The Crawford Century TMD Ride: 2022

"Action may not always bring

happiness, but there is no happiness

without action."

William James

 

I am looking forward to this century though wary of the heat.  It takes awhile for the body to adjust to  heat, but the only way I know to make that adjustment is to ride in it and be outside. At least I don't puke normally like some people.  As with most things in life, you have to pay your dues.  The cost for some appears to be higher than for others, but I suppose in the end it all equals out.  I am looking forward to seeing everyone.  I am looking forward to  a new century route.  And I am looking forward to riding my bicycle.  

 

  When asked, I tell Bob Grable that I will be riding more slowly than the last century, a century where I surprised myself with my speed.  No, not a blazing fast pace, but faster than I expected and faster than I should probably go today.  

 

 

It is a good group that shows.  All strong and seasoned riders as best I can ascertain though there are two or three I am unfamiliar with.  They look fit.  And I do start the century at a reasonable pace, only to find my speed increasing as I warm up.  I have found that it takes me longer for muscles to warm up than it used to....they need a bit of coaxing and convincing before they concede that they still can do what is being asked of them. And today is no different. 

 

Still, I feel stronger than expected today. Can a vitamin B12 shot be responsible for how I feel?  At a recent doctor visit, Sara took blood and told me my levels were low and advised that  I needed a shot after questioning if I had gone vegetarian.  (I have not though I have significantly lowered my meat consumption over the past few years, particularly red meat).  The day after I felt as if I were twelve years younger.  Such a relief as I believed my fatigue was age related.  

We ride on roads that I have not ridden for awhile, many from past brevet courses and occasionally memories of past rides tease me.  I push them away.  Today is not a day for dawdling and reminiscing. I think of Dave King and Steve Meredith, both doing the Kentucky 400 K today and I wish them strength and a successful finish.

 

 

 Everything is green and lush:  summer creeping in and taking over.  There are still a few spring flowers scattered here and there, but they are obviously on the decline.  Daisies are starting and the honeysuckle is in full bloom, perfuming the air whenever we pass. If I were by myself and/or going at a slower pace, I would notice more, instead I find myself pushing, monitoring my breathing, monitoring my legs, thinking how best to put 100 miles behind me without ending the ride wishing I had been left in a roadside ditch somewhere.  And I find myself singing.  I am happy here in the heat and sunshine rolling along on a bicycle with friends.

As usually happens with larger groups, and there are  probably 19 riding, not large by normal TMD standards but large for this calendar year, we split into groups.  Bob and I are together at the first store step.  Ned is close behind us, but for some reason does not stop at the store with us.  I worry a bit but assure myself that I am not responsible for him or any of the others.  Steve Rice and Mark Rougeux, another group, are already there.  They head out shortly before we do though both Bob and I gulp our drinks quickly and head out. 

 

The lunch stop offers two possibilities, a gas station and a restaurant.  The majority opt for the gas station.  I am surprised at the number of people eating inside, not merely due to COVID but because the temperature outside is pleasant and there is a covered area with picnic tables.  I take my chicken salad sandwich outside and eat giggling again at the thought of another year of the finest in curbside dining.  At least there are picnic tables here.  

 

After a quick lunch we take off.  No lingering after this meal.  And our average speed continues to climb until the third store stop.  But the pace is beginning to tell and Bob and I, still together, decide to slow it down a bit, particularly knowing there is a huge climb that lies between us and the finish.   And huge it is.  Halfway up a man working in his yard grins at us and says something about the climb.  I tell him we have this in the bag.  And we do.  We end together, pleasantly tired but not completely spent.  And I am happy.  Happy for the day, for the ride, for friends, and for bicycles.  James is right.  I find I am rarely happy without action of some type, mental or physical, and today I have had my fill.  The day is completed when some of the men in the front group comment on how strong I am this year.  Their words are music to my tired ears.  And for today I am sated.  And as always, I am thankful....thankful for bicycles, thankful health, thankful for friends, and yes, even thankful for hills that serve to humble and strengthen us. 

 

 

Early December 2020

"For everything you have missed, 

you have gained something else; 

and for everything you gain, you lose something."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

It has been quite awhile since I have blogged about a ride or a hike or pretty much anything.  It is not that I have been injured or sitting idle in my house, but for some reason the urge has not hit me to put hand to keyboard and share thoughts.  And I have had quite a few memorable and enjoyable moments. All in all, despite the pandemic, I am blessed. I have my health, my house, my bike, and enough money coming in to get by.  The weather thus far has been more to the good side than the bad.  Some days have been colder than normal, but not the majority.  Some have been cloudy or windy, but many have had at least some sunshine and quieter gusts.  So I can't blame the weather, just me.

 

As I rode recently on a sunny day where the day had started in the low thirties but warmed up to at least the high thirties if not the forties, I thought about how a number of years ago, there would have been a group of us riding together, probably on a century ride, enjoying the day, laughing and joking, but that just is no longer the case.  At first I thought perhaps that they were riding, but without including me as I have slowed with age and there has been a gap caused by different political beliefs and I was sad but okay with that, but my phone reveals that while a few of my old companions are riding, and riding at the same time, they are  not together and not outside.  They are on Zwift. And it struck me as sad, deeply sad, and I wondered if they realize yet what we have left behind. Was it a conscious choice or did it just happen, aided by the indisputable fact that it is harder to motivate in the winter? I almost inevitably enjoy it once I am out and doing something, but it is just harder to get out the door.  Or perhaps I ride for a different reason than do they? 

 

Don't get me wrong.  I liked Zwift when I was able to play it on my computer.  It was nice to have on cold, windy days when going outside held absolutely no appeal, particularly if one is riding alone, or when snow and ice cover the ground making riding dangerous.  Following a Zwift update, however, my computer, while only about three years old, would no longer handle Zwift.   My daughter is on a quest to help me with this, but thus far no luck. Up to that point, I tried all their suggestions to the best of my non-computer minded ability.  My daughter tried all their suggestions to no avail and she is quite proficient with computers. And I have not given up.  She is going to try something new this week-end, hooking me up through another avenue.  But despite that, even if she is successful, I think it is sad. Not that we  have Zwift and other such programs, but that it zapped the time we had riding outside in a group with others.  And of course, the pandemic has weighed in, but this began happening before we were cursed with that particular blight.

 

It reminds me of when cell phones first became popular and people no longer chatted with each other at store stops during rides sharing their recent happenings and jokes and stories, but glued themselves and their attention to their cell phones.  And I am not saying I am better or different.  Once I finally gave in and acquired a smart phone, I often found myself doing the same thing.  But I do realize there has been something lost, something precious.  And it saddens me at times, even if the gains are as great as the loss. I suppose everything in life has a cost.

Today as I rode, I thought about the St. Nick's Hick Ride I did on Saturday this week and how much I enjoyed myself.  (Link to video composed by Rich Ries:)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvSUjXaF3ps&feature=youtu.be  It was good to see everyone.  It is not that we are emotionally close to each other or even what I would even consider close friends, but we are bonded by the enjoyment of this yearly ride, by Rich Ries who is kind enough to organize the ride each year and include me, and by our love of cycling though they lean more toward mountain biking and I suck at mountain biking.  The weather was unusually good for a Hick ride.  Indeed, at one point, I joke about it telling Rich I wondered if something was wrong with him when I saw it was not supposed be zero degrees or colder.  The sun was shining and the wind was light.  The pace was relaxed and the only goal seemed to be to enjoy the world that God has bestowed upon us and each other. It was made more special by the lack of club rides due to COVID and because I know I must isolate as much as possible between then and when I go to see my new granddaughter, Lia.  I also enjoyed the short stretch of single track, something new to me and that actually did not kill me or cause me to break any bones;-)

 

If things never changed, however, there would be no Lia, there would be no Ivy.   Life has a habit of moving onward.   Some people remain in our lives and others don't.  Some people continue to bicycle and others don't.  I suppose the trick is, as Adrienne Rich pointed out, to love what you do and not what you have done, and to be thankful for those that remain dear to  you.  To appreciate what you had, but to concentrate on the gains rather than the losses.  To remain aware of your blessings.  And to move forward enjoying the ride. 

