engine" type light came on.  This puts us a bit behind, but not as  much as I feared and we finally arrive at our home airport.  Dave and I hug and the trip is officially over.    We say good-bye going our separate ways.  Yes, I am sad.  It flew by so fast.  I never saw a moose or elk or caribou though a few of the others saw one fleetingly through the van window.  I did see trumpeter swans thanks to Dave, something most of the others missed.  Time to start planning for next year.  Dave and I discussed possibly going to bicycle in Greece, but time will tell if that happens or something else happens.  Now, home to sleep and recover.  I have officially been awake over 24 hours.  It will be good to dream.    

 

 

Alaska: Day Five

"A goal should scare you a little

and excite you a lot."

Joe Vitale 

 

 

We meet for breakfast and then back to riding dropping into the Copper River Basin and along the Gulkana River.  Not only are the front of my legs sore as I take off, but I am beginning to feel it a bit in the calves.  Again, I find the pace that is comfortable for me and try to hold it.  I always think of what I was told about how keeping a steady pace uses less energy in the long run for I was told to think of a car:  accelerating and decelerating a lot increases fuel usage.  Thinking of pace also makes me remember Duc Do on a ride telling me to keep a steady pace when I had accelerated on a climb fearing I was climbing too slowly for the group I was a part of at the time. 

The traffic has decreased further making the ride much more enjoyable.  I think this is the day we stop seeing the weirdly shaped ore trucks.  The scenery becomes more picturesque with mountains capped in places with snow.  We have been incredibly fortunate weather wise this trip with clouds rarely obscuring our view, though one day, and I can't remember which, it was beautiful how the clouds softly nestled against the tops of the mountains, embracing them as if they were parted lovers.  

 

 We have two good climbs this day, not particularly steep but not as gradual as prior days.  There is also one of the best downhills.   While I again ride mostly alone, Dave is with me on one downhill and when I grab a quick look, like me he is grinning ear to ear.  Mostly, however, the downhills for climbs here, with a few exceptions, don't seem to offer much pay back for the effort made to climb them.  The other riders are more cautious descenders  and the words of Mike "Sparky" Pitt come to mind for he once said I was a fearless descender.  And it is true.  I love the downhills, the way the wind whips by me, the sheer adrenaline filled delight of rushing headlong down the hill.  

 

I think about how we sometimes tuck the things people have said about us away in our hearts and pull them out to examine occasionally or to give us strength.  How one simple sentence can make someone feel wonderful or skilled or worthy or ready and, of course, the opposite.   I think of Bob Evancho telling me after our overnight ride to French Lick that he felt I was ready for this Alaska ride.  I think of Lloyd telling me that basically I am a kind person.  And there are more, hurtful sentences that tear down as well as build.  How powerful words can be. We forget that sometimes.  

 

I am jolted out of my reverie by the stop and then by learning that S. had a flat.  (One of the people who was supposed to help had been sick and so we just have one guide rather than one in the van and one on a bike.)  Greg quickly closes up the van and goes back to help her.  I think how there have been a plethora of flats despite the knobby tires and wonder if it is related to riding on the shoulder of the road rather than the road itself for most of the flats seem to be wires and I suspect those wires are from blowouts from car tires.   I have been riding in the road now traffic is lighter and using my mirror.  Whether that is the reason or not I don't know, but I escape the adventure without a flat as does Dave. I later learn that she was frightened and think how lucky I am not being so frightened of being alone, maybe even when I should be.  Which is not to say I am not a coward at heart, particularly when I allow my imagination full rein.  

 

This was also a day when things tended to strike me as funny.  At one point, someone evidently lost a box of shoes as they are scattered all over the road.  It makes me think of the Shoe Tree we encountered on a century many years ago where people had flung old shoes, laces tied together, over the branches of an old tree.  It was covered with shoes as if they were fruit.  I also spot a sign on the right that says Post Office and looks official. It is pointing to the left (other side of the road), but the only thing standing there is an old, beat up looking silver mailbox.  I stopped and took a photo but apparently it didn't turn out.  I did get the shoes.  How little it takes to make me smile when I am happy on new roads and on a bicycle.

