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.

Kentucky 200K 2012

It is the night before the brevet and I am unsure if I will ride tomorrow. The world around me has turned into a nightmare, a dark hell of destruction and loss.  I am unsure of many things in the face of this disaster. As with all loss, I am left with a feeling of waiting, of something left to be done, when there is nothing that can be done.  My own helplessness plagues me.  Earlier today the skies darkened, clouds roiled and became menacing,  and the wind howled angrily shoving everyone and everything out of its path.  Like a drunken man on a rampage, unpredictable, impetuous, it indiscriminately punished all who dared to stand in its path, unheeding of cowering pleas for mercy .

 Earlier I was trapped at work being the only one in management who had not left, and I have sent those workers home who wanted to leave.  The few who chose to remain I shepherd into bathrooms as I listen on the radio and hear of the tornadoes touching down on roads where I frequently ride my bicycle and listen to the sirens blaring out a warning of impending destruction.  If I did not ride these roads so often, I would not be able to so closely track the path the storm seems to be following, but I know these roads, their curves and pot holes and uphills and downhills.  I worry about my husband and the family that went to my home because of the protection of our basement, but I am powerless in the face of this fury.  Yet again it makes me realize how illusionary our belief in control really is, however comforting that belief may be.  It is easy to see why so many poets felt that the fates were laughing at us in our puniness. 

In the light of this afternoon, my car accident earlier in the day recedes to being a minor event.  While my car was pretty messed up and it is a major financial blow, I walked away essentially unscathed suffering only a minor blow to the head.  Any accident that allows you to walk away afterward, whether involving bicycles or cars or a combination of the two, is a good accident despite the contradiction in terms. There is much to be said of the ability to move appendages.

When the storm has passed and we are safe, I hear that several small neighboring towns were destroyed.  I am unable to get through to home on the phone, but when I arrive my husband is safe.  One brother, however, who lives in Henryville is unaccounted for, and we have no television or internet to try to find out if he and his family are okay.  I do hear on the radio that most of the town is gone, including the school, and he lives next to the school.  My husband ages visibly before my eyes, concern taking its toll. We debate driving there, but we hear on the radio that nobody is being allowed in. I also hear that we have lost our gas station store stop that we frequent on the Maple Syrup ride and the Salem Century.  Indeed, we were sitting there just last Saturday, blithely unaware that it would soon cease to exist except as a pile of rubble.  It makes the head spin how quickly things can change, and it fills you with sadness. As Freud said, "Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead.  We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces." Well, I have no choice to accept, but I reserve my right to complain. 

Finally, at around 11:00 p.m. that evening, we receive a call from Danny in Florida who has seen that Ernest and his family are okay.  I think how ironic it is that he, living all those miles away, knows more about what happened just down the road than we do.  Ernest just happened to be one of the people interviewed, and Danny happened to have on the right news station.

Do I ride in the face of all this?  My husband tells me I should take his truck and go to the ride, and so reluctantly I go.  While I feel incredibly selfish, I also realize my impotence.  Still tears streak my face upon occasion as I drive to the ride start, particularly as I pass the Henryville exit, still blocked off by police, and along the sides of the expressway I see uprooted trees and debris.  I think of the child found ten miles from her home, tossed about by the wind like a feather, now hospitalized but soon to leave this world to meet her family which was also taken.  

When I arrive in Shelbyville, I am surprised at the large number of people at the start as it is not a PBP year.  32 riders from five states are represented.  There are two tandems, one recumbant, and many single bikes.  Jody and Steve have completed a 200K before, but it is the first for Larry and Nita.  Bill Pustow, the one who marked the course this year, is registered but does not show.  All will be successful today except for one gentleman unknown to me who will suffer three flats within the first nine miles of the ride.  Despite the wind, even the last person had a tad over fifty minutes to spare prior to the course closure.  (In brevets, every stop has a generous time limit to allow for success.)

Because of the later start time and the distance, I have lights but I hope not to use them. I ride much of the early part of the ride with Scott Howes.  We are not completely synchronized:  Scott is a bit faster on the pedals than I am, but I am faster in and out of the controls.  Also, I keep getting interrupted by telephone calls that I have to take since I am on call.   After some interesting conversation that helped the miles to pass, we eventually part ways for good.  I will not see Scott again until the end, but I am thankful that I had his interesting conversation for awhile to pass the miles and to keep my mind off of more unpleasant topics. 

This course is easier on the way out than it is on the way in, particularly so with the wind.  When I do the turn around, I know I have the choice of trying to find someone to share the wind with or facing it on my own.  The power of a head wind when cycling never fails to astonish me, and I find myself growing weary as the wind throws up a wall to forward movement. Eventually I see who I believe to be Steve Royse up ahead, but as I increase my speed, his speed seems to increase as well.  Alas, I am not up to a game of cat and mouse today.  He remains in my vision, but we never share the road or the wind today.

Finally it is the last control, and I quickly grab a drink and a snack.  My pace is slow, but it is steady.  The wind direction has changed or the wind has calmed.  I really am not sure.  I pass Steve Royse who has a flat.  I ask if he has what he needs to get back rolling, and he assures me he does.  A short while afterward I am joined by Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish.  He had ridden out with some of the faster riders, but then faded.  I worry when I hear his back is hurting because I remember his surgery for this same problem.  Grasshopper and I rode to the hospital to see him afterward when he was as high as a Georgia pine.  He tells me he also faced the wind alone today. We finish the ride together reaching my goal which was to finish before dark.  I enjoy our time together and think of the many miles I have ridden with Diesel, my friend.  My bicycling has introduced me to so many special people and I am blessed.  I am extremely shy and meeting new people is a source of great anxiety to me turning me into a blithering idiot or mute slob, depending upon the occasion.

At the end there are smiles, congratulations, teasing, and pizza:  it doesn't get much better than this. Thanks for the great course, Steve, the great markings, Bill, and the companionship many of you provided this day.  As brevets go, it was not a particularly difficult one, but I am exhausted, my legs are sore,  and I will sleep better for it.


(This will probably be the last post on the Kentucky 2012 brevet series.  I missed the 300K and it is unlikely that I will ride the 400 or 600 this year).