Medora Goes PInk 2022

"The first breath of Autumn was 

in the air, a prodigal feeling, a 

feeling of wanting, taking, and 

keeping before it is too late."

J. L. Carr 

 

Medora Century......it always is a rather poignant time, falling as it does on the second week-end of October to celebrate Medora goes pink, and signaling the coming end of comfortable riding.  Yes,  one can ride all winter long.  I did it for years.  And I still ride sometimes in the winter cold.  But it is not the same and does not hold the same freedom that a summer ride does clad only in shorts and jersey and with long hours of sunlight that allow for lollygagging.  Medora, since it started going pink in October,  always brings an awareness to me of how fragile our lives are as well having lost two grandmothers to breast cancer and with my mother having had breast cancer though surviving.  

The Medora rides started many years prior to the festival start and also brings happy memories, and I feel certain that today's ride will be no exception.  I have ridden there with so many people and have seen so many changes within the town.  I remember a winter ride with Grasshopper, and how as we sat and ate our sandwiches, snug and warmed by the inside of the long defunct store as well as our friendship, the snow began to fall, flakes as big as my hand driven sideways by a strong wind, and we wondered about making it home. I remember showing the bridge to Greg Z. when he came to visit and how the main road was closed so we found a way that contained gravel yet he did not complain.  I remember the year some of the riders decorated and wore bras outside their jerseys, including some of the men.  I remember the years riders rode the barrel train in town.  I remember the many, many times I helped first time century riders finish and sharing their elation at their accomplishment, for a century, no matter how easy, is still an accomplishment. 

I change the start time due to the unexpected cold weather and wheels don't roll until 9:00.  It is, indeed, the first breath of Autumn. I don't know it this will help or hurt attendance, but it will certainly make the ride more pleasant for me.  I am not sure how many will show, but I do learn that there will be riders from Riddenfadden and SWI along for ride.  And it turns out to be a nice turnout though smaller than many times in the past.  22 riders turn out for a glorious fall day that, while cool, will be filled with sunshine.  Larry Preble, Tom Hurst, Amelia Dauer, Mark Peterson, John Pelligrino, Dave King, Bob Grable, Fritz Kopatz, Paul Battle, Steve Puckett, Tom Askew, Dee Schreur, Jessie Dietrich, Tony Nall, Steve Meredith, Jonathan Lichensteiner, Jonathan Wineland, Peggy Bannon, John Mahorney, Thomas Nance, and Beth Niccum.  Some I know, some I don't.  Regardless, all are welcome.  Smiles seem to dominate and the chatter is upbeat and falls like music on my ears.  This will, I feel certain, be a glorious day.

At the ride start, I find out that the Chicken Chase, a road race, has been scheduled for the same day.  Not only is it scheduled for the same day, but it has the same start time and the same first few miles of the course.  It slows us for a bit when the sweeping vehicle blocks our path, but he allows us around.  I try to encourage the runners/walkers and to be courteous as we pass.  Hopefully they don't mind our passage.  

 

As I expect, the crowd rather quickly divides into groups.  I stay in the back as I will throughout the ride, sweeping.  Sometimes sweeping can be a chore, a struggle to find conversation with people I don't know well, a struggle against personal needs and wants, but today is a pleasure.  For once, there is little wind, for wind often is the nemesis of this route turning what should be a fairly easy ride into a battle.  And despite the chilly start, a quick warming.  Ideal cycling weather.  

At the slower pace, I am able to nice the contrast of the trees, some fighting to maintain the illusion of green summer and some yielding to oranges, yellows, browns, and reds.  When there is a gust of wind, at a  point in the route where there are trees instead of fields, small leaves flutter to the ground giving a festive feel to an already festive ride.   I try to register each beautiful thing I pass to hold close in the coming winter, to cling to when it seems the sky will never be blue again and the sun will never share his warmth but will continue to give me his cold shoulder.  And Carr is right, I want and want and perhaps even need without being really sure of what it is that I want and need, just knowing that it is something.   And knowing that I will blink and the trees will be bare, many bicycles will be put up, and I will still feel as if I missed it, as if I missed something. 

It seems like a short time when we arrive at the covered bridge, but the first group is already coming back through having eaten and returning to the stop.  Larry takes a photo of us at the bridge and makes the comment about the photo being "Medorable" causing long though good natured groans to emerge from the crowd along with a few giggles.  Thomas comments that Larry must have thought that up last night and been saving it for just the right moment.  They tease me about some woman in Medora asking about me and saying I am there every year. And then we are off.  They head home, three of us head to the festival and to find some lunch.   

 

I am hungry as I had only an apple and some V8 for breakfast knowing that the food here would not be healthy and would be calorie laden.  Since Scotland, I have struggled to lose the weight I gained and winter will not help that struggle as cold weather causes cravings for comfort foods rather than salads and veggies.  I get my usual sandwich and sit where I can bathe in the sunlight for a bit before swinging my leg back over the bike.  As we leave, I try to remember the first rides where i put the initial Medora course together, but my memory fails me.  I remember plenty of rides to Medora, with others and solo, but that ride escapes me.  