 

 

The left over pizza at lunch is just the ticket for finishing out the ride. I am normally not a cold pizza fan, but today, compared to the choices and with the hunger one gets fueled by exercise, it tastes wonderful.   I don't spend long at lunch or any other stop as I begin to stiffen and the stops are spaced at only about twenty miles apart so there is no concern about running out of fuel.  Plus you can stuff one of the snacks in your rear pocket to pull out as needed though I only do this a couple of times.  At one stop, M.C. and I laugh about a sign in the outhouse telling  one not to stand on the toilet seat as you might fall and hurt yourself.  This is probably related to visitors from other countries that use squatty potties, but we find it amusing.   

The ride ends at the only motel in  Glenallen but is our least inviting of any we have stayed at.  I am surprised to find bottles of water in the room, then see the sign that the water is safe to drink but has a bad odor so they provide bottled water.  No coffee maker in the room but available in the diner.  The worst part was bathing.  I was unable to find a way to take a shower so did something I never do:  bathed in a motel.  I love baths and take them during the fall and winter months at home, but I never bathe in a motel.  When I run the water, it is a red color.  I force myself get in wondering if it will stain my skin.  It doesn't but I don't really feel clean.  Still, the sweat from the day has been diluted and hopefully I don't smell like the water.   Dave later tells me there were instructions on how to use the shower, but I never did see them in my room.  I giggle to myself thinking it is like being in Europe where turning on the shower is often an IQ test.  Regardless, it is all good.  I am on a bike and I am on new roads and seeing new places.  The day ends with a Mexican meal and then bed, preparing for the last day which Greg has promised will be the most scenic and the reason the route was arranged the way it was.  

 

 

Alaska: Day Four

"Perseverance is the hard work you do 

after you get tired of doing the hard 

work you already did."

Newt Gingrich

 

Breakfast today was an adventure with signs asking that you take only two breakfast items.  I have never run into that before, but I got the impression that in the past they have had people who not only ate breakfast, but perhaps placed lunch and a snack in their pocket.  Regardless, it will be enough to get me down the road.  

 

We bus to the ride start and begin our journey toward Isabel Pass.  I am amazed that, while my legs are sore, I have not run out of juice and feel very strong.  Indeed, I "think" this was my big ring day where I never did get out of the big ring the entire day.  I revel in this feeling of strength for it has been a long time since I have felt this powerful, as if my legs were pistons and not flesh and blood.   I know that I am slower than I used to be, but my legs are giving what I ask of them, something I was not sure of.  

 

We shortly come to Robertson River.  The bridge sign says Robertson bridge.  I make the Indiana mistake of assuming the bridge is named for an individual rather than for the river, but I am wrong.  Well, not really wrong, but the rivers I am used to have one name and the bridge that crosses them a different name.  This river and this bridge have the same name. When I look it up later, it appears that the river itself was named after Sergeant Cady Robertson who was a member of  an expedition party. Google was short on details.  I am astounded to learn that Alaska has over TWELVE THOUSAND rivers.  Most of the rivers we pass are interesting to me because  I have never seen anything resembling them before.  They have large areas of glacial silt built up from the grinding of the glaciers, or so I have read.  They look like they would be slow moving, but you can tell where the water is channeled it has a very strong current in places.  

We pass a caribou/elk warning sign, but I laugh to myself.  I have started teasing everyone saying that there actually is no wildlife in Alaska:  they just advertise it to attract fools like ourselves.  How different from Yellowstone where the elk practically camped outside our cabin door a few times.  And how very fortunate I am to experience these different places. 

