Bethlehem 2024

"Great is the art of beginning, 

but greater is the art of ending."

Henry W. Longfellow

It always has a tinge of sadness, these last few rides before the end of the Tour de Mad Dog.  It also, however, makes me appreciate each and every rider in the tour, even those that I don't know well and have never really had a conversation with.   Somehow, even though I ride with very few of them anymore, anchored to slowness by age, I feel a closeness to them, a connection, a protectiveness, a desire to see them warm, happy, and well.  For we have shared something in getting our ten, in making the determination that we would be finishers:  hills, heat, rain, wind, comradeship, distance, laughter, hunger, and on and on.  How strange that an individual bond is also, somehow, a group bond.  Each wants the other to be successful.  Some think it just for the jersey, but as for me, I think it goes beyond the jersey somehow.  There is, in the end, a sense of completion, of fulfillment.  The words of Moliere come to mind: "It is a long road from conception to completion."  Yes, we have traveled many miles to get here.  At least one thousand.

I am delighted at the forecast.  It is so nice to have a ride and not have to worry if there will be rain or excessive wind and decisions to make about whether it will even be safe to have the ride. This particularly applies when one is captaining a ride.  It is one thing to be responsible for oneself.  It is another thing to be responsible for others.   Indeed, it turns out to be the best century riding weather we have had this year.  I start with arm warmers that I know I will soon discard as we roll into the cool of the morning.  I can say I am not unhappy that the last two stages are easier ones, if there is such a thing as an easy century. 

As we ride, I try to remember when I put this route together.  It was before RWGPS.  I remember it took three or four tries to poke through from Bethlehem to Hanover without hitting gravel.  I remember going back into the deserted power plant, Marble Hill, to try to find a road along the river that the paper map said existed but that I never found.  It was eerie back there, the large deserted building, a tribute to poor management, and my fear got the better of me.

I think how I miss those days, the days of exploration when I had more endurance, speed, and energy, but I know I am blessed to be out here.   The group of 18 divides quickly with the faster riders hammering the flat stretch into the first store stop following the climbs on Hebron Church Road.  The back group sees the front group at the first store stop and at lunch.  By the third store stop, they are so far in front that we do not catch them.  And I am fine with that.

For me, fall rides are to be savored not savagely devoured.  And it has always been this way for me. Despite the legs being strong from summer rides, it is time to slow down and to absorb the beauty of the ride for future recall when the winter comes, dull and gray, and the wind howls and keens outside my windows.   There is no need to hasten the end of the comfortable riding season.  Yes, you can stay warm in winter with the correct clothing, but it is just not the same as heading  out in shorts and a short sleeved jersey with  merely some arm warmers to knock off the morning chill. 

 

True, there is not much color yet, but despite the heat you can feel it in your bones, this change of seasons.  Some fields are harvested and some wait.  The soy bean fields always remind me of the stubble on a man's chin when he is on vacation and is not shaving.  I feel the sun caressing my skin, warm and comforting, and I try to let it soak into my very being knowing that soon I will shiver and cringe inside my warm clothing regretting all those times I bitched about the heat. The wind is there when you head into it, still gentle but telling me of what is to come, the increased effort, the slaps about the face. 

 

A couple of times we pull over to allow large farm machinery to pass.  Or at least most of pull over.  I feel a tinge of upset at those that don't.  These farmers are working.  We are playing.  And the importance of their work far exceeds the importance of ours.  The farms here are small.  Most of the farmers work other jobs.  The week-end is when they do their planting or harvest.  Some even use vacation days to sow and reap.  For some it is a job.  For others an act of love.  

This ride brings so many memories for me.  It was the ride I used to put on the first week of December.  We would ride and mail Christmas cards from Bethlehem.  It was the ride where it quite often rained and where the wind was usually from the west in our faces all the way back.  It was the ride where at the last store stop, I realized that even the strong riders were as tired as I was for while it is a rather easy century with only about 4,000 feet of climb, the west wind somehow makes it a difficult century.  To me, wind is more difficult than most hills, because you climb and crest a hill.  The wind remains.  It was the ride where my daughter had to ferry home three riders who were unable to finish one year, one of whom is on this ride and two that I have never seen before.  It was raining and cold that year and hypothermia was a real possibility.  The woman working the Subway gave us the plastic gloves they make sandwiches with to put under our gloves and cleaned up the large puddles we left on the floor.  But it is time to stop remembering and move on.

At lunch, John Pellgrino  and  Amelia Dauer produce coupons for Subway.  Steve Puckett goes to McDonalds but the rest of eat here:  Paul, Amelia, John, and Bob. Dominik has been with the front group but has decided to fall back with us so he has already eaten.  While I am not a Subway fan, the food is delicious when shared with friends and sauced with laughter and stories.

 

 The front group is getting to leave when we arrive.  I ask Amelia if she thinks Clothes Line, Glenn, will forget his backpack again.  She grins and says she had the same thought.  But I figure he had learned his lesson.  Jon Wineland stays behind to have a bit of a chat with us before taking off.  He and a couple others, Chris Quirey (who later tells me he only made one stop due to family obligations) and Vince Livingston ride as lone wolves.  While I often prefer riding alone over group riding, this is not one of the days, and the back group is unusually large for a stage as there are now, after the lunch stop, seven of us.  

No big events happen on the rest of the ride other than Bob Grable being kind enough to turn around and patronize a little girl who had set up a lemonade stand.  I think it shows a certain kindness that is part of his character that he does this.  I like this about Bob.  It makes me think of PBP and the children handing out drinks along the way.  Kindness in this world is greatly underrated. It should be encouraged and valued.  We wait for Bob at the last store stop and head out to finish the century.  Many today are getting their tenth in and I am happy for them.  Two, Steve Puckett and Dominick Wasserzug, need Medora.  For them, I hope it does not rain and force me to cancel.  The group splits in places, the demands of the short but steep climbs taking their toll, but those in the front wait for us, patiently and unasked.   I realize later that I never thank them for this for it is not to finish in a group of five for point purposes, but in the true spirit of the Mad Dogs where no dog is left behind.

Following the ride, five of us have pizza together:  Amelia, Paul, Jon, Dominick and myself.  There is laughter and stories and the justified satiation of hunger, for we have used our bodies today and they need replenishment.  Food is always much better when one is truly hungry, something I will sometimes forget in the upcoming boredom of the winter months when I spend much more time indoors and alone.  And there is an ending.  Not yet of the tour, but of the day.  Tonight I will sleep, something else my body needs.  Oh, yes, I am blessed.  19 years of completing the tour along with the two others who have done so:  Dave King and Mike Kamenish, neither of whom rode today.  Life is, indeed, good. 

Orleans: Trying to Make Use of Coin

"Time is the coin of life.  It

is the only coin you have, and only you

can determine how it will be spent.

Be careful lest you let other

people spend it for you."