We are rather slow on the way in and I wonder if anyone will be waiting to join us for   pizza, but there are a few that have stayed and chatted waiting for us.  The pace is fine, however, and worth the elation I see on Beth's face when she finishes and makes it up the last climb without walking. We all go to have pizza despite Dave's disappointment that the restaurant does not have beer and there is laughter and fellowship.  Henryville is a small town and for the first time it hits me that there is no liqueur store in the town and no bar.  I don't think the grocery sells alcohol either despite the fact I know it is not a dry county.  Rather interesting and probably saves the town from some problems it might otherwise have, but also affecting the economy.  For booze is popular.  

I don't know what  the ride was like for most of the people today, but I hope it was as nice a day for them as it was for me, that they drank their fill of sunshine and the last of summer/first of autumn, that they got something to "keep" before it was too late.  And I wish them memories to warm themselves with when the winter that is fast approaching arrives. 

Short Frankfort: Century of the Week 2021

"What makes something special

is not just what you have to gain,

but what you feel there is to lose."

Andre Agassi 

 

The night before the ride, I wonder if the century will be a go as there is talk of severe thunderstorms and high winds, but things sound a bit better in the morning with most of the bad weather staying north.  So I leave early for the ride start as it is quite a drive for me.   I am looking forward to the ride.   It has been awhile since I have ridden these roads.  Since I am playing with centuries this year, I am trying to vary the ride starts so it is not always a long drive for the same people, but when I think about it the participation has mostly been varied this year.  And today is no different.  There are five of us that are going to ride, and only three of us have done a century this year.  Tom Askew, Larry Preble, Gail Blevins, Trey (last name unknown), and I head out into the cool of the morning well aware that it will not last and is supposed to get into the ninties.

At first I think that the group will split early into two groups because of the different ability/fitness levels, but it turns out to be one of those special days when everyone seems content to ride together and enjoy each other's company.  There seems to be no rush to get anywhere or to finish.  We proceed not at a break neck pace, but we aren't crawling along either. People  talk to each other for a bit, then talk to someone else in the group, and when the group does split a bit on a hill or when someone is feeling their oats, they  stop and allow the others to catch up and regroup.  

 

I love these types of rides, the rides where there is just the company, the scenery, the challenges, and the bicycles.  The type of ride where nobody is in a hurry, where everyone seems to know that no matter their level of expertise of fitness, what is important is the overall experience of the ride:  the sound of conversation, some serious, some frivolous, the sound of laughter, the sound of wheels turning, the look of smiles on faces, the startling greenness and lushness that surrounds us, the feel of the wind caressing our faces,  the wonder of being alive and being on a bicycle.  I hold these things close, treasure them, memorize them, hoping to use them as a shield when the day comes when I can no longer participate.   As Agassi says, I am gaining from this ride, but the appreciation also comes from knowing what I, and the others, will eventually lose.  I send up a silent prayer pleading not yet, not soon, well aware of my selfishness for I have been given so much.  How grateful I am for this day and these riders.  How cognizant I am that these types of rides can't be forced.  They either happen or they don't.

Despite the temperature being in the nineties, the  cloud cover and wind make it seem like it really is not overly hot.  Even the long climb into Frankfort, not steep but long, does not seem overly demanding.  The only disappointment is, upon arriving at Qdoba, the traditional lunch stop for the Short Frankfort, they are not open due to staffing issues.  We eat, instead, at Panera where Gail keeps everyone in stitches throughout the meal.  I don't know if she realizes how funny she is, but everyone is giggling and enjoying themselves.  Larry takes photos.  As for me, I try to make an image to retain in my mind.   I try to memorize the sounds of their laughter, the timbre of their voices, the ways their  lips curve when they smile.  And I know, despite the fact nothing unusual has happened, that I will remember this day and this ride.  

Perhaps if all rides were like this, they would not be so special.  They would become ordinary...mundane...repetitive.  But most rides are not like this, not with the differing levels of ability.  Like everyone else, I have days when I want to ride  hard, to feel my lungs heave and gasp for oxygen, to feel my muscles burn, and other days when I want to poke along at a snail pace, stop and take photos, lollygag.  But for now I am glad for this day, for these people, and for bicycles.  It is practically guaranteed that I will, eventually, lose contact with most if not all of them.  I have watched it happen before.  It seems a lot to lose. The thought makes my heart ache,  but oh, how much I have gained from this day.  And I am grateful:  grateful for the laughter, for the camaraderie, for our health, and this gray day that sheltered us from heat that could easily have stolen the laughter and turned it into curses.  Once again I am grateful for bicycles. 