An Untroubled Century Ride

"At these times, the things that troubled

her seemed far away and unimportant:

all that mattered was the hum of the bees

and the chirp of the birdsong, the way the

sun gleamed on the edge of a blue wildflower,

the distant bleat and clink of grazing goats."

Alison Croggon

It seems impossible, particularly after the blazingly hot, humid days of the past few weeks, to have the prediction for a high in the low 80's and little humidity.  Each day recently, upon awakening, I would find so much condensation on the windows that it was hard to see out and 90's with heat index near or over 100 degrees a broken record, relentlessly repeating itself. But this morning there is just a hint around the bottom of the pane. And here it is, the forecast for cooler, less humid weather, and even the night before it is not changed.  The only club ride that would possibly have tempted me would have been a long one, and there are none.  So I decide to head out on a solo century, a journey that has been calling me for awhile but which I have weakly resisted due to the hot, steamy days that making breathing more difficult as if the air had thickened to consistency of honey.

Coolness wraps  its arms around me, bringing goosebumps to my uncovered arms, and I wonder if I should have worn light arm warmers.  I giggle to myself thinking of how when I first started riding and lacked many of the essentials, I cut the toes off some old tube socks so they could serve as warmers.  And when I am done giggling to myself, I realize I no longer feel the chill in any way but a pleasant way, one of the odd phenomenons of riding. I suppose the exercise warms the body. I have decided on the Christy century, and early in the ride I pass the spot where, long ago. I came upon a fox, sitting in the middle of the road, enjoying the morning sun as if he did not have a care in the world.  I remember thinking he was a dog until I drew closer, and then worrying if he was, perhaps, rabid, since he seemed in no  hurry to run from the bicycle that was bearing down on him.  Up he got and slid seamlessly into the nearby woods, disappearing all too quickly yet not seeming hurried. 

I wonder what the day will hold for me because you never really know, particularly if you are on a bicycle. We often think we know how our day will go, reeking with boredom, only to find that it just does not go that way. Sometimes it is a relief when the unexpected happens and sometimes it seems a curse, but perhaps these changes are a blessing, even though we don't like the way our routine is disrupted.  It is hard to remember sometimes that change can be good and that variety is, indeed, the spice of life. 

I think briefly how different preparation for a ride or other outing is different in the time of COVID.  I have packed a mask and neck gaiter for the anticipated run into stores.  I have brought a snack for the first stop, but did not pack a sandwich for lunch.   I miss the old days. On some rides, like the Willisburg Century, lunch was one of the main attractions. And I miss old friends.  I think of Bill Pustow and how when he rode this century with me, he was so shocked at the lunch town Halloween decorations.  And they were, indeed, sacrilegious, or some of them were.  I continue to wonder if that was the intent or if someone just did not put two and two together.  Regardless, I am glad for the miles we rode together, for his company and the stories he would tell, for the times he made me smile and for the times he made me think.  I don't like changes, but things change, and he no longer rides with the club or with me, but I am glad we had the time we had.  Memories of the many rides we rode as companions lace my memories and will for as long as I can hold my memories tightly.

Before I know it, I am passing Cliff Stream Farms where Jon and I recently rode for lunch and where I took Diana for her birthday lunch, a new favorite not just because of the delicious food but because of outside dining, another COVID change.  It is too early for it to be open, but maintenance is hard at work, the roar of the mower sounding through the morning air, the smell of cut grass perfuming my passing. Again, I give thanks for friends, for how they brighten days and moments of our lives. I decide I will stop for my first break at the bridge nearby, one that I loved from the moment I first laid eyes on it while out exploring these roads. 

At the bridge, I come upon a sign and I am not quite sure what it means, but it sounds as if the bridge may be torn down and replaced, something I have seen happen repeatedly on the roads I ride. What does it mean to "reuse" a bridge?  I don't know the answer to this question. Sometimes the things that appeal to me aesthetically are not really useful for most people. Is utility, should utility, be the main goal, or does/should beauty fit in there somewhere?  Perhaps others find beauty in the new bridges, their structures, their size.  Personally, I gravitate toward the old.  I lean my bike against the railing and eat the homemade peanut butter crackers I have brought as I mull these things over in my mind.

Before I reach Vernon, my destination, I have another unexpected event.  I reach a road that says it is closed as a bridge is out.  Of course, scoff law that I am, at least on a bicycle, I skirt the sign and proceed hoping that the people will not be working and that I will be able to pass.  When I reach the bridge, I see a workman sitting there.  Hoping against hope, I wave and approach telling him I am not from around here and wondered about a work around.  Without my asking, he tells me I can cross through the creek if I don't mind getting a bit wet.  He even offers to carry my bike for me, an offer I refuse but appreciate.  I don't stop to take pictures after crossing as more workmen are coming and I worry he will get in trouble for his kindness in allowing me to pass.  I suppose it has been fueled by lawsuits, but it certainly seems that not many are helpful anymore.  In allowing me to pass, he has saved me what I would estimate to be about five extra miles, not a big deal in summer on a day like today, but a big deal when daylight is less abundant or when the sun is scorching every inch of your skin like a blow torch .   

I love the roads on this ride, particularly the first 65 miles or so. Some are more lanes than roads.  All have tree overhangs shading providing shade that dapples the ground.  Certainly, it makes spotting potholes more difficult, but oh how pleasant it makes the trip.  I realize that Ms. Croggon is right.  Whether it is the bicycle, the scenery, the weather, or a combination of the three, things that trouble me fall behind me on the road.    I think that is one of the things I love most about riding, how often you can leave behind the negative. As usual, I appreciate the deep, rich greenness.  The hot, humid weather has ensured that things have remained green.  In the corn fields, however, I spot the first signs of the coming fall.  Silks are blackening, edges of leaves are hinting of browning. Black Eyed Susans are pretty much gone as are the daisies.  I see the first of the Sumac and think how, when Lloyd was living, I would have told him as they are good honey producers.  Yellow flowers, tall and beautiful, perhaps wild sunflowers but whose name I don't really know, are blooming.  Insects buzz. As I pass wet lands, I hear a frog still pining for a mate.  And because I am not with others, I can sing, loudly and robustly, as I have not been able to for quite a while.

I pick up the pace after lunch finding that my legs feel better than expected.  I have been riding slowly all year, and while I still am not riding quickly, I am riding hard for my fitness level and it feels good.  My lungs start to heave a bit and my thighs ache, but I know I can hold this pace for a long while, pedals churning.  And all too soon it is over and I am home and I wonder why I hurried.  And I wonder if I will ever figure out how to correct the date on my camera;-)  But it is all good.  And this day, a brief respite from the merciless heat that is August,  a brief respite from the things that trouble me, has been a blessing.  Oh, yeah.....bicycles.

Just An End of Summer Ride

"Summer's lease has all too short

a date."

William Shakespeare

It is one of those rare, precious,end of summer days, the kind you want to savor and remember, made sweeter by the realization that fall approaches.  After days of humidity when the sweat pours from  your body but just sits there, un-evaporated, even on a bicycle, and days of high heat where you begin to think that you must be baked clean through, the morning has a chill in the air that promises fall is not far behind.  "How," I think, "did the spring and summer get away from me with so little time on the bike?"  But there it is, or at least that is how it seems.  "Maybe," I think, " you just can't get enough time on the bike. "

I used to laugh when retired people would say that they just don't have time to do things, but there it is. I have a cousin who told me that once he retired, he found he resented anything that he "had" to do, even things like doctor or dental appointments, and I find he is right.  I like having things I want to do, but I have no desire to have things that I have to do.  They are still there though, those chores and responsibilities, though certainly not as many.  They just feel differently. 

I have put a 66 mile ride on the schedule because the thought of riding the city club ride on a such a beautiful day is too awful to think about, but I have no idea how many will show to share this glorious weather with me. Many people, even those who used to ride other routes, have turned to the flat, rather ugly, city ride for whatever reason:  other riders, ease of the course, etc. As it turns out, there are seven of us.  Yet again, during the ride I wonder a bit at how the love of bicycling brings together such diverse people, people who otherwise would never have met and may not have even liked each other if they did. 