 

At one point, I reach the stopping place well ahead of the group.  There is a sign about the Alaska Highway and I am surprised to find it only opened to the public in 1954.  While waiting for the group, I talk with a couple from Montana.  They are visiting an older couple visiting a relative here.  A young man pulls in with a strange looking machine on his truck.  I ask and he says it is a snow blower.  It turns out he is a student at the university and had never used it but is hauling it.   The group arrives and I take the short walk to the view.  

 

On the far shore is a cabin.  This, I know, is where Lloyd would have wanted to settle.  In a cabin far away from everyone.  Looking at it, I wonder if there is a road or if you have to  hike in or take a canoe in.  Is someone living there or is it a hunting cabin?  Of course, I will never know.  But isn't that part of the fun of bicycling?  Seeing things that make you wonder.  And of course it makes me think of the school bus from a day or two ago.  It would not be easy to survive out here. Lloyd once told me that I was "tougher than a hickory nut," but I don't know that I am that tough.  And how very difficult it would be to get through the long, dark winters with only a few hours of sunlight, and that sunlight seeming to be filtered through a shade.  My hat is off to these strong people that have, at least some of them, not only survived but thrived in these harsh conditions. 

Traffic has thinned even more today making riding even more pleasant.  And we continue to be quite lucky with our weather.  The views are seldom obscured or completely obscured.   The ride ends and as always we have just time to catch a longer shower than normal before meeting for dinner.  I revel in this, taking my time and appreciating the fragrance of the soap and shampoo.  As always, I am so thankful for whoever invented hot water.  What a splendid ending it is to a ride.  It does not take away the tiredness or the soreness, but it makes it better.  And, yes, I am glad I persevered never getting in the van for a rest or slowing my effort. 

 

At dinner I have a veggie pizza and a small pizza is enough to feed four people.  But since it is just me, the remainder goes in the van for lunch tomorrow.  I am heartily sick of lunch meat and peanut butter so it will be a welcome change.  Over dinner Roger tells an interesting tail of doing a bicycle mechanical fix without having the proper tools on one of their trips.  Quite interesting to listen to.  Then back to my cabin which is large and quite lovely,  made from pine.   I type a few notes and go straight to sleep knowing my body needs it.  And my body complies, something that does not always happen.  

 

Alaska: Day 3

"If God had sufficient wisdom and power

to construct such a beautiful world as this, 

then we must admit that his wisdom and power

are immeasurably greater than that of man, and

hence he is qualified to rule as king."

Orson Pratt

 

It is day 3 and it turns out to be closer to eighty miles rather than the promised 75.    There is a mist of rain in the air.  Or I think that this is the day that with ended with one rider, only half-jokingly, calling the guide a liar.  Despite my best intentions, I find I have not taken enough notes to separate days and happenings well. We have a breakfast buffet and then head to a bike store.  I enjoy the stop but purposefully leave my wallet in the van as I don't need anything.  I see some cat water bottle holders that I photograph and will go on my Christmas wish list, but I am not about to buy and take them home with me. 

 

We van to the ride start which is next to the air force base and are warned NOT to take pictures until we leave the base behind. We stopped briefly at the visitor's center per Don's request, but most of us don't get out. Frankly, there is not much along that strip of road sufficiently breathtaking to cause me to want to stop and get a photograph.  I am finding that my stiffness goes away, but it takes longer for me to warm up than it used to and comes back more quickly.  

 

 We are ready to ride. My legs grow rather tired and sore, but my mind does not.  They scream at me when the ride begins, but then loosen up.  I expect to be slow but I soon find my pace.  Riding is so much easier if you just find your pace and stick with it.  When I try to push too hard, my legs remind me that they can cramp in retaliation if I mistreat them.  I begin to shorten breaks, however, as I can tell I am stiffening more rapidly at stops.  Yes, they would loosen again, but not so easily as if you keep moving.  I think of brevets and begin to think that Steve is right and I could still complete even a long one, but I don't know that I would ever get my brain into the mindset that successful brevet riding requires again.