Carl Sandburg 

Nobody in their right mind can complain about the weather we have had recently other than the dire need for and lack of rain.  Temperatures have soared above  normal to the low to mid seventies.  Skies have been sunny and largely cloudless and the sun still carries a kiss of warmth with his touch. His caress is more moderate than it is in summer when he is strong, demanding, and forceful, but it is there though without the threat of burned skin.  Less demanding and more comforting, lacking the passion of summer but gaining substance, as love between couples seems to deepen when steeped with years.  Even morning temperatures have been moderate.  In other words, it has been perfect bicycling weather.  Yes, one still has to layer a bit, but to end the day in comfort in shorts and a jersey in November.....well, it doesn't get much better than that.  

I had been excited about a planned new century route that Jon had put together, but my car is on the fritz and so I bowed out.  I certainly don't want to break down on the way home in the dark and with no shoulder to pull off on. I thought he might ride it on his own, but instead he elects to drive here to ride to Orleans with me.  For we are both celebrating and mourning, or I am.  I am celebrating that it is going to be a perfect day for a ride with mild winds and temperatures in the seventies and mourning that it is going to come crashing down and the forecast shows highs in the forties and lows in the twenties for at least a week after tomorrow.  Time, I suppose, to switch to hiking, or to mostly shorter rides.  I do not have the fortitude to face cold weather than I did in the past.  Mental, physical, or a combination of the two.....I still do not really know.

We start at a faster pace than I like for this time of year, but there is a bite in the air and the pace helps to tame it.  About a mile in, however, Jon notices that his headset appears to be loose.  We return to the house and he attempts to fix it.  It tightens and seems tight, but then for some reason loosens again a few miles down the road.  I ask if he feels safe riding or wants to back up and punt.  He opts to ride.  

The fields are mostly bare, stubbled like a man's beard when he needs a shave, almost desolate looking.  I suppose it is that lonely look that fields take on when winter hits as if they mourn the flowers and greenness that adorn them in the spring and summer months just as I do.  Farm houses stand alone, isolated, shielding those within from the winds that have no barrier to soften their blow.  Even the grass along the side of the road looks finished and disheartened, hopelessly clinging to a bit of green but mostly brown and withered looking.  In the areas we pass that have trees, they are mostly bare and seem taller somehow.  The sycamores, my favorites this time of year once the maples have lost their leaves, look lovely and graceful, their limbs like those of a dancer.  What, I wonder, do trees think of winter?  But I suppose trees don't have a brain, at least as we know it, or think.

 

I have two routes to Orleans, but I have chosen the more moderate of the two for a couple of reasons.  Firstly, I have chosen it because it is more moderate though it is 103 miles (and will be 106 today with turning around to fix the headset and uncounted mileage out to the dollar store in Medora).  Secondly, I love the stretch between Medora Tunnelton Hill, including the descent on Tunnelton that S curves under the railroad by a narrow lane.  Or I should say I allowed Jon to choose, but had I ridden alone this was the route I also would have chosen.   The stretch winds past the ancient and no longer functioning Medora Brick Plant and follows the railroad.  I think briefly of Packman, for he was the one who told me of the railroad tunnel I have never found and the reason I came this way.  He is gone now and hopefully at peace.  I think of how in the spring this stretch will explode with color and spring flowers, delighting my eyes, a painting just waiting to be captured on canvas.  

This route has a late lunch stop, and with the extra miles it is later than normal.  Both Jon and I are famished when we arrive at Speak Easy Pizza.  They still have their tables outside and the day is beautiful,  and so we sit outside and eat our pizzas and share a few thoughts before heading back through Salem and home.  As we leave, I realize my legs are a bit tired.  I tell them to quit complaining and a bit of spinning convinces them that they are okay and will make it with no problem.  Sometime I wonder about Jon's willingness to ride with me because he is capable of a much faster pace, but I am grateful for his company.  I think of past riding companions.  So few left that ever ride a century.  So few that I ever see anymore. But I refuse to let sadness seep into this beautiful day.  Instead I think how lucky I have been to have known each of them and created memories that I hold dear.  

As we near Salem, Jon points out a huge cloud of smoke and asks me if there is a power plant nearby.  There is not, at least to the best of my knowledge, and we both wonder what is on fire that would cause such smoke.  We never have our curiosity sated. And before you know it, we are at Casey's, our last store stop.  I opt for a soft drink, something I have pretty much given up other than occasionally on a ride.   I wonder what Jon is up to, go outside and find he has been cornered by a stranger as so often happens on rides.  I chuckle a bit and drink my soft drink.  He enters the store and comes out with nothing saying that when he got in there, he realized there was nothing he wanted.  They have no small cans of pop.  Everything is large sized.  

We leave the route for a bit of a work around due to road construction but soon are on Quaker Road heading for the huge descent.  On Old 56 I see a young Amish boy, maybe five or six, a straw hat perched upon his tiny head and a grin plastered across his face  in the field with five or six ponies furiously waving at Jon who does not see him.  I wave back and he smiles.  Further up the road we come upon a mini Amish cart driven by children pulling out of the drive along with a full sized car driven by adults.  There is an Amish woman on a bicycle with no pedals, powered by her legs and and any downhill slant in the road. A grin lights my face and I remember how much Lloyd admired the Amish and the simplicity that seems to be their lives.  Idealized?  Most likely.  But he always longed for simpler times, something perhaps we all do at times.  I think of my mom in her nineties one time telling me that she just didn't want to have to deal with any more problems.  The world does, at times, already seem too much to handle.  And I only have so much coin to spend, and I want to spend it wisely.

This ride today was wise, almost sophic, in some ways.  I have no regrets for how I spent today's coin, on the road with the simplicity of shorts and jersey (back pockets stuffed with layers from a gradual strip tease).  I have no regrets for the too much pizza I ate at lunch or the aches in my thighs and the stiffness in my movements that reminds me that I am, indeed, aging and that will impact the soundness of my sleep tonight.  While I do not delude myself with the belief that I have not and will not waste some  of the coin that has been allotted to me, I try my best not to do so, to hold the moments more dear.  And this is one thing that becomes easier with age and the realization that there is, indeed, a last time for everything.  I am indeed blessed and have been for many, many years.  And I am grateful for the day, the company, bicycles, and the coin that I have already been given. 

 

 

The Unexpected: It Happens

 "Life is all about the unexpected."

Vernon Davis

 

 There are those days when, no matter how you fight it, your plans aren't going to come to fruition.  Today was one of those days.  In the early morning, when light hit, I took off on the Lynsky toward Bethlehem for the festival there.  Last year I rode with the Madison Club, but this year it was a sponsor ride and since I have not  yet officially joined that club, it did not seem right to attend as if I was.  Besides that, I want no demands on my pace today.   I am looking forward to taking my time and enjoying the beauty of this fall, for it has been, thus far, a particularly charming fall this year, with fine if rather chilly temperatures and spectacular colors.  

I turn around about three fourths of a mile in deciding I need an additional layer to be comfortable, grab my jacket and head back out.  About a half a mile down the road I shift.  Nothing happens.  Well, something happens.  My shifter freezes in the shift position, something I have never had happen to me or witnessed happening to anyone else. 