The Simple Things Bicycling Brings

"To find the universal elements enough;

to find the air and the water exhilarating; 

to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening

saunter....to be thrilled by the stars at  night;

to be elated over a bird's  nest or a wildflower 

in spring - these are some of the rewards

of a simple life."

John Burroughs

 

I am looking forward to today's ride.  Jon and I are riding out of Madison toward Dupont to check out a change I made to a century route and then just plan on doing my favorite thing:  wandering.  Each of us has packed a lunch to eat somewhere along the way.  We meet in Madison and are on our way quickly, starting the day with the big climb into and through Clifty Falls from the south entrance heading north. The day is sunny and already pleasant, but chill enough that I have brought a light string backpack, a Hell Week remnant,  to carry my lunch and any clothing I may decide to discard along the way. 

 

 At one point, I see a bunch of daffodils lining the roadside.  They are so bright and beautiful, almost screaming, "It's here.  Spring is here."  I exclaim, "Pretty."  Jon does not understand for he is riding next to me and on his side of the road there is a junky house.  We laugh.  I think briefly how confusing life can be since each of us has our own, unique, different perspective that can be influenced by a small change in circumstances.  No wonder the world has so many problems, particularly if people don't talk.  I have often been accused of being too blunt, and I think, perhaps, people are right:  but speaking out also has its advantages.  Still, I think that often our failure to put thoughts into words combined with the inadequacy of words when we do leads to so much misunderstanding.  But sometimes it is so hard to put thoughts and feelings into words.  And sometimes it is dangerous or injurious leading us into places that perhaps we do not want to go. The words from an Adrienne Rich poem float through my thoughts, "Our words misunderstand us."

 

Before you know it, we are in Dupont and the road I have chosen to replace the previous gravel road included in the route is paved.  Before proceeding and finding this out, however, we sit on a bench outside a closed store and enjoy our lunch in the warm sunshine.  We see a cat, black and rather lanky,  just up the road, lolling in the sun, as appreciative or more so than we are of the suns warmth.  A small boy on a blue bicycle is in a nearby yard along with other children whose laughter and childish chatter floats out a bit across the air.  A grown man calls to a neighbor asking for a bit of help.  The weather has called us all outside honed by winter with a new appreciation for sunshine and warmth. A friend of Jon's that also rides pulls up in a car and chats for a bit. It is with some difficulty that I drag my lazy self off the bench and back onto the bike.

 

The new road is rough, chip and seal pavement, but not the gravel that bothers so many.  Neither of us has ridden it before.  It is not spectacular scenery wise, particularly as it is marred by obvious poverty and neglect along the way, but it serves its purpose. We end up back on my original route in San Jacinto.  I smile inwardly remembering when I first came upon this spot.  There is now a plaque where the school used to stand.  Strangely, I don't remember if the school was still standing when I first cycled past or not.  I do remember puzzling quite frequently over the name.  One does not really expect a town in the middle of conservative Indiana to carry a Hispanic name.  After this ride, I finally look it up and find the town was named after the battle of San Jacinto.  And so, I need puzzle no longer.

That is, however, one of my favorite things about rides:  the puzzling about things.  Was this old building a store?  It looks like it may have been from the construction.  Or a church?  Who lived here? How did they make a living?  Why did this town die?  How do the people that still live here make a living?  Where are the children?  The lack of children or any other people outside on a spring day like today is an indicator of the health of a habitation for it is not a day to be indoors following winter.

After showing Jon a barn nearby that has always intrigued me because of how it is built, using stone to level it on side rather than building on flat ground or using fill dirt, we decide on a route that may or may not have gravel.  Jon knows it did in the past, but it seems, at least at first, to be paved.   I have ridden just a short way up this road before, but never the whole road.  I remember pausing and seeing a deer further up the creek pausing and dipping its head for a drink and thinking how beautiful it was. It sensed my presence somehow, turning its head toward me before bounding away.  I don't remember why, but I turned around that day.  Perhaps fate was saving this road for today. We soon come upon a creek crossing.  We decide to proceed.  Jon rides through.  I carry my bike and walk.  The water reaches my ankles in places.  It is frigidly cold water, but my wool socks are warm enough that it is not an issue once I reach the other side.  Jon pauses to wring out his socks.  I just ride ahead. At the top of the hill, the road becomes gravel, rough gravel.  I start walking but since Jon proceeds by bike, I also begin to pedal until it just becomes too rough and thick for either of us.  I suggest we just walk and enjoy the spectacular scenery.  

As we are walking, a car comes by, slows and stops.  A woman tells us that just up ahead, a cow has given birth.  She tells us, "The blood and everything is hanging out of her butt."  As we round the corner, we see the cow and calf.  The calf has not yet stood and nursed.  The placenta is, indeed, still visible.  The mother  licks the calf who makes an awkward attempt to stand forgetting that he/she has to use front legs as well as back.  On the second attempt, the calf awkwardly stands, teetering a bit but becoming more sure by the second.   Mom  nudges him/her in the direction he/she was already headed, toward the teat.  Umbilical cord still dangling from his/her chest, the calf nurses taking his first meal.  I am in heaven at being treated to such a show.  Another truck comes by, this time with the owner of the cow and calf who says she will tell her husband of the birth.  And we move on.  Immediately past the pasture is paved road though we were both fooled into thinking there might be much more gravel when the truck came from another direction which may have been a long drive or a different road than we were traversing. 