Our cycling abilities vary on this ride as much as the designs and colors of our jerseys.  But it is one of those days that are truly precious because nobody is in a hurry or has any desire to hammer the entire way.  There are even times throughout the ride where I approach to find those in front gathered at the side of the road, talking and laughing and waiting for us.  My mind harkens to the early days of the Tour de Mad Dog when speed was not as essential as staying together and the companionship it afforded.  I think of how even though I see some of those early riders rarely or even never, I retain a special fondness for many of them.

Everything is still green, yet there is  hint of change in the foliage of the trees we pass.  The Tulip Poplar trees are almost bare, and we decide that while they lose their leaves before other trees, it is not usually this early and may be related to the drought that broke recently.  Other trees show a tinge of rust, so faint that you could convince yourself that it is your imagination run wild.  We discuss briefly how there really was not much of a fall last year and how we hope that there is this year, those glorious rides of fall that tug on your heart because you know that all to soon it will be grey and cold out, that you won't see these people as often or at all until spring reclaims the land.  The ironwood is blooming and the purple of the flower again promises that the season is near to changing. 

After the ride, all but one of  us go for barbecue at "Rubbing Butts."  There is joking about the name, but the food is good and the companionship is better.  At one point I think how nice it is to hear laughter, to have people to share nourishment with, particularly well deserved nourishment.  And then it is over, but there is warmth inside that will keep me smiling and will even continue to curve my lips as I slip into a well deserved sleep.  Thank you to all who shared this day with me.  I hope your enjoyment of the day and people and the scenery was as great as my own.  Thank you for making it a true group ride, rather than a ride made up of individual groups.  Thank you for making it special. 

Scotland 2019

"Travel isn't always pretty.  It isn't always comfortable.

Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that's 

okay. The journey changes you; it should change you.

It leaves marks on  your memory, on your consciousness,

on your heart, and on your body.  You take something with you.

Hopefully, you leave something good behind."

Anthony Bourdain 

I don't know why I have this strange desire to go ride a bicycle in Scotland.  There are so many places here in this country that I have not seen.  They would be cheaper and easier to visit. There are so many other countries that I have not visited. I have been to Scotland before. My first memory of Scotland is from when I was a child visiting a farm on holiday with my parents.  The memory is not a pleasant one but one of cold, indifference from the farm wife when I became ill (the woman would not give me so much as a slice of bread since I was ill at supper time and missed the meal) and of fear when the next day a goose scared that dickens out of me, chasing and pecking me with her bill.  The second visit was as a mother when I did a quick drive through visit with the children. We did get to see some of Edinburgh and watch the Tattoo.  Perhaps it is the breathtaking scenery during this drive that draws me.  But for whatever odd reason, I want to return.

I have been through Hospice  three times since the end of 2014.   I have lost my husband, my mother, and my brother. I don't complain.  There are those that have lost more.  Death, inevitably, is a part of life.  But as I tell a friend, the loss that has laced my life has taught me that if there are things I want to do, I need to begin doing them and doing them now.  Time is a thief, illness pounces unexpectedly,  and I suspect that as the end nears and our abilities diminish, the biggest regrets are those things that we did not do as well as those things we did that caused others pain rather than joy.  During last moments with my husband, mother, and brother some themes from each were constant despite their varying lives, and one of the strongest was regret for things that had caused pain to others. 

Somehow I know Lloyd would be happy that I am doing this, venturing forth and exploring. He was the one who urged me to go to France for Paris-Brest-Paris. He was the one who came to my first road race. He was the one who sat waiting when I completed my first triathlon.  He was the one who bought me my first bike as an adult and urged me to try new things.  Even in death, memories of things he said encourage and support me though he can no longer hold me or pick me up when I make the wrong decision and fail, something that happens quite regularly I might add. Yes, I have lost many of those I love, but I am grateful for each of them and what they meant to me.  I am grateful for the memories with which they laced my life and of the lessons that they helped me learn.

Instead of Scotland, there are balconies overlooking oceans in warm lands where I could go and sit with a glass of wine in hand and read a novel, another favorite passtime.  There are beaches that beg for bare feet to leave an imprint and shells waiting to be found and examined. There are cruises to exotic places with strange names geared to tourists and pleasure.   But there it is, weird as always,  I  have the desire to go to Scotland, the land of Mary, Queen of Scots, and her Lord Bothwell, characters that have intrigued me since I was a child and read how she was outsmarted by Queen Elizabeth.  I fear my father was right and I am a dreamer.  I don't forget the look of disgust on his face when he said this, but I forgive him.  I can't help who I am, but he could not help who he was. And yet, death has taught me that for all our differences, we are kin. "Blood is a sacred poison."  (I can't remember who to attribute that quote to) And no, so far as I know having never done genetic testing,  I have not one drop of Scot blood in my veins. Native American, Italian, German, and English, or so I have been told from family lore.

During the cold of the Indiana winter, I begin delving into information on the internet on bicycling in Scotland and tentatively decide on a company:  Wilderness Scotland.  They have numerous options to choose from and I actually contemplate the possibility of a walking tour rather than a bicycling tour. Originally I even toy with the idea of just going unsupported, using a company for routes to follow but riding on my own; however, I am concerned about whether I would have cell service and whether I would feel safe traveling alone. What if I have a serious mechanical that I can't fix?  What if I get hopelessly lost?  What if I take a tumble and get injured and there is nobody there to help? All of the anxieties that  haunt me when I diverge from my familiar paths. All of the fears that have conscripted my life at various points and against which I have had to fight relentlessly. At some point in this process, I don't really remember when, Amelia Dauer expresses some interest in going with me.  I do know it is before I have paid any money or made any travel arrangements as she actually does most of the work in that area. And perhaps, despite my  trepidation at having a traveling companion and the obligations that brings along with it, that spurs me onward.  Dreams do, indeed, need foundations to become more than dreams.

Amelia truly does most of the work arranging flights and places to stay.  Apparently, we have waited rather longer than is recommended for planning such an adventure.  Buying an airline ticket appears to be much like buying a car.  There is never just a price.  This is what we will take for that car or that flight. We get a better deal on a flight by renting a car that we will never pick up or use along with the flight, something that still makes no sense to me. Eventually, however,  it is planned out.  We both are going to London for a couple of days, then to Inverness where we will spend a day before the ride starts, and then the bicycle ride with Wilderness Scotland from Inverness to Edinburgh.   We then will fly back to London and I will fly home from there while Amelia will remain to do additional touring for a few days.

When we arrive in Inverness after a brief stay in London and awaken to go exploring, one of the first things that happens is that a bird decides to poop on me getting both my sweat shirt and my jeans.  Luckily, much of it misses me, but there is enough on me that I  go back to the room and change.  The inn keeper laughs as I tell him and then informs me I need to buy a lottery ticket, something I don't quite understand as he seems quite serious.  I later Google it and find it is a Russian belief, or at least that is what the internet says.  My daughter-in-law is from Siberia and did not mention it when I e-mailed what had happened, but who knows?  She may have been too busy laughing.  In other words, yes, a bird pooping on you is supposed to mean good luck is coming your way.  I don't buy a lottery ticket, but I hope that good luck finds me.

It is just too much to talk about London or much about Inverness, but I have to mention it because of being pooped upon. I must really be lucky.  You see, after we meet our guides for the tour, Tim and Scott,  and go to the Culloden battlefield to have bikes fitted, I find that my assigned bike also has been pooped upon.  I am beginning to feel targeted;-) They don't have wet wipes.  Luckily, I do normally carry some and that day was no exception.  I clean my handlebars and try it out.  The rental bike is a black Trek, a 49c rather than the 50c I normally ride, but it shifts flawlessly and feels feather light after my bike which is always packed with all the tools and repair items I think I might need while exploring on my own.  Amelia, who actually normally rides a smaller bike then me, is assigned a larger bike.  I offer to trade but she says that she will be fine and, as it turns out, she is. The bikes are equipped with a large front bag as well as a water proof carrier that one can put wallets and cameras and phones in to keep them dry.  We are told by the guides, Tim and Scott, that we also will have opportunities to place things into the van or get them out of the van throughout the day.  Briefly I think that it was, perhaps, a mistake not to bring my own saddle, but with the shorter mileage it turns out okay.  Another rider suffers a saddle sore, but my own butt remains fine throughout.