So, instead of heading to Bethlehem, I am off to Clarksville Schwinn hoping that Bob will be able to fix my bike.  He shakes his head and says not today, so I sadly leave it there heading home.  

I decide that I have other bikes and while it is too late to ride to Bethlehem without pushing my pace or running out of daylight, I take the Surly and head out to find some gravel.  Eden Road is alive with color and at the split off of Wascum, I take the lane that never appears to be a road but is.  It is a bit rougher than the other gravel, but the road itself is worth it. 

I am just thinking that I will make a day of it and ride further than intended when I get a text from the man working on my house that I need to come back.  So I turn around, sad but happy I at least got a few miles in and didn't waste an entire fall day.  As I head in, I realize my legs are more tired than I thought so perhaps it is not a bad thing.  

 

One of the hardest things I have found about exercising and aging is trying to tell the difference between necessary rest and being lazy.   And I decide that with riding a century on Saturday and century on Tuesday and fifty three miles on Thursday, I am probably really tired and need rest in a way I did not when I was younger.  

 

 

This leads to thoughts of aging and how it bothers us so much in this country to be old, as if it is a fault instead of a blessing that has been bestowed upon us.  I briefly wonder if it is that way everywhere. I can't say I like all the changes that age brings, but it is what happens unless you die and not a shameful thing but a natural thing.  To be ashamed of age is the same as being ashamed of  your eye color or your height,  utterly ridiculous. I can't say I glory in.  I rue my waning strength, the changes in my body, my lagging memory and thought processes, the wrinkles that surprise me in the mirror, the gradual graying of my hair.  But I try not to be ashamed and to remember that age is a blessing denied to some and to accept the changes that time has wrought.  I'm not always successful, but I try.

 

In the end, it has been a good day.  There is sunshine, and trees that shimmer with color as they dance their final dance with this years clothing before saying farewell.  Life is, overall, good, and I am thankful even if days don't always work as I planned.  Mr. Davis is, indeed, right.  Life certainly is about the unexpected. 

Orleans: Spring 2022

"Spring drew on...and a greenness

grew over those brown beds, which,

freshening daily, suggested the thought

that Hope traversed them at night,

and left each morning brighter traces

of her steps."

Charlotte Bronte

Finally, a day that offers a healthy dose of sunshine as well as warmer temperatures and a lighter wind.  As I age, I find myself less and less able to convince myself that I want to do a hard ride on gray, cold, gloomy, damp days.  It is not so much that I can't do them anymore, I can albeit slower than in the past, but that I have no desire or need to do them. I would rather paint or read or go hiking on those days knowing that more comfortable bicycling days will arrive.  And spring, of course, offers many of those days.  This year, perhaps, more than  normal with lower than normal temperatures and extremely few peeks of sunshine.  

When I saw the forecast, I immediately put the century on the schedule, not just because of the forecast, but because they are starting major road construction on the expressway between Louisville and many of my ride starts next week.  I fear that it will cause such traffic congestion, that few will want to head this way for bicycle rides and run the risk of a long sit in the car on the way home.  

As it turns out, it is one of those rides that I definitely favor.  There is a small group, only four of us, and nobody seems to be in a rush.  Everyone seems content just to enjoy our time on the bikes, the lovely spring weather, and the company.  I believe we are all glad that the self-imposed isolation of winter is drawing to a close and understand that spring is, indeed, a time to build strength in the legs and lungs. It also is also a time to renew friendships and rejoice.  The pace can slow a bit because you don't have to push so hard to keep warm.  While the start is cold, in the thirties, it is sunny with little wind.  And it is to warm to the 60's later in the day.  Steve Meredith, Dave King, Jon Wineland, and I head out toward Medora, the first stop on this journey.  

I am comfortable during this first leg other than my fingers which are cold.  I try to protect them a bit by holding onto the handlebar in such a way that my fingers are sheltered a bit from the wind by my handlebar bag.  I know the discomfort is short lived, and I am glad for that.  The discomfort is overridden by the joy of being on a bicycle in the spring with the sun shining and the joy of being with people that I have not seen in for what seems like ages.  At some point, and I can't exactly pinpoint when,  I realize that I have warmed and my fingers are no longer little popsickles.

The miles pass quickly with everyone catching up.  Steve and Dave are both doing the Kentucky brevet series and we talk quit a bit about PBP, a ride Steve has not yet done and has expressed an interest in.  As I do with everyone that is capable, I encourage this interest because, at least for me, PBP was such a unique experience:  both times I completed it.  Each was different but each was special in its own way.  Yes, I remember those hard moments, but mostly I remember the highs or the things that surprised me, like one woman at the start saying she brought her makeup because she thought it might make her feel better. Those who know me well know it is only on very rare occasions that I don makeup, and it never in a million years or a million miles would have occurred to me to bring some along on PBP  or any other long brevet.  How different we all are. Vive la difference!

 

But back to Orleans.  The first store stop is in Medora.  While in town, I seek out and we find the new cafe that Lynn Luking was kind enough to tell me had opened there, because everything had gone out of business other than the new Dollar Store. I think how I will be happy to ride back here one sunny afternoon for lunch to check out the selection and quality of the food they offer.

 

 One of my favorite sections is immediately leaving Medora and riding alongside the railroad track all the way up the Devil's Backbone and then down Tunnelton past the magnificent mansion that originally was built for Masonic widows and under the railroad tracks and across the bridge.  And today it does not disappoint.  There are many wildflowers that grow there that have not yet bloomed, but the daffodils, while some are a tad faded, seem so beautiful and cheery.  I think how I adore it in the spring when the Earth wakes up, stretches her arms, and drops blobs of color everywhere.   Purple grape hyacinths at times accent the brilliance of the daffodils yellow.  Redbuds are blossoming. And everything is growing so green, so very green.  

Interestingly, on the climb up the backbone, Steve notes that a white truck went over the edge at some time or another and down the steep embankment toward the valley and creek.  I worry that someone might be hurt in there as you would not be likely to spot it in a car, but they assure me that it has been there awhile and we ride on.

Dave stops on the bridge, and those of us who have ridden with Dave often know why, but still I ask to ensure he is okay.  He is and I ride on knowing Dave will catch me.   Jon gets a chuckle when learning of Dave's habit, initially thinking he is joking.  I assure him such is not the case and we enjoy a shared grin. We all regroup after the long climb that is challenging only due to length as there is not much steepness to contend with.  At this point, people begin shedding layers, but I decide I will be fine until we reach Orleans, and I truly am. I often seem to run a bit colder than others though I suspect my house is kept at a colder temperature than most.

 

At this point age comes up.  I am the oldest and Dave the youngest.  I find it amusing to find that we are all 5 year increments apart starting with Dave who is 50 and leading to 65. 