We stop for a snack at a small lake with a dock.  People are fishing across the way.  Frogs are calling, telling the girls that they are pretty and should be the one chosen.  The sun is hot.  The deck is warm.  I could stay here until night falls, but Jon has a chore to run and I have things I should do so after a long break, we move on.  It is hard to get back on the bike and I find I am growing tired.  I wonder if it is related to my second COVID vaccination  last Thursday.  But I am able to continue content with the day, the conversation, the company, and the sights.  Despite my fatigue, I feel satiated with all that has happened, filled to the brim with sunshine and warmth, not just that of the sun and scenery, but of friendship and conversation.  Tonight I will sleep soundly and my dreams will resound with the beauty of this day and I am glad to be alive.  

 

 

Spring Approaches

 Well the road rolls out like a welcome mat,

to a better place than the one we're at...."

Chris Stapleton

 

This song caught me with the first line......how true it feels on a bicycle when the last of the winter days speak of spring with a kiss of unseasonable warmth and the road is so welcoming, teasing of adventure.  And today is such a day.  How welcome it is to be on a bike.  

The day begins shrouded in grayness that  could speak of winter, but it lacks that cold shrillness that often haunts winter days, perhaps because the wind is mild:  enough that you know it is there, but not strong enough to leave you cursing and despairing.  Additionally,  I know that the skies are predicted to clear before growing heavy with clouds again and issuing in rain, and the thought of sun is joyful.  From what the weathermen say, lots of rain.  Three of us roll out of Bicentennial Park in  Madison toward Pleasant.  Almost immediately, Ken notices a brake rub.  He stops and it is a quick and easy fix, but bicycle problems will haunt him throughout the day afterward ushered in with a flat.

Rural Indiana has had snow this year, something we were spared the past couple of years, and cinders are thick on the road.  If you have ridden much in cinders, flats are expected, not a surprise.  The surprise of the day is that Ken not only  has but one flat, but also is the only one who has a flat.  When we first take off, I attempt to use my glove to clear the cinders after riding through a particularly heavy spot, but the roads are wet from the prior evenings rain and it is too cold to have water soaked gloves so I just accept my fate.  If I flat, I flat and will fix it.  There are worse things.  The other curse of cinders is that they easily can cause a wheel skid that results in a loss of control and a crash.  Between luck and easing down descents that we would otherwise let loose on, all of us avoid this unpleasantness.  

 

When Ken has his flat, he is never again able to get his back wheel exactly right and there is an audible sound  when the tire turns.  He has tried loosening the brakes, re-seating the tire, and other tricks to no avail.   Yet he never complains despite the fact that it must take lots of additional effort, and while this is not the hilliest ride I have ever completed, it is not the flattest either.   As I later tell him, I would have milked it for all it is worth.  I don't know him well, but it says a lot about his character that he does not. 

I shed my jacket after the first climb and then chill as the sweat dries, but once the wind has dried my wool jersey and base layer, I am comfortable.  I smile inwardly knowing that I have hot soup on my bike for my lunch.  Hiking with a thermos of coffee this winter has taught me how fortifying a hot beverage can be when there is chill in the air.  The trick was getting my thermos to fit my bottle cage.  I accomplished this by taping newspaper around the outside.  The other trick was getting the vegetables inside the narrow stem.  This morning while preparing I decided that next time I will bring a soup that does not present this issue.  The guys tease me about the soup until after we stop in Pleasant for lunch.  It is a friendly teasing, that kind that has no malice or meanness in it, so it makes me smile.  For just a moment I think about life when I used to eat inside restaurants or stores.  It seems a lifetime ago.  

The climbing feels wonderful though I obviously am not cycling fit.  The skies clear and we have some time with a wonderfully blue sky.  Again and again I delight at how magnificient it feels to be outside and on a bicycle, particularly on the lovely roads that Jon has chosen and with people.  How I have missed people in my isolation.  Often there are creeks, gurgling and shining, at the side of the road.  At one point I wonder what it will look like here when the spring wildflowers arrive.  It must be soon. My early flowering daffodils are pressing up through the ground at home, promising me beauty and color. 

 

The ride seems to end all too quickly, but 45 miles is really the perfect distance for my current fitness level. I tell Jon I want to ride Telegraph Hill, just not today.  I think he is, perhaps, disappointed, but my legs are feeling the climbs we have done.  I end knowing I could have ridden farther, feeling as if I got a workout without feeling absolutely exhausted.  Ken split off for home prior to the last descent, so the ride ends just Jon and I and after putting up our bikes, we walk up to Main Street to find drinks:  coffee for him and hot chocolate for me.   But  the road will call again soon, shouting its welcome.  Of that I have no  doubt.