The first days ride is from the Culloden Battlefield to Grantown-on-Spey.  The strange names of the towns we visit and pass through are hard to remember, unfamiliar, slightly exotic.  Amelia and I almost miss the lunch stop.  Two other riders do miss the stop and the guides scramble to find them. I find I do best if I have them spell the town names, but still I forget and could easily have ridden by a stop. It is hard to get used to riding on a different side of the road, and this is particularly apparent at turns and round abouts. 

The Scottish scenery does not disappoint.   I find I can't get enough of it and even before the ride ends I know I would love to return. We ride for seven days through the Highlands down to the Lowlands and into Edinburgh.  The oldness impresses me.  For some reason, I normally prefer the old to the new.  I have a spoon my grandmother cooked with that I treasure.  My mother's silver hair brush and comb with the broken tooth. Stone cottages, walls, and bridges are everywhere.  Growth is lush and green from the wet and cooler temperatures. Some vegetation seems familiar, but some does not.  I learn that the yellow flowers are eggs and bacon enduring Tim's chuckle when I mistakenly call them bacon and eggs. Scott later laughs after telling us about faffing when I call if falafeling.  Their grins make me smile because they are kindly. 

  One day, before we leave the Highlands, we face an 8 mile climb with some 20 per cent grades.  I stop repeatedly throughout the rides to take photos, though not during the climb because of the dense fog and wanting to climb without stopping.  It would just seem wrong to stop, as if I were cheating.  It is a delicious climb and despite the length and grade, I am glad I have a wool base layer.  It is raining  and the mist is so thick that I can't see how far it is to the top.  I worry a bit about safety because of the density of the mist. Scott is waiting at the top and laughs when I giggle and ask if we can do the same climb tomorrow.  What a glorious feeling it is cresting a tough climb! I feel cheated on the winding descent, taken at a snail's pace due to the fog and the switch backs.  The climb itself reminds me of night riding during brevets where you climb and your light does not extend far enough ahead to tell if you have a little or lot of climb left or where you judge by the little red light from someone else's bike in front of you but I swear I have descended faster even in pitch blackness.  Near the bottom we turn into a quaint restaurant in the middle of nowhere to have lunch.  Everyone jokes about the short steep climb up to the restaurant.  Again I am reminded of brevets.  The Kentucky brevets start at a motel that has a very short hill that seems mountainous at the end of a 600K.  There are egg salad sandwiches and ham sandwiches with butter, dishes I remember from my youth.  The hot chocolate is rich and filling.  I switch to the dry socks I stowed in my handlebar bag to warm my feet. It feels nice when Tim compliments Amelia and me saying we are strong riders.

While I have worried about whether I was fit enough for the ride, Amelia and I are among the fittest riders and it is not a problem to stop for photos and then catch up.  Amelia tells me she never worried about whether she was fit enough, and I think of Lloyd telling me that if I said I was good at something, he knows to call the Olympics committee. Indeed, even if we were not as fit as we currently are, the guides repeatedly remind us that it is not a race and that we should stop when we like and take photos.  At one point, Scott and I do have a good romp where I was able to stretch my legs, but by that time we have left the Highlands and I am not so concerned about the scenery.  It felt good to use my legs and my lungs and to ride hard.  It is pretty at places in the Lowlands, but not breathtaking like the Highlands.  In the Highlands, I can believe in fairies and ogres and dwarfs, and  unicorns. I can see Lord Bothwell galloping, his horse's mane and tail streaking wildly behind in the wind. I see old backs, bent with years, faces carved by wind and rain, carrying hay to feed the Scottish cattle with their long forelocks or toiling in fields.  As we enter the lowlands, we see potato field after potato field: a crop I had not associated with Scotland. 

The guides, Tim and Scott, take turns.  Each rides a day or two then drives a day or two. At the start of each day, the plans and roads for the day are discussed.  I never have trouble understanding Scott and only had trouble understanding Tim once when he was talking with someone at a tea stop and they were conversing at a rapid pace.  Amelia said she struggles with the accents.  Perhaps because I spent a year living in England as a child and did visit Scotland?  I have heard that the brain screens language sounds that we don't hear or use as we age.  Indeed, I find the sound of both the Scottish and British accents soothing and melodic, almost comforting.  But remembering the names and spellings of the places we pass through is almost impossible for me. My memory, however, is becoming increasingly problematic, even at home.  Nothing to be done about it for I am growing old.

There are times when I stop and talk to people who are out in their  yards because it interests me to see how other people live.  The one man compliments the American Women's Soccer Team.  He makes me laugh when he said that if the men get hurt, they lay on the ground and cry, but  the women suck it  up and keep playing.  I learn he and his wife are staying there in his son's cottage for awhile helping out.  He is unable to help me with my mortaring question as it is not his home and he does not do the maintenance.  Another time, during a stop to photograph a Scottish cow,  I meet someone from Iceland who responds to my teasing by saying the door to his house is open if I want to visit.  Another man I talk to has three rescue dogs and has just moved to this part of Scotland.  He explained that the plastic tubes I see have trees inside and the tubing is to protect the trees from the deer.  He said he has not yet seen any deer, but he suspects they will come down from the mountains in the fall for the rut.  He talks about the many birds and he and I discuss the seagulls living so far from the sea.  Like me, he is a bit bewildered. He says that this has amazed him and his wife. Earlier that day I had spied a whole flock of them in a hay feet that had been recently bailed.  Crows and other birds also abound.  He and his wife enjoy feeding the birds and have numerous feeders handing.  I would have like to have talked more, but do not want to hold the group up so I move on.

One thing that interests me during rides or on walks through the villages is that not once are we chased by dogs.  I see numerous dogs throughout the trip, often not on leashes.  All appear so well trained, responding immediately when owners call.  I see not one pit bull, the dog that has become so common in the Kentucky/Indiana countryside.  I get the impression that here dogs are family members that provide companionship and love whereas at home the pit bulls are more about protection. For whatever reason, it impresses me.  I do intend to get a dog one day when my traveling is done, and it definitely will NOT be a pit bull.  During one conversation with a local, I ask about his sheep dog and if he works the sheep with them. He tells me that he does not, they are rescue dogs from the shelter and have no training. 

During the rides, we stop at various places for lunch and for tours.  We have drinks and snacks outside a castle.  We stop for a tour of a whiskey making facility  and have a picnic that Scott prepared (I could not participate in the tour as the smell of the malt made me nauseous so my vow to take a sip of whisky for the first time in my life was not fulfilled). To me the smell is an angry, dark smell, absolutely repellent, and I wonder why for others love it.  We tour Balmoral Castle and Glamis and other places. Some I have read about and some not.  I think it is fascinating how interests vary.  One man on the trip, John, says if you have seen one castle you have seen them all.  His interests lie elsewhere.  Me, I could stop at each and every one and go exploring.  I dream about what it must have been like to live here, now and 500 years ago.  At one point, I tell the guides that anyone who lived in the Highlands must have been strong, for the weak would not have survived.  They agree. Even with modern heating, I suspect many of the dwellings are cold, drafty,  and damp in the wintertime. The weather is great for riding as it is so cool, but never really gets hot.  The sun flirts with us, but never truly shines for any length of time.  Rain and mist taunt us throughout. Like home, proper riding clothing is essential for comfort, but the packing list they provided was good and I am never truly cold or hot.