People are also beginning to get hungry, and Dave's face is priceless when he learns lunch is not until 63 miles, but the lunch stop more than makes up for his dismay at having to wait.  Personally, I prefer lunch a bit later on a century.  But I knew it was going to be late.  It is different, I suppose when it is a surprise. The wind has cranked up and I am glad we are going into it knowing that after lunch we should have, at least for awhile, a sweet tail wind. By the time we reach Orleans, everyone is ready for a break. 

 

  We stop at "Speak Easy Pizza" and their pizza has been delicious each and every time I have stopped there.  Today, however, it seems even better than usual and I remember, as I always do, how much riding distances improves the taste of food.  So often I eat without truly being hungry because my body has not been challenged.  Steve gets a salad and says that it is as good as it looks.  I realize he is not just saying this to be polite when he makes a comment about having to bring his wife here sometime.  Dave is impressed with their selections of beer and whiskey though none of us indulge.  The owner comes out to inquire about our riding and, along with a few customers that question us, seem to be impressed that we are riding 104 miles today.  I remember how glad I was during a ride to find this place as most of the eating places in the town had closed.  I have entire routes that are difficult to ride anymore due to store closures, but this, fortunately, is not one of them.  

 

We leave and see another cyclist on our way out of town.  Despite the sweet tail wind, we don't quite catch up to him before our turn.  Orleans used to have a paid ride in the spring, The Dogwood Pedal.  Despite that, I have never seen another cyclist during my trips to and through Orleans on rides.  

 

By now, all of us have shed layers and are feeling the blessed warmth of the day.  The miles to the last store stop in Salem seem to roll by quickly and despite all the moaning and groaning over the hills on Bee Line and full bellies from lunch, we all relax unhurriedly on the curb in the sunshine.

 

As always seems to happen on my centuries, one road is closed.  This time it is 56, but it is an easy workaround.  We roll through the town square and then cut over.  I grin to myself because Steve mentioned the detour when he arrived today, but it just didn't click until we actually neared the detour.  Oh, well, nobody seemed overly put out over the extra half mile or so it adds to our journey.

 

When we pull on Quaker Road, we pass someone on a recumbent going the other way.  I don't recall ever seeing a recumbent in this area before unless it was someone on a ride with me, so this sticks in my mind.  It becomes even more of a puzzlement about 10 miles later when we pass another who is dressed in the same bright green and greatly resembles the first cyclist.  In my mind I go through all the roads in my mind and know that there is no possible way it is the first cyclist.  The others confirm this.  

 

And then we are finished.  It is pleasant to end a century feeling sated but not spent.  It is pleasant to have spent an entire day on a bicycle in sunshine that is bright but not searing with people who also love riding and don't get mad or upset when there is an obstruction on the course.  It is pleasant to share an unhurried lunch with those same people.  It is pleasant to have friends.  And it is pleasant and more to see the annual spring greening and to think that I am still healthy enough to ride centuries and to have hopes of riding many, many more.  How blessed to have hope. 

A December Century

"In the sweetness of friendship let

there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things, the heart 

finds its morning and is refreshed."

Khalil Gibran

 

 When Jon asks if I am interested in riding a century with him on Friday, I am hesitant to answer.  It has been quite a while since I have ridden a longer ride, no less a century.  He "says" the course is an easy one, but easy to one person may be hard to another.  It reminds me of people would call to ask about one of my rides and ask if there are hills.  I quickly learned that what was a mountain to one rider was only a bump in the road to another.  And Jon is a stronger rider than I am. Still, he has ridden with me numerous times before and should know my pace. Will it be an imposition if it is a choice?  As usual, I don't want to be a bother.

 

  I ask myself if he truly wants to ride as slowly as I am likely to go.   I ask myself if I will be able to finish without feeling as if I want to die.  I ask myself if I will be able to get in before dark as if I have not ridden miles and miles in the dark.  I no longer ask myself if it is the smart thing to do as the answer to that question really doesn't seem to matter;-) I chide myself for getting so out of shape and think again how I miss the encouragement of the Big Dogs. When I answer I tell him yes, but that he can back out if he is not okay with going slowly and that I intend to have a working light on my bike for "just in case."  Things happen.  People bonk.  Mechanicals eat time.  Snack stops need to be made.  You just can't ride one hundred miles easily without eating and while I have done centuries eating on the bike, I prefer to have a bit of a rest. 

 

One lesson you learn from riding brevets is how to inhale food or gulp it down with minimal chewing.  As a friend told me about brevets, if you aren't eating, riding, or sleeping you are doing it wrong.  But in all truthfulness, I have always gobbled down my food.  With four siblings, it became a right of survival. And it always seemed there were more interesting things to do than to sit and eat. While we always sat at the dinner table for the evening meal unless mom and dad were going out, I don't really remember that there was much conversation.  

 

I do remember that Mom would, for some reason, fix only one small box of spinach, one of our favorite foods courtesy of Popeye the sailor man, and you never got to eat as much of it as you would have liked.  And so you ate fast, in hopes of snagging seconds. As I write this, a Popeye ditty that my husband learned in the army and used to sing comes to mind and causes a smile to flit across my face.  I do miss him.  He was not silly often, but when he was oh how it made me laugh.  I then remember my brother, Chris, now gone.  When I would ask him to pass a bowl of food, he would always ask me, "High or low?  Fast or slow?"  How I miss them, these people who loved me and that I loved.

Anyway, Jon shares the starting place and does not take the out I provided him with, so at 8:00 a.m. my bike and I are at the start in Madison, Indiana.  The morning is chilly, but there is sunshine and it is really not cold for the time of year.   Jon has a cue sheet. He is one of the few people I know that rides with no GPS.  I am riding blind. But Jon has no light, so perhaps we are equal.  He sent me the cue sheet, but I found myself unable to make the connections on the map to program the route.  It reminds me of when I first started riding with groups, prior to anyone having a GPS, and how dependent we were on sheets of paper.  I have read that GPS units actually are not good for brain function (mine never functioned that well anyway), but I look at them as being safer.  Two accidents I had while cycling were caused by one person turning while the other was not or vice versa.  Regardless, like cell phones, they have their good and bad and they are not going away. Had I been able to program the route in, I would have been using mine.  

 

 

The miles pass quickly and we are at or close to 40 miles when we make our first stop.  Jon suggests stopping besides a lake.  It is pretty, the water shimmering in the sunlight, the wind playfully nipping the surface, and the buildings around it are decorated for Christmas.  I would love to see it at night, lit up. I worry a bit about how the people who own the land will feel if they see us here, on their property, resting, but as Jon points out they would probably just ask us to move on down the road.  Jon is surprised when I say I am going to have my lunch sandwich, but I am hungry and know I need the fuel for the ride.  I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.  Instead I had an apple and some low sodium V-8 juice.....and coffee......lots and lots of coffee.  Jon, as he often does, brought lasagna.  Despite the early hour, he decides to join me in making the stop lunch and eats at least part of it intending to finish it at a stop down the road. 