Goal to be Determined

"You are never too old to

set another goal or to dream

a new dream."

C.S. Lewis 

 

So with the upsurge in COVID cases, club rides are once again suspended.  But I decide I must make use of this beautiful day.  After over a week of cloudy skies with no hint of sun, the sun is out.  I wash and hang out three loads of clothes before heading out.  I decide to ride toward Salem taking the shorter route that I have not ridden for awhile. I think it is odd how I seem to ride a certain route for awhile and then realize I have not ridden another way for quite some time.  I think how blessed I am to be able to step right outside my door and take off with hills in one direction and flats in another and little traffic on most routes. 

 

There are now some trees that have completely shed their leaves and they stand tall, seemingly proud of their nakedness, but there are some who have not and there is still color that seems even more brilliant now that the sun is shining. I had thought they would be gone by now, but they are not.  Probably Sunday will take care of most of them as there are strong winds predicted.  The road is covered with leaves that have fallen and when no cars are near, I play my my game of picking one to run over delighting in the crunch.  But I am also cautious as the rain has left the leaves wet in many places, and wet leaves, like freshly cut grass, can mean a fall.  I feel the sun caress me despite his growing lack of warmth and I feel blessed.  As I age, sunshine seems to have become more important to my emotional well being.  

On Sawyer road, I am accosted by dog after dog.  I wonder where they have all come from as the majority that are there now did not live there the last time I passed this way.  I giggle at one I pass that has lived there and used to chase me.  He is old and just looks now, letting me pass.  How age changes us. I think that perhaps the pandemic has caused people to adopt more pets since they are home. I, myself, thought of adopting one since I cannot travel as planned until I saw how hard it was to integrate Murphy into my home when I had to take him from my sister.  Most of them appear harmless unless they happen to bump my front wheel, but a pit bull comes out that seems rather worrisome.  I stop knowing I can't outrun him and would rather be stopped if he bites than pulled from my bike. He smells me and I feel certain he can smell my cats,  but then he retreats seemingly satisfied that I am not a threat.  

On the way to Salem, I am facing a head wind, but my pace is leisurely and there is no rush so it is not a problem.  I know that there will be payback on the return journey, and indeed there is.  I blow home quickly and easily.  On my way I think about what, if any goals, I want to set for the New Year.  I come up with many ideas, but nothing that I settle on as a certainty. It just will take more thought.  But there will be a new goal and new dreams to sustain me through the isolation that comes with the pandemic so long as I count my blessings and not my losses. 

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.  

When January Seems Like March

"There's a last time for everything."

Brad Paisley

Riding a century today was probably not the smartest thing I have ever done.  After tearing or straining an abdominal muscle November 30, I am finally able to sleep on my side again.  It is peculiar, but I realize as I ride that I learned to sleep, however uncomfortably, on my back as a result of bicycle tumbles starting with my fall at a water crossing in Texas many years ago.  But I always return to side sleeping when healed.  Anyway, I still know it is there, but it is finally healing.  Pain no longer awakens me at night if I move from my back. As I pedal off, I tell myself I will walk the more strenuous hills and will turn around if I begin to feel a pain increase. I don't want to re-injure myself and set my recovery back, but I don't want to waste this day. Despite it feeling and looking like March, it is January, early January, and snow and gloom are still quite probable if Mother Nature blinks.

 Additionally, I don't want to continue to feel my fitness seep away.  As Rich Ries pointed out during a recent lunch conversation, it just takes longer to heal as we age, and that is very frustrating.  And it is very difficult to get doctor's to realize how active we are despite our ages.  At least I didn't need surgery.

When I awaken this morning, the pull to ride is almost impossible to ignore.   I know I can use a good day of sunshine and it is supposed to be sunny.  The wind is supposed to be very light, decreasing as the day goes on.  Indeed, at the end of the ride, following my shower, I notice that my cheeks are sunburned.  I can't ever remember that happening in January before.  And I have ridden many January centuries. It makes me smile.

As so often happens when I ride one of the routes that I have shared with friends in the past, the ride is haunted by memories that pop up sporadically, from many, many different rides.  But what truly sets me off is when I pass through Deputy and Gaffney's store appears to be closed.  I notice that down the street there is a new Dollar General.  So a cyclist can still stop and refuel in town there, but not at Gaffney's.