At night we rest at quaint motels where the beds are surprisingly comfortable and, as per my last European visit, I struggle with figuring out the plumbing.  At one inn, you had to turn the shower on from outside of the bathroom.  (By the time we figured this out I had given in and taken a bath instead of a shower, something I don't normally do in hotels).  As I tell Amelia, it is an IQ test and normally I fail.  Meals are taken late.  Normally we were seated at 7:00 or so.  Then the food appears a half hour or so later.  I find I am distressed at the change in my routine.  I don't like to eat so late or to go to bed on a full stomach.  I miss the rhythm of Texas Hell Week where we would spend the day riding, shower, eat, and go to bed to ride again.  If nothing else, this trip makes me realize things about myself:  some good and some bad.  My inflexibility is one of these things and certainly is not a strength.  Amelia is more fluid and adaptable and I admire that trait even while not emulating it, but then she is sleeping well and I am not.  Still, I feel sorry for her having to room with me.  Both of us are used to lots of alone time, and while we get some of that on the bike, we get little in the rooms we briefly stay in.  Perhaps lack of sleep plays a role and perhaps it does not.  Most nights I sleep a mere three or four hours.  This remains an issue throughout my time away from home.  Still, I fear it is my personality more than anything else.  Amelia does point out that it is always light here.  It does not get dark until late, 10 or so, and by 4:00 a.m. it is daylight again.  Indeed, a few days I got up and went out for a walk because I was up and breakfast did not open until 7:00 a.m. or later.

As the trip ends, I realize that there is a beauty in this lifestyle and wish I had been able to develop more of an appreciation.  I am disappointed in myself for not being able to better manage being outside of my comfort zone.  Dinner is, perhaps, supposed to be an experience, a time to relax and share company and stories, for filling the mind as well as the belly.  Shops should, perhaps, close at 5:00 p.m. Different is just different, perhaps, not better and not worse. Perhaps the lack of fast food in the small villages we pass through and stay in account for the lack of litter because I see very little trash alongside the roads.  Sometimes during the trip, however, I feel like all I am doing is eating. Yet somehow, and I truly don't see how it is possible, I don't gain weight during the trip, something I was sure would happen.  Indeed, out of curiosity, once I get home, I google the requirements to immigrate to Scotland, but of course I am old, unskilled, and not rich so would not be wanted there other than as a visitor. But perhaps I did leave something there, a bit of myself, in the remarks I made to our guides and to the random strangers that I stopped to have a conversation with. I certainly brought home memories, many more than I could ever recount in this blog post, memories that will make me smile and make me cry and make me feel.  Hopefully, I also learned a few things and will be a better, more receptive traveler in the future, for I intend to visit more places. Perhaps one day I will even be lucky enough to return to Scotland again.

One thing that surprises me throughout the trip is how much, for some reason, it makes me miss Lloyd.  It is almost as if I just lost him again, as if he is here and if I just turn quickly enough I would see him, hear him making some smart ass remark that would stretch a smile across my face and a giggle to arise from my stomach.  As I ride, he haunts me repeatedly and I ache with longing for the sight, sound, touch, and smell of him.  As I ride I realize that a part of me will die when I am no longer able to do this, to ride roads and feel the wind, to soak up scenery and to dream unfettered and I am so grateful for my health and for bicycles and for Scotland. And again I am thankful to my husband because he bought me my first bicycle, a gift I had no desire for at the time. (Silly me).  And in a sense, he gave me this trip, this adventure, and these new memories.  Thank you, love.  I am going to have so much to tell you about when we meet again. 

Bike to Work Day 2017

"Forget yesterday for it has already forgotten you. 

Don't sweat tomorrow - you haven't even met.

Instead, open your eyes and your heart to a 

truly precious gift - today."

Steve Maraboli

It is bike to work day Friday, but I know that I need my car to work that day, so I look at my calendar and decide upon an alternative:  Wednesday.  The night before I plug in the battery for my light, the one I use on short rides.  I pack my back pack with the work clothing I will need that day, check my tires and tail lights, then head to bed a bit earlier than normal and set my alarm a little earlier than normal.  

I wake at 5:00, right before the alarm goes off,  knowing I need to leave by 6:00 to make it and have a bit of a cushion to ensure I get there on time.  Rain is not predicted, but it is abnormally warm and stuffy.  As I slip out the door, I miss the coolness that would normally greet me this time of morning, but it is nice not to have to wear a jacket.  I always think of him when I leave, of how if he were awake he would urge me to be careful, the concern in his voice wrapping itself around me, the brief shelter of his arms.  He didn't hate my cycling like my mother did, but he did worry.  I miss that.  I miss the touch of him, the smell of him, the sound of him, the love of him.  But I have learned to survive and even to thrive. Life is not the same, it is different, but it is still precious. 

The first couple of miles, normally mellow and relaxing, are tense.  Due to the state road closure, the cars that normally would not dream of coming this way are coming in what seem to be droves and the roads are narrow.  I can tell I am quite visible though as I see them slow, almost seeming to pause, in my rear view mirror.  I think about how circumstances change things when I find myself glad to reach the wide shouldered road I normally ride in on because it is quicker than the back roads I love so.  I will ride the back roads home, but I am not willing to take the extra time on the way, at least not today.

I notice daisies and honeysuckle and the first of the sweet clover as dawn pushes herself into the world.  The moon hangs off to the left, pale and solemn, not quite ready to yield.  Though I am heading west and not east, clouds tinge briefly with pinkness as dawn insists on having her turn.  I think of how I missed the night riding this year with not doing the brevets.  

I climb the hill thinking of how Tiffany and I came  here to gather rocks for landscaping her new home.  We ate Mexican that day and were approached by a geologist who mistakenly thought we were there looking for a certain type of stone.  I think of how I worry about her and her brother sometimes and decide that is just part of motherhood:  even if I live to 90 I assume I will always worry about them.  I think of how I miss my mother, not as she was at the end, but as she was when she was still healthy and had her memory.  I wonder if I will lose my memory.  It seems almost as if that is the same as losing yourself. After she lost her memory, my mother always enjoyed it when I regurgitated the stories she had told me about herself, and I wonder if my children will tell me my stories if I forget them.  

And in the midst of my reverie, I find I have arrived.  I bring my bicycle inside the building, change clothes, and begin to deal with those issues that need to be dealt with, that I am paid to deal with.  And I anticipate the ride home.  Today is, indeed, a gift I gave myself, enriched by a ride to work. 

Century Interruptus

"Promise me you'll always remember;

you're braver than you believe, stronger 

than you seen, and smarter than you think."

Christopher Robin to Pooh  (Milne)

It is Saturday and Sunday is all mine.  I took care of my mother and sister last week-end.  While I didn't finish, I worked on the shed and housework yesterday and will continue today.  Sunday will be a play day. There are no club rides that interest me. And I actually want to ride:  I want to ride in a way that I have not wanted to ride for many a month.  I want to do a new route, to explore new roads, but there is so much flooding and a prediction for possibly more rain and a heat alert with feel like temperatures of possibly 107 that I waiver.  I decide to play it safe and stick with roads that I know.  But I will ride.   I will ride as far and as long as I would like.  I am filled with anticipation. It feels good.

I want to ride.  I want to shout it to the world, "I am alive and I want to ride by bicycle."  I thought I might never feel this again, and it was not like when you say you don't want to ride again at the end of a long, difficult brevet that has stretched your limits.  Yes, I want to ride.  I want to feel the pedals yield to leg muscles and core muscles.  I want to feel those muscles strain and quiver forcing my bike up the hills and to feel my lungs gasp for air to feed those muscles.   I want to feel the sun make me sweat, burning my eyes and my skin,  but drink enough so that it cannot not break me.  I want to savor the feel of the wind in my hair and nuzzling my cheek, and I want my eyes to absorb all the beauty that I come across during my rambling.  I want to cramp and work my way through those cramps, victorious.  I will find a path, somehow, through all this flooding.   I Want to ride my bike and I Want to be happy and I Want to feel alive.

As I roll out into the world, light sleepily seeps into the world and  I find the clouds have come down to embrace the earth:  knee high fog mists across the fields.  The air is rather thick with the humidity, but still pleasant. Everything is green and lush from the constant precipitation we have been getting despite the heat, and I find my eyes, mind, and mouth smiling with delight.  I have decided to head toward Salem on Eden/Delaney Park Road and see if I can get through.  I have my doubts, but I love this road so.  It is worth taking a chance on.  And so what if I have to turn around and head elsewhere.  I am playing.  For today I will be childlike.  Screw responsibility. The green lushness, siren-like, leads me onward.