Most of the fields we pass are now brown, barren, and littered with stubble, though we do run across a few farmers still harvesting.  Most of the farmers in this area have other jobs.  Their farms are not large enough to support themselves and their families on and so they work the land when they can, often using their vacation time and hoping that the weather cooperates. I think how there is something special in people working to provide for those that they love and even more special when they give to those that they don't. There is beauty here along the route if a different kind of beauty than is to be found in the other seasons, starker and more demanding, like the faces of old people that are etched with wisdom and experience lacking the smooth, soft innocence of youth.   Beauty surrounds us in different forms and sizes and ways.  Perhaps the realization that life goes on and is renewed, with or without us, is part of the plan.  Acceptance.

 

There is an allure in the developing friendship that Jon and I share as we travel these roads.  We are beginning to reach the point in our friendship where there are shared jokes based on history. How I love laughter, the way it makes me feel, the smile it brings to my face, the way it feeds my soul. We are getting to know each others likes and dislikes, the ways we are similar and the ways we are different.   There is beauty in our love of the bike and the freedom it brings, the hum of pedals and chains spinning.  Despite COVID, I have much to be grateful for, this new and still fragile friendship being of those things,  and finally, the Calvary appears to be one the way with a vaccine how being approved though not yet available. I still have hopes of being able to cash in on the cycling trip I won to Scotland over the winter.

 

  

As we ride, I notice a shoe in the road and joke that Cinderella must have left it behind.  And then there is another, different shoe down the road.  Jon spots its mate.  And then a sock.  Jon teases that if we ride long enough we will begin to find underwear and tells me the story of riding this course with its designers, Dave Fleming, and coming across a man clad ONLY in boots, no clothing, walking between his barn and his house.  Not long after he points out the house, we come across a group working outside and I notice that the one man has his underwear showing as he bends over doing whatever it is he is doing:  a lot of his underwear.  If my eyes were better, I could have told you the brand for it is written in large letters across the waist band. I crack up and ask Jon if he saw the man. He did not but we both giggle over my sighting.  Jon later says that if we had ridden a double century, we surely would  have come across someone completely unclothed.  Life has such humor in it if we open our eyes and our hearts, but it is much better when that humor is shared with a friend.

I complete the ride tired but in better shape than I expected.  While neither of us eat inside of restaurants anymore due to COVID, Jon suggests getting barbecue and eating outside.  We go to a most unusual place:  Hoboken Eddie's.  As it turns out, not only is the barbecue good, but Eddie tells us how he ran Alaska Iditarod Run.   An interesting place and an interesting man with excellent food though the hygiene reminds me a bit of Varnderpohl. But despite the warmth in my heart and soul,  it grows cold outside so we eat our sandwiches and  part ways sated by a day of friendship, laughter, and bicycles.  I am so glad I said yes and did not let my doubts define me.  I am glad for friendship and the pleasures it bestows.  And I am glad for bicycles.  What a sad world it would be without them.  Gibran is right:  it is in the dew of these little things that I am refreshed.

The Red Barn Ride in Autumn

"I hope I can be the autumn leaf

who looked at the sky and lived.

And when it was time to leave, 

gracefully it knew life was a gift."

Dodinsky

 

 

This is probably not the wisest thing I have ever done, not canceling my 64 mile, moderately hilly ride, but I am so looking forward to it after a hiatus from the bike due to illness and then injury.  And I have been conservative up until now, sitting around the house reading and using the computer and watching television until I want to scream.  I learned a long time ago that trying to ride or work out through injuries normally backfires and costs you even more time off the bike and more time unable to work out.  I have always believed that things happen to us for a reason, that there is something we are supposed to learn from the experience, so perhaps it is to aid me in acquiring more patience, a virtue I lack. 

 

 Yes, I rode a century two week-ends ago, but I was off the bike with a stomach bug that caused me to  lose 7.5 pounds in two days prior to that (negative COVID test)  and did not ride afterward as I developed an injury of the neck/upper arm/shoulder.....still not really sure or sure what caused it.   Per Gabe Mirkin, whose newsletter I adore, in just two week of inactivity we lose a tremendous amount of strength:  https://www.drmirkin.com/fitness/inactivity-causes-muscle-loss.html.  I believe him.

 

When making my decision, I decide that if I find I am in pain after a few miles, I will turn around and sweep the route by car.  I truly don't want to miss what is left of the fall.  I hope to see it from the seat of my bike, but if I have to turn to my car to see it I will.  What a wonderful thing eyesight is.  I think of my mom and how macular degeneration changed her life.  Before she developed it, I had never heard of this cruel disease that steals the central vision leaving only peripheral vision.  Better than total blindness, but still such a loss.   How important it is to squeeze every drop of beauty out of life while we can and to savor it and hold it dear, to look at the sky.  Our time is so short. 

I change the start time to a bit later due to the predicted cold temperatures.  Still, it is in the 30's when I arrive at the forestry.  I think how each year I have to relearn how to dress for cold weather riding.  I tend toward overdressing and that causes dehydration problems.  Drinking is always hard in the winter when it is cold and that exacerbates any overdressing.  One would think that I would learn, but it never seems to sink in.  I relearn this lesson every fall when the temperatures drop, just as I later will remember that there is beauty in the stark quietness of the winter landscape. 

 

With the frigid weather and a century on the schedule, I wonder if anyone will show despite the fact it is supposed to warm up to the sixties. I always wonder that, as if I could not ride on my own and enjoy it. Yes, regardless, I will ride.  Today is the Red Barn ride, and I like the route.  I suspect that Eden and Delaney Park roads will have some color to them.  It has enough climb to be interesting, one hill that is challenging, and scenery ranging from forest to farm land.  Plus, it is low traffic. 

As it turns out, there are ten riders.  Two of them I don't know very well.  We have met on prior rides I have put on the schedule and spoken a few words, but never had a true conversation.   Four of them I don't believe I have met before.  The two I have met are very strong riders, and it obvious that the group of six know each other and plan on riding together.  Despite my urging them to feel free to start ahead of the scheduled start time, something that is allowed and even encouraged by the club due to COVID and trying to keep groups to small sizes, they wait and we leave together.  But that is the last we see of them.  By the time we reach the store stop, they are long gone.  I am so glad that there was a group of fast riders because I know I am NOT going to be fast and I don't want to hold anyone back. And I don't want anyone riding alone unless that is their choice for the day.

I end up riding the entire ride with Mike Crawford, John Pelligrini, and Paul Battle.  I don't know if I am riding better than expected or if they are being kind, but they match my slow pace.  I strongly believe they are being kind as I know how powerful each of these men are on a bicycle. I grow slower in the fall every year, and with being off the bike for three and half weeks I am slower than normal. But we all seem comfortable with the pace and with each other.  We discuss politics and other issues and the miles simply fly by.