I mourn the loss of these small, country stores.  Unlike some riders, I don't mind paying a dollar or two more to try to help them extend their lives.  But stores like Gaffney's can't compete with Dollar General.  I smile remembering stopping there on the Bethlehem Century and Steve Rice seeing Santa Claus when nobody else did.  As I ride, I think how many of the small stores I have frequented over the years are closed.  The buildings look so forlorn.  I think how I wish I had photographed them prior to their deaths.  For they are all dinosaurs and dying, pushed out by large conglomerates.  Is their loss worth saving a few dollars?  Do we even know the cost of their loss? Regardless, it seems it is inevitable and it makes me sad.  Usually the food was only so-so at Gaffney's, but I also remember having one of the best sandwiches I have ever eaten there, appetite honed by pedaling miles through cold and strong winds while I laughed with friends that I love.  I can still smell the garlic on the bun and how alluring it was when combined with the laughter and friendship of the riders I was with that day.  I was satiated in more ways than one, just one of the many bonuses of group century rides.

As I ride away, I find myself humming Brad Paisley's song about there being a last time for everything.  I ask myself if it is a good or bad thing, this often not knowing when a thing is our last time.  I think of my husband's last words to me, teasing me about opening Christmas presents early.  Oh, all the times I wish I had said yes, that I was not such a stickler for tradition.  But I didn't and it is done. And, of course, the last time for something bad is a good thing.  But mostly I find I don't like endings even though many times they signal beginnings.

Dogs wake me from my reverie.   Today's ride turns out to be one of the doggiest rides I have done in a long while.  Eventually, passing dog after dog,  I think how lucky I am not to have been bitten.  And it seems the houses I am passing have not one dog, but two or three dogs.  At one home, a German Shepherd and two Pit Bulls begin to circle around me so that I can't see them all at the same time.  I try not to panic, but I can still feel the Pit Bull's teeth sinking in my flesh all those years ago.  "Yard, Now", I holler in my deepest, loudest voice while squirting with my water bottle and pointing.  Surprisingly, it works.  I don't know whether it is the weather or people's growing fear but more and more dogs, big dogs, come out of yards this ride than I ever remember encountering before.  Dogs with no manners and dogs who are not restrained despite there being a statewide dog restraint law.

I take a very quick lunch stop in Vernon for my pace is slow and I want to be in well before dark, but I know not eating will slow me down.  Service is quick and I am on my way, wheels turning.  I know the second half of this ride has fewer climbs and is quicker, but I still don't know if I will run into flood waters.  I think about the time I had this route for my Christmas breakfast century, losing all the riders that attended, and crossing the icy flood waters thinking they must have done so only to find them all behind me.  I think of a different time on this route where two riders came out to do their first century and how glad I was that I carried an extra water bottle as the man ran out and was about to give out with 20 miles left to ride.  I think of Kirk bonking in the heat on this course and how I wondered if I would get him to the finish.  So few of them still ride, yet here I am:  cursed or blessed?

I find no flood waters and reach home with plenty of day light to spare.  I suppose it is because of the slower pace, but I really am not very tired.  Usually when I go that long between century rides, they exhaust me.  So maybe I have not lost as much fitness as I feared.  And hopefully this is not my last century ride to Vernon on the Christy route. 

Ride Diversity

"There is no beauty without difference  and

diversity."

Rasheed Ogunlaru

The week of two centuries, each so very different:  one solo on a cloudy day that occasionally spit rain at me and the other sporting sunshine and friends.  One route hilly and demanding while the other is mainly flat and easy.  Riding with friends and riding alone, each has charm and its place in my life.

Riding alone gives me time not only to think, but to marvel at the beauty of the world that surrounds me, to note the changes that have happened since I last passed that way, some positive and some not so positive:  a new house, logging along one of my favorite wooded roads, a new dog. Sometimes, often in fact, it brings memories, some happy and some sad, all of which have contributed to enriching my life and to shaping me.  The thought of losing memories is truly terrifying.  I briefly wonder if there will be anyone to remind me as I think of how the last few years of her life my mother enjoyed it so when I told her the stories she had told me of her life, for she lost those memories unless they were brought back to mind.  There is a sadness that cannot be staunched in getting truly old.  Blessing or curse or a little of both? And I think again of how our children only know part of who we are. When I ride alone, I may laugh out loud, sing, cry, or curse, and sometimes do them all.  Crazy? Quite possibly.  But not harmful so who cares.

Alone I wonder about the fields of unharvested pumpkins that I pass.  Three years in a row now this farmer has grown acres of pumpkins leaving them to rot in the field.  Originally I thought perhaps it was an older person who had planted the field and died prior to harvest.  Or perhaps was unable to get anyone to work and help him/her reap what they had sown.  Now I wonder, does the government pay them to grow the pumpkins and that payment is sufficient without bothering with harvest.  Surely there is work involved and expense and time in planting the pumpkins. When I mention it to someone at the next ride, they suggest that perhaps they are just reseeding themselves, but the bounty of the harvest makes me doubtful. To sow, but not to reap?  The green in the world is toning down and diminishing.  Only the winter wheat, or I think that is what it is, is the green that normally marks the beginning of spring.  Soy bean fields, some harvested, some not, brown and dusty.