 A flock of crows raucously greet me, shouting their warnings to each other that I am on the road, cheering me on as if they have missed me, my totem. A bit further down the road I hear a chorus of frogs so loud and so numerous that at first I do not know what I am hearing.  Who other than a crazy bicycle lady would be out here in the woods at this time of the day, and what would they be doing?  Hunting season has not yet arrived. A gaggle of  young turkeys take flight to the low tree limbs lining the road  causing branches and leaves to rustle. I notice the roots of trees, valiantly lacing themselves together in a vain attempt to hold the earth in place.  Like all of us, they win a few skirmishes, but never the war.  Despite the ultimate futility of their efforts, they are beautiful, these trees, and so are their efforts, and I tell them so.  And I think that perhaps today, instead of being a plain Jane, I am beautiful too as I win this skirmish.

The wind has brought down the first of the walnuts and persimmons, immature, but still a portent of what is to come.  "Not  yet, not yet," I think.  "I am just coming back to life, and I am not yet prepared for the dark, cold, silence that is winter.  Riding in the winter is just so much harder, harder even than these ninety degree days, demanding a discipline that I have not yet redeveloped.  I need to be stronger, more ready."  But despite my protestations, I know that time will move on unremittingly, deaf to my pleas,  just as this seemingly ceaseless rain continues.

Rounding a corner, I notice a corn field off to the right completely submerged in the flood waters, but I plunge onward. Other than the tops of a few of the corn plants, you would think it was a lake. I have ridden over an hour and have not yet seen an automobile or a person.   It is as if I am alone in the world other than the inhabitants of this forest.  The flooding makes it seem as if I have been magically transported to a new land with unfamiliar roads and all sorts of discoveries just waiting to be made.

I begin to think of Paris and how jealous I am of the adventures the Kentucky crew had the other evening with their preparation ride.  I think this is a splendid feeling, a sign that perhaps I will make it through and out the other side, something that I had begun to doubt.  But I must be patient with myself. Did I make the right decision in not going this year?  Absolutely.  But it is good to feel a tinge of regret at the adventures they will surely have without me.  And there are other brevets and other types of rides that beckon. 

All too soon, as I feared, I hit a moat of water covering the road.  I toy with the idea of wading across, but I decide the distance is too great and it is impossible to know for sure how deep it will become and if any current remains. It brings to mind the many times my husband scolded me for crossing flooded areas, bike hoisted on my shoulder, and I think he would be proud of my decision. It is odd to see the soybeans submerged under the water, looking up longingly through the water, desperately desiring air, dancing in the little water current.

I decide to head toward Pekin and enter Salem from the south rather than the north.  My store stop will be my own house, and my cereal with blueberries tastes like a feast.  I think how riding, running, or other exercise enhances the pleasure of eating.  Things just taste better when you are truly  hungry and your body is depending on food for fuel to perform.  How many times do I just eat because I am supposed to or because the food is there rather than because I truly am hungry and have need of sustenance.

This part of my journey is completely different terrain and scenery wise.  Forest gives way to farm land, unflooded farmland with crops as lush and green as I ever remember them being. Black-eyed Susan and Queen Ann's Lace decorate the borders.  Briefly, I smile at the thought of how when the children were small we would cut the Queen Ann's Lace and place it in jars of colored water delighting as the water gradually colored the white flower petals.  I pass a few cars, particularly around Salem, but the road today seems to belong to the Amish.  It seems I pass wagon after wagon of horse drawn vehicles.  Two are hitched at the final store stop while the Amish pick up odds and ends that they need.

Tired, but happy, I arrive home, hoping that I will sleep tonight.  I have held the words that Christopher Robin said near to my heart.  I had forgotten them, but before my nickname was Puddle, I had friends that called me Pooh.  Perhaps I am braver than I believe, and I will make it through this after all.  And perhaps I will continue to love cycling with a passion that is something to behold.  I certainly did today.  The century was interrupted, but it was completed, and I loved every minute of it despite the heat and humidity. 

Bethlehem Century on a Spring Day

"Good friends help you to find important things

when you have lost them.....

your smile, your hope, and your courage."

Doe Zantamata

It has been raining, dark, and dreary for what seems to be an eternity and I have not gotten back into my regular habit of riding after getting home from work.  But this week-end Saturday is predicted to be gorgeous, sunny and warm, before returning to the gloomy gray that has bathed every nook and cranny of Kentuckiana recently.  If the old adage about April showers is true, then May should be absolutely teeming with flowers.  I briefly pity the ride captain because I feel sure that I am not the only slothful person who has been unable to drag themselves out the door and thus is woefully out of shape. This is also a difficult ride for me because it is the route I had to cancel in December the day after my husband's stroke. Bethlehem, a route I put together years ago and normally have in December so that Christmas cards to friends and loved ones have the Bethlehem postage stamp.  I toy with staying home, but know that however difficult it is I must look forward.  How I wish I were brave.  Sometimes I still think of myself as feeling like an animal in a trap must feel when it chews off a limb to become free:  I miss him so much that I would do almost anything to escape that pain.  But unlike the animal, I know there is no true freedom there through drugs, alcohol, suicide.

I wish I could say that my faith is so strong that I never doubt that I will be reunited with him in heaven, but it is not.  I just am not as strong as he was.  I believe, but I question.  He never seemed to do so.  I still talk with him in my mind, and sometimes I can almost hear his answer, but it is not the same.  The thought of never seeing him again, of never hearing the sound of his voice, of never seeing him smile, is almost unbearable.  How I miss his humor and how he made me laugh.  I would have married him on that basis alone.  But there is no other viable choice, so I try to focus my thoughts on being grateful.  I am a mother and despite the fact my children are grown, I continue to believe that they learn from me and that I must set a good example.  One foot in front of the other. As my mother always said, "This too shall pass."  And death and dealing with it is just part of the human condition.

Today is also the Kentucky 400K, but I have decided Paris Brest Paris is definitely out for me this year.  While there is a part of me that regrets this decision, that knows that my husband would be disappointed in this decision, it is the decision I have made for various reasons, rightly or wrongly.  Too much money to spend when I am unsure if I will enjoy it and with things so unsettled emotionally and financially. Too much planning and thinking when I am not on top of my game. Recently a friend noted that I don't deal well with uncertainty. There is truth in that observation, but seldom in my life has everything been as unsettled and uncertain as it is now.  At least now my not going is a certainty and perhaps I will not overly question my decision and I will be at peace.  I have not qualified and I have requested my refund from Des Perres. 

So there is no need in doing the 400.  Indeed, there is no desire to do the 400K.  Briefly  I wonder if that too has been taken from me or if, in time, the desire will return again.  I realize, however, that it can only be taken from me if I allow that to happen.  Some days it is just hard to get out of bed. I long for him in dreams and still he does not come and things are the same when consciousness rudely invades my sleep.  I am broken and he cannot fix me as he did in the past with his words and his caresses.  I find I have no regret about not having to get up early and riding the brevet other than missing those early morning hours on the bike in the cool, soothing darkness just before the sun comes up, when the day coyly promises and beckons and the world is mysterious and full of possibilities. 

I am surprised at the number of riders at the Forestry when I arrive.  With "Thunder Over Louisville," a local fireworks display, being later this evening and the traffic it will cause, I expect a small turn out.  But I am wrong.  Larry, "Gizmo,"  has his drone up photographing the ride start.  It is the first time I have seen  a drone and initially it startles me until Lucky tells me what it is.  Nancy generously gives me a Mad Dog coffee mug saying she has them made for the women that rode last  year. I briefly think of  how kind people have been, and how loss has given me a new perspective.  I hope that I can become kinder, less judgmental, more compassionate, that I learn from my experience. After briefly chattering with friends, some of whom I have not seen for quite awhile, Troy, the ride captain, gathers everyone around and then we are on our way, wheels spinning and colorful jerseys brightening the roadway.

Despite my rather gloomy attitude, I try to smile and make conversation with friends, and I find that I am interested in what they have to say.  So much has happened since I have had a chance to visit with some of them.  Joe is nice enough to compliment my writing and this blog, and his attempts to make me feel better cause me to find my smile, however temporarily. And gradually I do feel better, more like old self.  Spring has truly arrived and the red bud trees are brilliant  their color lacing and intertwining with the green promise on nearby trees.  Wildflowers line the road in places.  Fields remain empty as of yet, but they begin to show the promise of the coming planting of crops.   I can almost feel the frustration of local gardeners and farmers longing for it to quit raining long enough to do their work. I momentarily puzzle whether I will plant anything this year. I find myself caught up in the beauty, in the rebirth that is spring.  