 

Throughout the day, my mind strays to thoughts of Lloyd, of how he wanted to move here and how much I still miss him.  There is not a day that goes by that I don't think of him and miss his humor and love and wisdom.  I am not sure he would have liked it here as much as he believed that he would.  I remember that he did his basic training in Colorado and hated it, not seeing the beauty of the mountains.  Perhaps, however, that was tied to being young and away from home for the first time combined with the additional stress of a new situation.  Still, I know he loved to be home.  

 

Today's ride is on the Richardson Highway and next to the Tanana River and we will ride to Delta Junction.  It starts with a very gradual climb, the type Dave complains about but are my forte and I find myself singing.  I notice the trees are beginning to shift back from  birches with their gleaming white bark to the green coniferous trees.  I wonder if they are of any use to loggers.  While they are tall, they are slender and would be covered with knotholes from the numerous branches.  I mean to ask Greg, but I forget and the question never gets answered.  I forget so much these days.  

 

I am not sure how many hills there are as I don't bother counting.  Frankly, I will be glad to see mountains  reappear and traffic on the highway to ease and not be so frequent.  There are lots of large, eighteen wheel trucks, constructed in a way that I don't see at home.  We later learn that they are hauling ore from the mines.  We will see them today and tomorrow and then no more.  Anyway, Rob says there were five climbs.  My personal preference was that there were a few good downhills, something that have been in short supply.  Compared to some of the challenging hills at  home, I don't consider any of them particularly difficult.  I have been surprised and a bit relieved at times. I suspect that we are being ferried over some of the more demanding climbs, but perhaps that is an illusion.  

 

We have lunch near a lake that has ducks on it and what appear to be lily pads, something I would not have expected here.  It is quite lovely.  We panic a bit when it appears one duck has a string caught around his mouth, but we soon see he can still open his mouth.   Everything is just so beautiful, and I try to remember to be thankful.  I think for awhile about how different places have different types of resplendence and wonder and yet how everything fits together in a way that my pea brain can't take in.  When we disturb the balance, there are consequences that we often don't ever correlate with the change we made.  I am thankful that I believe in a creator who does understand.  

After lunch, we reach a point where we have to shuttle across a construction site.  Unlike here, where the construction workers tell you to find another way around or wave you on urging you to ride with caution, they use their truck to carry you and your bicycle and they lead the way for cars needing to go that direction.  Larry and Rob buddy up and go first.  Dave and I wait.  I watch Dave as he makes friends with the flag man and smile inside at how friendly he is and his conversational skills.  What he is doing would be extremely taxing for me.  It takes quite awhile but finally it is our turn.  The ones behind us decide to put their bikes on the van to make the crossing as the van has caught up after being trapped behind fixing a flat for Ron.  

 

I continue to be amazed at the lack of wildlife and how I see more at home.  I have seen two dead porcupines on the road and a few magpies, but no moose, caribou, or any other creature I associate with Alaska.  

 

Before we reach the hotel, we reach another spot which is gravel but which they are not currently working on so we ride through it.  I am with Rob and Larry.  There are lots of pot holes and yet again I am glad I did not bring my own bike.  I feel filthy when we reach the motel at Delta Junction and want to shower.  I get my room key and find my shower does not seem to be working.  Wearily, I go to the front desk who says they will send maintenance.  He arrives in time for me to get a shower before dinner, but barely.  He tells me the last person in the room just took a cold shower.  I tell him in  no uncertain terms that I am NOT taking a cold shower.  He hands me written instructions and I am able to get hot water though it alternates between scalding and cold.  

 

Dinner is just a walk across the road and was decent if not wonderful.  In the food contest, Scotland wins hands down.  But it is not distasteful.  I am tired though  and glad when I can finally return to my room and sleep.  Tomorrow is a shorter day allegedly, only 68 miles.   