Alone I think about things, notice things, sometimes stupid things and sometimes things that are meaningful to me. Many would not cross my mind if I were in company. I notice how the colder weather enhances the scents that surround me when an old, stinky car passes, and I smile thinking that the more pleasant smell of dryer sheets, containing fluorocarbons, are probably just as bad for me to inhale.  I note about two Amish girls, seemingly preteen, chatting and walking down a road in the middle of nowhere only for me to find that forest had been cleared and a home built where no home existed before.  I think about vacation and how it gives me the freedom to ride this week.

It is beautiful with fall slowly making its way across the land.  Trees are starting to change.  Leaves rustle.  Farmers work. I pass a scum covered pond where a half grown cow eyes me before walking into the water for a drink despite the chill in the air.  I shiver once again grateful that I brought the jacket that I almost left at home and ended up wearing the majority of the day.  I giggle to myself and chide myself for my mirth thinking of my ride earlier this week to Salem for donuts and the young man with the big belly who so wanted to tell me about how his wife does not like it that he buys so many bikes and that I should switch bicycle stores while all the while I am looking at his tummy and  thinking he needs to ride some of the bicycles he talks of a bit more  (as I sit eating a donut).  Like I am not in the same situation for I suspect that with my penchant for sweets,  I will never be truly thin unless I become ill. It was one of those days where I just really wanted to sit and savor what I was eating, but this young man and many others, none of whom I knew or had ever seen before, for some reason, felt a compelling need to talk with me as I sat on the curb.  I grin thinking of a friend who once asked me if everyone I meet has some unrelenting need to tell me their life story despite having just met them.  

In contrast, Saturday's ride is filled with people I do know and who I long to visit with.  Some I suspect I will not see until the spring, know I won't see until the next spring unless the warmer weather holds, for they do not ride during the cold months.  Some hike, some do spin class, some other activities.  All wait for the warmth of spring to once again begin the process of honing their legs and shaking off winter weakness. I hug a special few, inhaling and absorbing their essence to cling to when it is cold and dark and I am isolated.  I try to ride with these friends, the ones whose absence I will feel throughout the winter as they put up their bicycles. Someone, I can't remember who, asks me how long ago I put this route together, and I don't remember, but it has been many years since first I rode to Medora.

 The pace is slow, and I am glad.  Why rush such a gorgeous day, a day made more precious by the knowledge that it will be one of the last because such weather cannot continue throughout the cold, dreary, winter months?  I have friends riding a faster pace, but my place with them will, perhaps, be another ride on another day.  I love them all and try to ride with them at different rides, unable to meld everyone into one group.  And my pace slows with age or the lack of desire or a combination fo the two. We get to the festival at Medora and sit, as we do each year, eating our sandwiches and talking, watching the whirl of people. 

At the end of the ride, Ameila, the ride captain, has brought snacks and beverages and a few of us sit for awhile talking and enjoying what must surely be one of the last of the precious, warm autumnal days.   Amelia and I were supposed to go out for dinner, but both of us are still full from the gigantic sandwich at the festival that has been topped off with snacks and so we agree to put it off for another day and another time.  Kirk and Cathy have announced another ride tomorrow from a local winery, but I am meeting my daughter for lunch and know I will not be going.  

I am glad that I took vacation and that despite the questionable weather Thursday, rode two centuries.  I am glad that one was alone and one was not, for too much of either is difficult for me.  Each has its own charms.  Mostly, I am glad that I have the health to do this, and the freedom to do this.  Recent events have lead me to once again realize that freedoms should never be taken for granted, that they exist only because someone sacrificed themselves so that I could have them, and that with those freedoms come responsibility.  I am thankful. 

Doing Nothing

"There's never enough time to do

all the nothing you want."

Bill Watterson

 

 

 

There could never be enough to these mornings, mornings when the sun in shining and the sky is a brilliant blue.  The few clouds are white and puffy without the grayish bottoms that have clothed them recently.  And the day is mine.  Last night I got the weeks clothing and sheets washed and I have hung them to dry.  By the time I return, they will be ready to be brought inside, smelling sweetly of the fresh air. 

I decide on the Surly again because I really am not sure what I am going to do or where I will end up riding.  The Surly gives me the freedom to pick gravel if it presents itself, and while it is heavier and slower than my Lynsky, it will also serve quite well for a century ride if that is my decision. 

Yesterday I rode with an old friend, Dick Rauh, who is (yeah) starting to ride again.  It seems years since I have seen him, and it probably has been well over a year, but he still looks the same to me.  I grin as we both wore our red LBC captain jerseys.

We ride and laugh about past rides:  the time he brought a heavy, beater bike to my Christmas Century and had to be dragged in, the time he sat in a fire ant nest at Mountain Home, and that followed by a broken seat post during a brevet with Steve, Dave, and I telling him he was strong enough to stand the whole way.  (and he did until it was fixed).  And while the distance is hard on him, particularly with the climb out of Bethlehem, he does well, and I know it will be no time before he can ride centuries again if he decides to do so.  It is good to catch up, to hear that he and his wife and his daughters are doing well. 