Lucky is riding his fixed gear, so I ride much of the day with him.  We talk about the spring and about the brilliant greeness this  year. Despite not seeing him often for a number of years, it is like coming home, this riding with a friend that I have spent so much time with in the past.  We briefly reminisce about the first Tour De Mad Dog and conclude that while it is a much larger group now and the dynamics have changed due to the increase in members, it is still a group of very nice people.  And I find hope  in the thought that change does not mean that everything is lost, that nothing will ever again will ever be quite the same, but that different does not necessarily mean bad.  And I find my courage in that hope.

Like so many rides on a pleasant spring day that are shared rides with friends, this ride ends all too quickly and I do my extra lap around the forestry to get my 100 miles.  Life goes on relentless whether we take his hand or get dragged kicking and screaming.  Things happen and we  cope the best we can.  But how much easier everything is with a bicycle and some friends.  Thanks, everyone.

To Packman: My Friend

"Heaven would not be heaven

if there were no hills."

Melissa "Puddle" Hall

As I climb my last long training hill before a gentle taper for my 1000K, my lungs spasmodically heaving with effort, my thighs crying and cursing me, I feel the thrill of victory surge through me, volcanically rising inside as I crest the top.  With sweat still mercilessly stinging my eyes, I rest in an easy but  powerful rhythm and feel the blessed relief  that comes from a less intense effort.  It is like doing Pilates and finally releasing from the plank position or some other position that challenges your muscles to the max, an internal melting of blessed release, release that only comes following effort.  Internally there is a core nugget of satisfaction, of having accomplished a goal, of success in not walking, in not yielding to the temptation to just quit, in following a plan of action wherever it leads.  Yes, I am proud of myself.  Whether I succeed or not in the long run is temporarily unimportant, I have gotten this far without surrendering.  And I think to myself the above, that heaven would not be heaven without hills.  To feel like this inside, to see the land stretched out below like a museum painting, to conquer and overcome, this is important, at least to me. Surely even in heaven there are challenges. And if there are challenges there must be hills,  and if there are hills there absolutely MUST be bicycles.  Otherwise, heaven would not be heaven.

Hope to ride with you then, Packman.  Until then, I carry a part of you inside me whether you know it or not my friend.   Puddle

Kentucky 400K Brevet

"Love only what you do,

and not what you have done."

Adrienne Rich

The weather promises to be gorgeous, as if apologizing for its temper tantrum on the 300K.  Yes, there is wind, but it is not the cold, punishing, in your face wind of the 300K but a kinder, gentler wind that will test us on the way out but will also reward us by a push home. More importantly, at least to me, there will be sunshine, glorious sunshine, in the world today; and there will be color from leaves and from flowers stirring, shyly pushing up through the ground, glorying in their rebirth.  Spring has finally graced us with her presence after the winter that would not quit.  Greedily, I anticipate a sumptuous feast for my eyes and my soul.  The world is callow, fresh, and like a newborn baby, there is something quite special about it:  a whole world of possibilities lies ahead and each bend of the road could conceal a surprise.

Susan is kind enough to ask me to stay  the night so I do not need to rent a room the night before the brevet or drive so far in the morning.  As always, she is the soul of hospitality.  Only a midnight phone call from the motel I had cancelled reservations with on Wednesday asking if I was still coming left me befuddled and  marred my sleep once it finally arrived.  I still haven't figured that one out. I decide not to let it upset me for there is nothing to be gained in that direction. While I have found that it is quite nice to get some solid sleep the night immediately preceding a brevet, it is most important to sleep soundly the night BEFORE the night before.  Realistically, leaving at 4:00 a.m. how much sleep can one get?  I will my body to lie still and rest and prepare for the effort that will be asked of it the coming day.

Riders gather in the chilly darkness outside the hotel room where the sign in is being held.  17 of the 18 who registered are here, and all but two will finish. Four states are represented: Michigan, Kentucky, Ohio, and Indiana. Some of the riders I know, and some I don't.  I am the only woman riding this time, and yet again I think of what Steve Rice said when I once wondered why more women don't participate in brevets. "Most women," he said, "have better sense."  I grin to myself thinking of a past on-line discussion on this issue  and how that discussion was dominated by men, most of whom seemed clueless and not at all receptive to the females who posted ideas of why more women do not ride brevets. The men seemed to think they knew why women rode or did not ride better than women themselves. Dan Driscoll, if memory serves, came closer than any man who posted to at least finding a solution though I don't know the man and have no idea if he really had an  understanding the need. I briefly wonder if any of the other women or men reading the thread noted the irony. I wondered if any of of the other readers noted that the lack of African American riders at PBP and other brevets, male or female, and other minorities was not addressed. But that, perhaps,  is another discussion for another time.  How often we, and I include myself in this group, fail to listen.

Briefly I wonder why I am here and not tucked snugly in my own bed lost in dreams.  But as lovely as dreams are while you are sleeping,  pursuing dreams and living dreams while awake is much more satisfying.  And I realize that there is a part of me that loves this: the anticipation of effort, of laughter, of introspection, of companionship, of loneliness,  of desperation, of all those emotions and thoughts that happen when you are riding 252 miles even if it is lovely day and it is finally spring in Kentucky. And I have an entire day to do nothing but ride my bike. The words of Adrienne Rich, quoted above, come to mind.  Perhaps she is right and it is the doing that is the thing.  And while I can't say that every time I prepare to ride a brevet I am brimming with anticipation, it will be time to quit when I no longer love riding them the majority of the time, at least until the pain and weariness kicks in and changes my attitude so that I vow I will never ride again.

I wonder who, if anyone, I will ride with or if I will make this journey alone.  As always at the start of any brevet, but particularly a longer brevet, there is that tinge of self doubt and of worry haunting the dark recesses of my consciousness that I must shoo away before my imagination takes hold and inflates them into something much larger than what they are.  And the only thing that mars my contentment today is that Bill Pustow is not here, for I have traveled many miles with Bill and we often match in pace and temperament and I was hoping he would ride and share today's adventure with me.   I respect him: his commitment to his daughter and family let me know that his priorities match my own, maybe even serve as a role model for me upon occasion. And he is such a wonderful story teller and he makes me laugh.  As Sancho says about Don Quixote in The Man From LaMancha,"I like him".  And I miss him.  Thankfully, after a serious fall caused by loose dogs, he is riding again, but we have not yet resumed our easy companionship and I grieve and miss him.  I hope that he, like so many others that I have cared for, has not become a person from my past who is not part of my future.  Life is so very fragile, and friendship, though the shared miles with the laughter, confidences, and challenges forge it as strongly as steel, is the same.Even strong friendships require regular maintenance.

After checking in and deciding what to carry and what to wear, I ride around the parking light trying to determine if my light is set correctly so as to throw the best light pattern while on the road.  And then it is time to leave.  People are dressed so differently: one young man is wearing only a his short sleeved jersey and shorts and  others are wearing balaclavas and jackets and arm warmers.  Not being a weight wienie, I have arm warmers, knee warmers, and a light jacket with  my dirt rag for my head.   Though the prediction is for low eighties today, it is now in the high forties and I detest being cold  unless it is for a very short period of time.  Being cold uselessly robs me of energy and always makes me ride harder at the start of a ride than I should unless it is going to be a short, quick ride.  And I do not anticipate either shortness or quickness to be part of today's repertoire.  Little do I know what is ahead and that Dave King will attempt to kill me and two others, Tim Argo and Mark Rougeux,  the last 15 miles or so into the last control.

Within minutes the lights of the city fade into the background, and I am struck by the loveliness of the ebony night sky bejeweled with countless stars that far outshine any diamonds.  For some reason, "She hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel upon an Ethiope's ear (William Shakespeare) flits through my mind. The sky is  littered with stars, and I briefly mourn the lack of time and intellect that has kept me from pursuing their study as a hobby.  The conquered moon, orange and crescent shaped, is beautiful, and I am glad that I am here in this crisp darkness on a bicycle conquering my own obstacles, both internal and external. 