 

Paul mentions how different the course looks when we pass fields that have been harvested.  For some reason, the stubble always reminds me of a man who shaves regularly but has missed a day or two, perhaps because he is on vacation.  Suddenly I am back in the mobile home we lived in when the children were little remembering how when my son was small, he loved it when I would let him put shaving cream on his face and use a razor that was covered to shave himself.  I see him at the mirror, as serious as can be, as if there were even a hint of fuzz on those smooth cheeks, patiently shaving.  But with company, there is not much time for reflection.  

 

John mentions the woolie worms that seem determined to cross the road to wherever they are going and how many there are, but I think they are small in number compared to a few years ago.  I wonder if a new pesticide is what has decimated their ranks.  We certainly have not had exceptionally cold weather the past few winters that would have done this.  Always they are a sign of the coming winter and the change of seasons.

As usual when I ride with company, I don't notice my surroundings nearly as much as I do when I am alone, but it is pleasant being with friends and occasionally the beauty of a particular view takes my breath away.  This is the case on the descent down Old 56, a long, slow 2 mile descent near the end of the ride.  I seem to be in a tunnel with walls made of yellow and orange.  The wind tosses leaves like confetti. And in the midst of the beauty I realize I am really tired and my neck in starting to hurt a bit.  I am glad we near the end and slow further worried that pushing may hurt more than it helps.  I counsel myself to patience.  

It is no longer cool.  I am not sweating, but I think I would be if it were not for the strong wind.  The sky has been blue but is beginning to cloud over, but still is it a gorgeous fall day.  The company and the scenery did not disappoint.  Life is, indeed, as noted by Dodinsky, a gift, as is friendship and and the autumn of the year, and of course, bicycles.  Yes, I hope when my time comes, I leave gracefully, grateful for my time here.  But I also hope that time is many, many years away.  I have more living I would like to do, much of it on bicycle. 

Just An End of Summer Ride: September 2020

"Summers lease hath

all too short a date."

William Shakespeare 

 

It can't be September, but yet it is.....summer again has slipped past me in a blur.  Soon it will be time for nature to dress herself in russets and oranges and yellows. Her multicolored skirt will rustle and swirl, patchwork, in the swelling winds of fall.  Green grass will fade and yield to brown, lusterless dullness. Fields will be harvested, broken stalks whiskering the ground, a reminder of what was. A promise of what will be again.  Bicycling will mean arm warmers and jackets and morning air crackling with crispness as breath becomes visible as we speak and laugh. 

 

But not today.  Today is overcast and misty, unseasonably cool and unusually humid, but it is still summer and I cling to that. Twelve show for the ride,  more than I expected.   It makes me a tad nervous.  I hope they like the course. The ride is short, only 47 miles, but I think it is a nice course. It has two nice climbs on it:  Liberty Knob and the ironically named Flatwood.  Most of it is on little traveled roads.  Pavement is good in places and acceptable in others.  Few of the roads we will travel are in need of repair.  Smiles still dance across faces and the pace is relaxed with none of the intensity that seems to come with colder weather.  Even those who normally ride hard, and will do so later in the ride, stay together.  Perhaps the fog, perhaps the camaraderie.

 

The bike I normally ride needed a new middle chain ring.  One of the teeth had worn to where on a steep grade, it would jarringly drop to granny making my knees ache and causing me to lose my rhythm, and so it is being repaired.  Luckily for me, despite the age of the bike and the components, a  part was available.  So I am riding my old Trek, the aluminum bike that got me through my first PBP in 2007, a bike my husband bought for me.  The lights I used on that ride are still attached, and I do not have the heart to take them off as my husband was the one who put them on for me. No, they have not been on there since 2007, but they have been on there for a number of years.  It is an old hub generator, the kind with no battery, and on that PBP when I would climb my front lights would go out as I was not pedaling fast enough to power them.  If I remember, he reattached them for me to use for the occasional trek to work.  But they were his hands who placed them and so they remain.  I don't think I have ridden this bike outside since his loss.

 

I think how lucky I am to have them as we roll out into a dense fog: they will come in handy.  Switching bikes, I forgot to add a tail light.  Fortuitously, Larry Preeble has an extra that he loans me.  So I have lights both fore and rear.  It is foggy, the kind normally described as being thick enough to cut with a knife.  And it does not appear that it will lift early or be burned away.  The prediction is for cloud cover most of the day.

 

The fog does not overly trouble me once we get off the main road out of the ride start as I know from there on out, there will be little traffic, but I still remain cautious.  While we are on Bloomington Trail, Mike Crawford's chain slips between the cassette and his frame.  I can see John look and struggle with his decision to move on, but it does not take all of us to work on this and it is the right decision.  To my surprise, Mike does not have a quick release in the back and the screw to loosen the wheel appears to be stripped.  Three riders approach that were not with our group.  They are on an unofficial SIW ride to Leota and Little York.  They kindly stop and assist.  The wheel is loosened enough for the chain to be pulled back out and the ride is saved.  Thank yous are given and we are on our way, our paths soon diverging. I wish I could remember their names, but I don't.  I could blame the lack of memory on age, but I have always struggled with names. I would, however, know their faces if I saw them again, or so I believe.

 

As we climb up Liberty Knob, the first of the two main climbs, Paul tells me his legs have not recovered from Saturday.  Eventually, however, he finds that the problem is not his legs, the problem is that his rear wheel is rubbing against the rear brake.  Briefly I think of a 300K where that happened to me.  I was almost halfway into the ride before I figured out I was not just having a bad day.  It has always struck me as odd how you can prepare for a ride the same way, eat the same the evening before and the morning of, get the same amount of sleep, but one day you have a strong day and another a weak day.   Sometimes it is something like a brake rub, but sometimes you just aren't strong.  I try to make it a habit to check both my front and rear brakes before each ride, but sometimes a rub appears later regardless.  Anyway, it is a good feeling when you find out that was the problem and that  the problem was not with your own motor.  

 

Most of the others have waited at the store stop, but we intend to stop for just a bit and send them on. I think of how much more comfortable I am doing this now that the majority of riders ride with a GPS unit.  It also is so much easier to design a route, though I will always be fond of the days I grabbed my bike and headed out onto unknown roads armed with sidewalk chalk to help me find my way back home.  I will always be grateful to my husband for encouraging me even on those days when he was lonely or in pain, preparing me for the independence we both knew was coming however undesired.  

 

As we head down Bartle's  Knob, I am glad that I remembered to warn people to ride with caution.  A smile flirts across my face as I think of Roger Bradford and how he almost went down on that descent after his rear wheel skidded in a turn.  He was already so proud of completely the Mangler successfully, and then to pull out of a skid with no injury, let me just say he was beaming.  I am glad I got the chance to know him and to watch him complete the Challenge Series I used to put on.  

 

The ride ends and a few are waiting.  None of us eat inside restaurants anymore, but we get Subway sandwiches and sit and dine curbside, sharing a few more of those last of summer moments, heading home reluctantly to do chores.  Shakespeare was right.  While it is not my favorite season, summer does not last long enough. It is not the fall I fear.  I love the fall.  It is what comes after, now made harder by the Pandemic.  I know my grass is waiting and want to get it cut before the predicted rain. And as strange as it sounds, I will miss that as well.  But the world turns and season change.  It was a nice if uneventful ride shared with friends. 