 

 

Alaska: Day Two

"Travel.  Make memories. Have

adventures. Because I guarantee that when

you are 85 and on your death bed you

won't think about that flashy car you bought, or

the twenty pair of designer shoes you owned. But

you will think about the time you got lost in your favorite

city.  The nights spent falling in love under the stars and

all the beautiful people you met along the way.  You'll

think about the moments that made you feel truly alive. 

And at the very end, those memories will be the only

valuable possessions you own.

EKP 

 

There is something about waking up in a different, unfamiliar place.  It can be disorienting but it can also be exhilarating.   Those who know me know that I thrive on routine, but I also know changes are good for me on some level.  This week there will be a routine, but an unfamiliar routine and I am glad.  We walk to breakfast where we had dinner.  I find it amusing that they have two cinnamon rolls that are identical other than in size.  The smaller version is the Texas version.  The larger roll is the Alaska roll.  While I would dearly love to have either, I decide a somewhat healthier breakfast might be in order.  Today is a longer day, somewhere around eighty miles of riding and I have no idea of the climbing involved.  So I get a breakfast burrito that ends up being more than even my empty stomach can manage.  I hope it was considered an Alaska size burrito because anything larger would be obscene.  

 

The people riding are interesting.  Three of them did a long ride in countries I have only read about.  Two went as a couple with three other people, Mary Clair and Roger.  The other, Larry, went with a different group.  Of course, with the cats, and probably financially, this would be beyond me.  But it is fun to hear about their travels and to dream.  I am not sure  how long Larry took, but the others were gone nine weeks if I remember correctly.  

 

We mount our bikes to ride along the Nenana River on the Parks Highway.  As we ride, I find today's course to be relatively flat though there is one good downhill that causes me to giggle.  I am glad that I have dressed in layers, something Greg recommends but that I learned from winter riding in Kentuckiana.  The weather seems to be a bit more changeable here perhaps.  

 

The scenery is breathtaking, so different from home, that riding along busy roads does not seem quite as bothersome as it might otherwise.  I have never lived near mountains, but there is something about them that is captivating.  Maybe because I rarely see them, I can't get enough of them.  We also begin to see the birch, their bark so pristine while against the black which I am presuming may be from lost branches?  They stand so graceful and thin, like dancers.  We pull over for a bit to see the river and I notice groups going rafting.  I know that despite the cold water, I would dearly love to do this.  But that is, perhaps, for another time. 

 

 I am amazed at how strong I feel.  I am riding mostly alone as is my preference when I want to take note of my surroundings and not be distracted by talking.  We pull in at 49th State Brewing as they have a replica of the bus from "Into the Wild."  When I get to the bus, there are two children playing inside.  They giggle with delight when I ask if they need my ticket for me to enter.  I wonder if they know the story of the bus and its sadly deceased inhabitant and doubt it.  I remember Jon telling me that if the young man had traveled about a half of a mile away, there was a way to get across the river.  Greg says it his personal belief that depression played into the tragedy and perhaps he is right.  I "think" I remember watching the movie but I know I have not read the book.  I also find the cannabis sign amusing.  I think about how my home state is surrounded by state's where it is legal and is losing tax money daily.  

 

Larry missed the turn for the bus.  Originally I thought he just was not interested, but I later learned he just didn't notice the turn off.  The ride ends with me pace lining in with Rob and Larry.  It felt good to ride hard and I ended with a 15.3 average which I was quite happy with.  Then, when the others arrive, we head out in the van for our hotel outside of Fairbanks.  What a contrast to our secluded, rural cabins the previous night.  When I open the door to my room I find I have a suite with a living room, full kitchen, bedroom, and bath.  The bedroom alone is bigger than last night's cabin.   Dinner is at the motel.  While I find conversing quite draining at times, I am getting better at it with age, or I think I am.  I hope to sleep well as I know my body needs it to recover from the stress of the day, but I don't.  I suppose I don't need as much sleep as I did when I was younger, but I still feel better when I sleep more soundly.  Eventually I doze off, both my tablet and watch set with an early alarm.  