While the majority of the world sleeps, I am treated to what feels like a private light show,  and yet again I realize that despite knowing that there might be trials today, and possibly pain, I am glad to be here.  Indeed, I am privileged to be here, to have the health to be here. I sorrow for those who are ill and  have other obstacles that impede their wellness. And I am thankful for a spouse who is accepting of my being here, who encourages me to be here, even though he cannot and will never be able to ride a bicycle.  He is secure enough in our love to give me freedom, and that freedom ensures that I will always return for I understand the value of that gift and how very difficult and unselfish it is to bestow.  Sometimes I think it binds me more tightly than any vows. Those who ride without objections by spouses or significant others  should treasure the gift they have been given  for not everyone has been so blessed: it is a lot to ask of someone to have a brevet rider that they love.  The gift goes far beyond the hours of separation and includes worry. Those who have the health to ride should also be thankful for it will not always be so and is not so for so many others.  Time does have a way of moving stolidly, unwaveringly forward no matter how we drag our heels.

I am quite enjoying my solitude and the random thoughts it brings when I come upon Dave King paused along the road checking something on his bicycle. I am surprised to see him as he usually is farther toward the front, but he says he is fine.  I chuckle thinking that it is probably his miscreant fender. I would like to have a penny for every time Dave has had to adjust his fender on a ride, and I think how glad I am that the man who helped me put my bike together at Gran Fondo talked me out of getting them for I am not mechanically inclined.  Rather, I lean toward being mechanically disinclined. I must admit, however, that they do give his green Kirk a certain charm.

Dave and I often ride some together, even finish together upon occasion, but we  normally meet up later in the ride after the initial rush of heading out into the world has faded. Though I anticipate him dropping me somewhere along the many miles we have yet to travel I am wrong, and we end up riding the rest of the day together and finishing together. At times he even complains of  the quickness of my pace.  I know that riding with a companion will change the nature of the ride as I just do  not notice the scenery with the same appreciation when I am in the midst of conversation, but I enjoy riding with Dave. Like Bill, Dave can often make me smile even though I don't always speak Dave;-)

We stop briefly at the closed country store in Southville for Dave to fill the water bottles he forgot to fill before the ride start.   Hydrating will be  important today as it is predicted to get into the low eighties and none of us have acclimated to heat. He fills one bottle and says he will fill the other at Lawrenceburg though it is not a control on the 400K as it is on the 200 and 300.  Normally I  ride straight through until the first control, and I briefly consider this knowing  Dave will catch me if he wants to or I can just ride alone, but I stop as well.  Two stops before the first control:  this is something new. Just when I have lose my patience and am getting ready to head out on my own, Dave comes out of the store.  I find he also adjusted his cleats due to knee issues.  Other than one control and a last Lawenceburg stop, Dave will beat me out of controls all day.  Luckily for me he was not far behind when I do head out of a control alone because I missed a turn or I would have ridden much farther out of my way. Later, when we catch up with Steve Rice, I tell him about it and he must think I am complaining as he says he can't ride with everybody.  I tell him he can't cure stupid. I will always be directionally challenged, but it is nobody's fault but my own.  I particularly feel silly losing my way, however briefly, on a marked course.

 Being beaten out of a control would not be so unusual if we were not talking about being beaten out of a control by Dave.  Dave is normally the last one out of a control.  I think of one brevet where I was riding with both Dave and Bill and we stopped at the Lawrenceburg control.  Bill and I came out of the store and Dave had completely unpacked his carradice and had everything in neat piles on the ground.  Bill and I looked at each other, threw our legs over our bicycles and rode off. Controls are like transitions in triathlons:  there is a lot of time to be saved with little effort by doing a short but thorough stop. Still, I brood for a bit and wonder why Dave is doing this or if it is me that is taking longer than normal.

Before you know it we are descending into a solid silver wall of mist that seems to have appeared out of nowhere on an isolated, narrow country lane.  It is eerily beautiful, but  I remember what someone told me about it really not mattering too much about who was right or who had the right away if you are seriously injured or dead. I keep a close watch in my helmet mirror vowing to get off and stand by the road if a car comes for I don't believe they will ever see us through the thick, oppressive fog.  The temperature has dropped with the descent, and I am thankful there is a long climb ahead.   No car comes and as we crest the top of the hill the mist melts away as suddenly as it appeared, phantom-like.  Weather conditions the rest of the day will be as near perfect as one can expect in April.

There are wild flowers lining the road and the red bud clouds purple along the side of the road.   Snow white dogwoods are tentatively blooming, lacing themselves through the wooded side roads. Leaves tentatively peek from branches, a pale green, not yet darkened to the rich, mature green of summer.  Pastures are filled with mothers and babies of all kinds enjoying the warmth, newly green grass, and sunshine.  During the return journey, as evening nears, we pass roads where there is an abundance of rabbits scampering randomly here and there, white tails bobbing and whiskers twitching.  Dandelions seed pods line the fence rows, oddly beautiful, and despite being with company for just a moment I am a child again, gently blowing them or twirling in circles while holding them and watching the seed pods lazily drift through the spring air searching for a place to call home. 

After the turn around, two riders join Dave and I:  Tim Argo and Mark Rougeux.  I am surprised to find that while I am tired, I am not weary.  I wish I too had brought a camera or had a smart phone when Tim stops to photograph the small, now defunct Peckerwood Store in Knothole, Kentucky.  Just passing there inevitably causes a grin to light my face. Dave says he would like to stop in Lawenceburg at the convenient store and pick up a couple of chicken legs for the road and I agree.  When we stop, however, there is no chicken and I rudely hustle everyone out of the store and back on their bicycles.  There is still some daylight and I would like to get off the main, busy road before darkness falls.  We turn on our lights and take off, and I begin to dread what I know will happen when we reach Pea Ridge Road.  As the evening brings a chill, we stop briefly prior to Pea Ridge to put on jackets or arm warmers,  and I laugh when I find I have put my knee warmers on my arms in the dark not having paid any attention to which pocket I shoved them in when I took them off earlier in the day. Oh, well, they might look stupid and be a bit loose, but they serve the purpose.  For a long time, when I first started riding, I used my son's worn out tube socks for arm warmers.  Fashion is not my forte I fear. But I do fear Pea Ridge and what is coming shortly.

I have ridden Pea Ridge Road with Dave too many times to fool myself.  He might drag all day long, but when he hits Pea Ridge Dave begins to ride like a demon. Something about that darned road just causes him to go all out. Thankfully, Tim has given me his wheel during the past few miles so I am not as worn out as I otherwise might be; still, when we reach Pea Ridge I think, "Oh, God, here it goes." It begins. And this is where Dave tries to kill us.

Off he goes pedaling like a maniac, and Mark, Tim, and I, not being very bright, just follow along too tired to say Baaaa like the sheep we are;-)  Lungs burn and chests heave in gasping rasps as we race up and down rollers and a few nice climbs, pedals churning as if we were all on fixed gears.  It is then that I determine that Dave is trying to kill us, at least me. But I'll be damned if I will let him. That little competitive streak that I work so hard to rein in will not allow me to just let them go, particularly Dave, not after all these miles.   I am not sure what our average is over the last 16 miles of the course, but I know it  has to be over 16 mph despite the hills due to our finishing time. This is  not a tremendous pace perhaps, but a quicker pace than I would normally ride after being on the bike for over 230 miles. I even find myself not taking sufficient time at a stop sign to ensure safety.  No car is near, but it is certainly not a bright thing to do and I make a mental note that I must work harder to control that nasty little beast that pops up at times.  Tim Argo is the only one who shows some sense once we reach the city limits.  The rest of us are just lucky.  They say that God protects drunks and fools and I fear he had his hands full taking care of us today.

But it has been a good day, an easier day than expected.  And I have loved what I was doing.  But I am unsure that it is not also okay to love what you have done so long as you don't get stuck there in the past and so long as you learn from it.  Just remember that there is a tomorrow and there are more brevets and bicycle rides to complete and don't rest on past accomplishments.  "Tomorrow's another day, and I'm thirsty anyway, so bring on the rain."  (Jo Dee Messina).