Summer Time 2020

"Summer afternoon-summer afternoon;

to me those have always been the two most

beautiful words in the English language."

Henry James 

 

Two glorious days of riding despite predictions earlier in the week for a mostly rainy week-end.  Summer time.  Perhaps not as hot as the past few summers the last couple of weeks, but certainly more humid.  Recently the weatherman said we were up seven inches of rainfall for the year and I believe it.  But still, while not my favorite season, I love the summer despite his occasional brutality.  Previously I wrote that August is a male month:  hot, steamy, demanding.  I stand by those words.  Riding is difficult in August, particularly when it is hot and humid and the sweat stands and beads on your skin rather than evaporating. Lungs gasp for usable, refreshing air and pull in syrup instead. But the rain combined with the heat and humidity has caused everything to stay green and lush.  Mowing my yard has been more like preparing hay for baling. The green is beautiful appealing to my eye and providing a nice background for the flowers that I pass.  I had thought the Black-eyed Susan's were gone, but find there are still occasional patches littering the roadside.  Queen Anne's lace is blooming and the Golden Rod begins.

Yesterday was a club ride that had two climbs but was otherwise flat and fast.  I spent the first part of the ride talking to an old friend as the road unwound before us.  Time changes us and changes others, but I suppose it cannot change the past though perhaps it tempers how we view it.  Links forged through hours spent traversing different roads leave their  marks as do rifts in that chain caused by the choice of different roads.  Friendship is such a valuable thing.  It is a shame that so often we allow it to lapse.  Memories are good, but better when combined with the making of new memories.  But life changes.  We change.  And the world changes around us. Paths diverge and sometimes lead in different directions.  That is okay.  As I read recently, it serves to remember that not everyone deserves a seat at my table, nor I, perhaps, at theirs. 

 

Later in the ride, another friend and I escape potential tragedy when a delivery truck tries to back into a driveway hooking two electric lines.  As the lines strain and appear to be on the verge of giving way and breaking, the driver luckily realizes there is an issue and stops.  Had he broken the lines, I feel certain they could have/would have snaked around and hit us. The incident reminds me of a class at the Y where they had us put elastic bands around ourselves and someone tried to hold us as we ran.  Mine snapped and hit the woman holding the tube, bruising her knuckles and causing her to cry.  I felt so badly for her and was thankful that nothing had broken.  Despite the fact it was totally unintentional, I felt so guilty and responsible, particularly since she had young children with needs to tend to. 

 

Today's ride is from Madison and is not a club ride. Jon and I head out from near the Ohio River for Vevay.  Because we are not taking the busy road bordering the river, this means the ride starts with a climb.  It is long but not really steep. I think that Jon has planned this route to avoid too many hills to test my legs but this is pure conjecture on my part.  I don't yet know him well.  We already have a pace difference and hills accentuate that difference.  The roads he chooses are lightly traveled and so beautifully rural.  We meander along creeks and pass areas with field stone walls.  One is being repaired and the others not. Both need it. The words of Robert Frost come to mind: "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."  Still, I love the stone walls even half fallen.  The effort someone took to erect them, hauling stones from the field and patiently putting them together.  I picture him, sweat dripping from his brow, hands roughened by the constant contact with the rough stone, back bowed by effort.  Prying stones out of the field. Trying this stone, then that stone, trying to make the best match, one that will resist the ground swell. And at  home, she waits, tending to the children, baking the bread, hauling water from the creek for water to wash in.  The people who built this country were truly amazing people, strong people, determined people.  Making do, creating something from nothing. Finding ways to use that which surrounded them. But I ride with someone.  My musing ends.  Focus.  

We stop in Vevay and both purchase drinks, sitting outside and eating bags of snacks we have brought.  It is so different from club rides or from brevets where there is an emphasis on downing a quick drink and snack, then getting back on the bike.  Today there are no controls and no hurrying.  But as we sit, clouds roll in hinting of rain.  I use my phone and see that there really is nothing locally, but up north it apparently is storming.  We ride out into the grey sky and increasing wind.

I am glad Jon is patient with my pace for he is a much stronger rider than I am.  I suspect it helps him having ridden a solo century yesterday after his run the day before while I was at the club ride. Energy has been drained. It is nice to be on new roads but it would not be nearly so nice if I had to push myself to ride faster.  The course he has plotted is overwhelmingly beautiful and at times he has stories to tell me about them, stories of memories from previous rides for these roads are not new to him as they mostly are to me.  At times I worry that I will drive him crazy with my chattering and questioning, but he takes it good naturedly.  Perhaps he is like Paul who I find often only is half listening, or perhaps what I have to say interests him.  I don't know him that well yet.  We are new friends tentatively finding our way and making memories. Needless to say, since I have no idea where I am or what road to take next, he can't in good conscience ride off and leave me though with a GPS and phone I would eventually find my way back.  As I told Grasshopper long ago, if you ride long enough you come out somewhere.  

As we near the end, Jon points out that there is a plane parked behind a church we are passing.  We decide to turn around and look.  When we arrive, we immediately are asked if we are from the press.  While it seemed half joking, it also seemed half serious.  Evidently the plane, a small two seat Cessna, was losing oil and had to make an emergency landing.  The men were getting ready to remove the winds and load it on a trailer to take it for repairs.  We chat for a few minutes before moving on and finishing our ride both glad that the landing was made with everyone being safe.  I think how odd it is, a plane down in the middle of nowhere.  The pilot was lucky to have a rural area with some open fields.  

When we return to Madison, we have lunch down by the river before parting ways.  While sitting there, an older man informs us that the city has taken over responsibility for the pavement on the hill and trucks will not be allowed.  He expresses concerns about the finances required to keep the road usable. But of course, neither of us reside in Madison. The skies have cleared, but the wind remains. It is a good day, a summer day, and there are no so very many summer days left in 2020.  Here's to bicycles, rural roads, and friends, old and new.  Here is to summer. 

 

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.

A Cooler Day During Summer's Heat

"Turbulence breaks a tree's

branches, but only tickles an

eagles's wings."

Matshona  Dhliwayo

Yesterday I rode 47 miles with friends in the cool break from summer's oven, and at the end I wanted more:  more time with friends and more time on the bike and more lush, green scenery.  I wanted to bathe in it, to feel it fill me to the brim until it seeps deep into my soul, to cherish it and hold it dear. Today is also supposed to be reasonably hot rather than scalding.  And so I decide to ride. A friend recently lost her stepson and I opt to ride to Salem and bring back some treats from the bakery for her and her husband.  So my bike heads toward Eden/Delaney Park Road. 