 

 

Alaska: The First Day

"I'm always looking for a new challenge.

There are lots of mountains to climb out 

there.  When I run out of mountains, I'll 

build a new one."

 

Sylvester Stallon

 

 

I awaken and head down to the lobby of the motel to meet the van, dressed in my riding clothes, as instructed.  I had thought of doing this without a guide, but my lack of mechanical skills combined with a possible lack of cell service and sparse gas stations, stores, and motels quickly erase that thought.  Greg arrives, introduces himself, and we all sit down to the hotel breakfast.  It is not the best breakfast, but it is food.  I had thought perhaps, that like one Scotland trip, we would stop to eat along the way at a restaurant, but we didn't and I am okay with this.  I want to begin doing the thing I came here to do:  ride.

 

 The van has the bikes loaded on top rather than on a trailer in the back.  There are three couples:  Don and Gayle , Mary Clair and Roger, Rob and Shannon, and three singles:  Dave, Larry, and myself.  Greg urges everyone to "synchronize their bladders" before we van out of the city to our starting point.  This strikes me as funny and I giggle, but I follow instructions and visit the girls room.  

 

When we stop, we put our pedals and saddles on our bikes. Or should I say Greg puts mine on as well as that of some others.   We are given a pannier to attach.  I've never ridden with just one pannier before and I wonder if it will affect balance. I learn that it does not seem to in any significant or noticeable way.  Of course, it is lightly loaded.  Just a light jacket and my wallet. At first, I miss the handlebar bag that we carried in Scotland as it made it easy to access cameras and phones for photos, but as the week progresses, I decide the pannier is more appropriate for this place where the weather seems to change rather rapidly going from sun to clouds and sprinkles and back.  I find it remarkably clever that Greg has chosen different handle bar tape for our bikes.  This, along with a name label on the back rack, makes it much quicker to distinguish one bike from the other as all but one are white Salsas. They all have kickstands, something I have not had for years but comes in useful along the way. 

 

 It is sunny and the sky is a brilliant blue, but there is a ferocious, biting head wind that, per Greg, the guide, is normally a tail wind.  The wind makes each mile seem like five miles and I again begin to  question if I have bitten off more than I can chew.  I try to relax and not fight it, just find a comfortable pace, but something in me keeps resisting.  

 

The other riders, except for Dave, have all been here a few days and had time to adjust to the time change, but everyone appears to be struggling in this wind.  Perhaps, I think, it is just that I remain tired after a long journey crossing four time zones.  Later in the van, Shannon looks it up and the app says the wind was four miles per hour.  I laugh out loud when she says, "Four miles per hour, my ass."  I agree.  I have ridden in such headwinds before, the kind that suck you dry even if you yield and pedal without fighting back, but it has never been my favorite riding weather even while it is character building.  Wind is, in its own way, worse than tough hills.   There is an ending with a hill or mountain on a ride, that moment when you crest and feel like a queen, eagerly anticipating the downhill.  But with the wind, it seems eternal and unyielding.  It may change or ease during the ride or it may increase and/or continue.  

 

The wind not only slows me, but chills me despite the brilliant, cloudless sunshine that I am desperately trying to soak into my soul as a shield for the cold, dark winter that possibly lies ahead.  While I chill, I glory in the colder weather.  At home, while I had adjusted, it was like riding in an oven.  When we stop at Denali, Greg tells us that we are lucky as it is often too cloudy to see.  Denali stands tall and beautiful before us and I am humbled and grateful that there is such beauty in the world. Along the way we pass numerous dead trees.  When I question if it was fire or insect, Greg says it is the spruce beetle.  They burrow under the bark and disrupt the water transporting system of the tree.  He says that they can't survive up where it is colder and those trees above that point survive.  

 We cycle along Parks Highway.  Trucks and tour buses, particularly from Princess Tours, pass frequently.  There is a large shoulder and no side roads that would allow us to escape the highway, but for me it is a change as I mostly avoid riding on busy roads.  There is no wildlife:  not even dead along the side of the road.  This surprises me.  The road is rough in places with large potholes, and I am glad I didn't bring my own bike though the Surly would have handled it well.  Rob complains about not being able to go fast on these bikes, and one doesn't go particularly fast, but the ride is smooth considering the road surface, and with the treads the tires are less likely to flat.  

 

At one point, we see a giant igloo on our left.  It is deserted and has signs about prosecution if you violate the no trespassing order.  Evidently, it was originally intended to be a hotel, but that did not happen.  For awhile, it operated as a gas station.  That too closed down.  The next thought was to turn it into a distillery, but that was a year ago and there is no activity or cars there so I suspect it was another pipe dream. Still it seems a shame that it is not put to some use for it certainly is unique. 

 

 

We stop for lunch at a pull off alongside the road.  The best thing about this and the other lunches are the cookies Greg's father made for us.  Everyone finds them irresistible.   The rest of the lunch is so so.  There are fruits, candy, chips, and packaged lunch meat.  Ron asks for peanut butter and I am glad to find there is some.  While I eat a bit of it, I am not  much for most lunch meats.  Regardless, it is fuel for the journey and nothing can detract from scenery.  We are seeing both the Alaska and Talkeetna ranges as we ride.  There are lots of rather odd looking red flowers that I am told are called fire-weed.  And there are white flowers that may or may not be yarrow.  

Along the way I pick up a pair of wire cutters lying along side of the road and a ratchet for the nylon straps of a tie down.  I decide the wire cutters are probably not the thing to take on an airplane and leave them with Greg.  I also leave the ratchet behind.  I have no need for it.  Perhaps in this pull off, someone who will use it will see it.  The roads are remarkably free of litter other than the occasional tool that bounced off a truck and a plethora of bungee cords.  I assume this is because there are no fast food places or even much in the way of stores or gas stations that people can buy disposable items from.  Regardless, it adds to the beauty.  

 

There are no significant climbs and what there is suits me.  Throughout the week the majority of climbs are long climbs that mostly are not steep, the kind I can climb forever without too much effort.  In places the roads remind me of the Texas Hill country in that way.  I expected it to be more mountainous but this is but the first day.  

 

As I ride I think of my sister, Pam, and how much I miss her.  I know she would have been as excited about my getting to take this trip as I am.  And, of course, I think of Lloyd.   Would he have loved it here or decided that we made a huge mistake.  I think of the long hours of daylight right now, but the long hours of dark and cold in the winter.  Greg says he gets through the winter by ensuring that he gets outside for the four hours of daylight they have in Anchorage in the winter.  But he was born and raised here and for him this is normal.  Neither Lloyd nor I were born here. 

 

By the end of the day, I am in the first in and pull Larry in while I battle the head wind.  And what a battle it is just to maintain 10 mph. My legs and lungs aches from the effort, yet it feels good for I know I am using them and they are responding.  Training for an event does pay.   Larry later thanks me.  Dave, who was with us, dropped off and argues about whether I got the Cantwell sign, but he knows I did and I know I did.  This is the playful banter of friends.  I think of how glad I am to have his company.  Today is our short day and we stop early due to dinner reservations, but with the wind it did not feel short. Rather it feels like an eternity and I am not opposed to stopping.

 

We get in the van and ride to The Perch where we are staying in small cabins. Before we get out of the van, someone asks if they have plumbing as we spot what some think are outhouses.  We do have plumbing.  It is one room with a loft and beds both up and downstairs.  Wood floors.  No insulation.  And a bathroom.  There is a tiny table and bench.  I rather like it.  We go for what is one of the better meals of the week and on the way I see a magpie.  I have a salad with salmon on it followed by a slice of peanut butter pie.  Both are filling and delicious.  We then walk back to our cabins.  I hope to finally get a decent night sleep and I do.