Today, my friends, is the day of birds.  I am not too far into the ride when I see something I have not before seen on a ride:  an eagle.  I first spot it sitting in the road and assume it is a vulture.  But the white head and tail as it takes off tells me I am wrong. Breathtakingly strong, heartrendingly beautiful, there is no need for acrobatics in the sky to make me take notice.  Indeed, I am stunned, questioning myself and what I am seeing as each strong flap takes it further and further away until all that remains is the memory.  Later on during the ride, I see a red tailed hawk being peppered by an angry, smaller, bird, probably protecting its young.  Whatever its reason for chasing, it must be serious as the hawk is six times its size. I heard the hawk's call as it floats across the sky. I smile thinking of when my daughter helped to rehab such a hawk before it was released back into the wild. And I also think of Grasshopper and how he loved it when we spotted a hawk on a ride.   Later, near the end of my ride, wild turkeys cross in front of me before ghosting into the woods that border the road.  I realize it has been awhile since I have seen them.

The turkeys take me back to when I first saw a wild turkey.  The children and I had a path we liked to follow through the woods to Father Mills place.  At the end of the path was a burned down house, probably a mile or more off of the road.  One had to cross a creek to get there, and then the path wound upwards.  The way is now blocked by whoever bought the property, but I will always remember at the creek startling a wild turkey.  It took me awhile to figure out what it was that we had just seen.  And of course, nobody had cell phones or internet access to help.  I remember feeling quite privileged.  All the time I spent playing in the woods as a child, spending entire days embraced by the forest that surrounded my house on three sides stretching all the way to the Ohio River, and not once did I see a turkey.  Or an eagle.

I reach Salem and decide that I will pick up something for my friend when I return for grocery pick up as I want to ride farther and not just head home.  I am afraid the heat will ruin the treat that I want to take her.  I treat myself to a donut, sitting on the curb as is my wont during rides, relishing the gooey sweetness.  Once done, I head toward Pekin and the nearby knobs.  Like the eagle and the hawk and the turkey, I am unfettered today and may do as I  please so long as my strength holds. 

By the time I return home, I have somewhere in the area of 67 miles in, some of those miles on roads I have not ridden for awhile.  I seem to get in patterns of where I ride, and I need to stop that, to be more like the eagle and the hawk and even the turkeys.   And I hope to make them matter.  I hope they keep me strong so that the wind gusts that break branches merely are a bother, a tickle reminding me of my strength.  I hope I can be like the eagle.  

A Day on the Surly

"There are days when being alone is a heady

wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others 

when it is a bitter tonic, and still others 

when it is a poison that makes you 

beat your head against the wall."

Sidonie Colette

Today is one of those days where I am grateful for some time alone on the bike.  After doing some morning chores, I grab the Surly and head out looking for some gravel.  And looking for freedom.  Freedom to decide where I want to go at each intersection, freedom to ride fast or slow, freedom from any demands other than those I choose to place upon myself.  Sometimes I want to ride with others, to press myself, to mirror their pace, to have interesting conversations, but sometimes it is a treasure to be alone rather than a "poison" or "bitter tonic." 

Despite still being morning, the heat and humidity are obvious from the moment I step outside the door, so I actually am surprised to find myself enjoying the ride.  People who train warn about "junk miles" and the harm they can do, but sometimes it seems that "junk miles" fit the bill and leave me with my love of cycling renewed somehow.  There will be other days to train and push myself.  In the words of an old friend, "Do you feel the wind on your face?"  meaning that we can get so wrapped up in our rides with others straining to keep the pace, keeping a conversation, that we miss the scenery and the feeling of freedom that bicycling can bestow. Have you ever been on a ride with a group and passed a road wondering, "Where does that one go?"  By yourself, you can find out.

Despite the heat, the scenery still retains the June greenness.  We were lucky this June.  Unlike the past three Junes where we roasted in the 90's, most of June had cooler temperatures.  It also seems to have been windier than normal, but I am not a meteorologist.  The orange day lilies that appear in early June are still blooming, but I can tell that they are on the verge of leaving for another year.  It makes me rather sad.  Time passes so quickly.  I see the first of the cheerful, orange butterfly weed.  And the Black-eyed Susan continue to bloom making me think of the Laura Nyro song, "Lazy Susan," a song as beautiful as the flower.

I think about my up-coming century on Sunday and worry a bit about the predicted heat and humidity.   I used to blame my struggles with heat and humidity on advancing age, but read an article where it is tied to just not being as fit.  And I have come to believe it. I find I grow a tad lazier with age, less  able to push myself into the pain threshold, more satisfied with an easy, sustainable pace, more concerned with continuing my cycling and companionship than dropping others and/or improving my speed.  Still, I always feel as if it is hard to breath on tough climbs when the humidity is high. In my head or reality?  Does it even matter?


I find only one hard climb today, and that is when I am a tad lost and on Lick Skillet Road.   I remember the name.  I know I have been on the road before.  But was I going this direction or the other?  Where does it come out?  When you are by yourself and hit a hard climb, sometimes it is difficult not to talk yourself into not walking the hill, but today I persevere despite not knowing how long the hill is or how steep it will get.  I know it is for certain that same road when I reach the top of the climb and see a sign about the glaciers that used to be in the area.  I could use some ice and coolness after the climb, but not one glacier is to be seen.    The small store I stopped at last time I passed this way, a store some elderly couple had in their shed, is no longer there.  Why do I remember that of the small selection, I got mustard flavored pretzels? Or perhaps I am not remembering correctly and it was another ride on another day, but I don't think so. Memory is such a weird thing, and mine seems to be more so than many peoples.  Why remember this and not something truly important?

Today what keeps striking my eye are the clouds in the sky.  They just are so beautiful.  Some are flat, but some are fluffy with shades of gray.  Sometimes it seems the fluffy ones have a backdrop of flat, white clouds that bleed into a pale blue. I find I am paying more attention to the clouds than to the rest of the scenery.  They just seem different somehow.  I wish I had brought my real camera and not just my phone, but at least I am able to capture them.  When I get home, it is as I feared:  the phone just did not capture the true beauty.  Perhaps this winter I will try to paint the clouds on paper and I will remember this day, the feel of my legs churning up the hill, muscles straining and pleasantly aching,  the beads of sweat on my face and arms that grow until the weight of gravity cause them to run down my cheeks.  Perhaps this winter I will remember how green and fresh the forest was that borders both sides of the road on the climb.  And perhaps the dream of this will keep me moving forward through the icy, grey, coldness that enfolds the world and has been made colder by COVID.  As I told  people recently, at one point in isolation I was on the verge of speaking only cat. 

I descend down Rooster Hill and work my way over to Old Babe Road.  I smile thinking of Mike Kammenish and how he liked the name of the road as much as I did and as much as others must because you never know if there will be a street sign there or whether someone will have stolen it.  I begin to grow thirsty in the way that you do on hot rides even when you have water left, partly because I have not been drinking enough but partly because I long for something cold to drink, to feel the coolness course down my throat.  And so, with no stores anywhere close, I call it a day ending on paved roads that lead homeward, drunk on the day, appreciative of my freedom.  More than ready for an ice cold drink of water.