And so, because of riding yesterday and chores around the house that need doing, I am not sure how far I will ride but will just decide as I go.  It is a lovely ride, a mix of gravel roads and of paved roads.  When I can, I pick a road I am not very familiar with or have never ridden.  The Surly gives me more freedom to do that.  I hit a closed road sign and smile.  It is Sunday so they won't be working.  I am able to cross the newly paved bridge and wind my way past the bull dozer they have blocking the way. 

At one point, I become a bit frightened when a red truck, rusted and dented, slows, turns and comes back, then turns again.  The truck pulls ahead and stops and I stop my bike.  A man gets out and walks to the side of the road, and I spend a moment deciding whether to turn around or ride past.  The recent story about the couple who broke into a home and tortured the couple has me spooked.  I decide to go forward as there are no houses behind me for miles and I am on rather rough gravel.   Perhaps there are people who live just beyond the next bend. Regardless, there will be no sprinting on this pavement. I pull to the wrong side of the road as I pass and the man smiles and waves as he stands next to a creek.  I wave back, relieved that he seems harmless, just stopping to look at the creek that rushes by.

I come across a rafter of wild turkeys, probably 15 to 20, but they are gone before I can pull out my camera.  A shadow appears on the pavement in front of me, a buzzard flying overhead.  I smile thinking of my husband telling me about a buzzard who nested in a chimney at the plant.  He said they vomit to protect themselves and their nests, and the vomit is particularly pungent with their diet of decaying road kill. 

I decide to head home and not do an entire century today, to clean and have my house ready for another week of getting up and going to work.  Will I still treasure these days as much when they are all mine?  My cousin said that since he retired, he has come to begrudge anything or anyone that demands his time, and I remember my husband being much the same.  So much time spent in doctor's offices.  If there is a reason to be glad that he passed when he did, it is the new law where he would have had to go back two to three times weekly for his pain medication, unless the law provides an exception for those who are chronically ill. I know we need rules, but sometimes it seems we are trying to play God and deny free will. I know he hated sitting in those offices, the waiting, the futility of his hope to feel well again, if only for a day.  There is just so much that I don't understand, but then I have never been the sharpest  knife in the drawer.  But I do understand that I am happy here on a warm summer day on my bike, and I will miss the green and the warmth when winter knocks at the door so I soak it  up as much as I can.

Yeah, today I was doing nothing, and as Mr. Watts noted, there is never enough time to do all the nothing I want. 

A New Century Route

"The right to play is one of the divine rights

of men and women, of boys and girls, and is just

as essential to the peace, happiness, and prosperity 

of the world as is the right to pray.  Never be afraid

or ashamed, my young friends, of honest, vigorous,

healthy play." 

Silas Floyd

A new century route.  I have ridden it, I have even shared it with a few friends shortly after its creation, but it has not yet been a club ride.  It has been a rough week, and I need to play.  I feel it in the core of my being, in the tears that have seeped out despite my best intentions, and I look forward to the release that a long bicycle ride can bring.  And it is almost always nice to share a route, to show people roads that they have not seen before. 

The idea for the route came from Steve Montgomery a few years ago; however, he never put it together.  Because I admire Steve and I like the idea he had of bringing lunch business to a small county store, I breath life into it.  And now he is going to co-captain the ride with me.  I hope I can let go of the sadness and anger of the past few days and play, truly play, for play is so restorative.

With it being a holiday week-end and with a popular paid ride, I am unsure how large the crowd will be, and I am a bit taken back as car after car pulls into the start until we have over thirty riders.  I am delighted to see a few people I have not seen in awhile.  Just the sight of their faces curves my lips in a smile and lifts my heart skyward. Earlier in the week, the day looked to be filled with thunderstorms, but gradually the forecast has mellowed until there is less of a chance, at least until after 4:00.  It is humid, but the cloud cover is a blessing and remains with us much of the day.

As we ride, there are wild daisies everywhere, splotches of white and yellow amidst the dark greenness that announces early summer rather than the tentative, light greenness of the first of spring.  I thought there would be orange day lilies starting, but it is still too early.  Another week or two and they will be here, lining the roads, their bright, cheerful faces greedily tilted toward the sun. There are the starts of gardens, mostly well tended this time of year.  Experience has taught me that some will remain this way while others become a festival of weeds.  A few fields of wheat are beginning to ripen, yellow streaking the green.

The ride quickly separates into groups, some faster and some slower, multi-colored jerseys blanketing the grayness of the sky and the road with color and life.  Chatter, teasing, giggles, and some talk tinged with seriousness seeps through the air and into my ears, a tonic. Today I am at the back, part of ride captain responsibilities, and I do not mind.  I will miss chatting with some of the friends I normally ride and chat with, but I will enjoy chatting with those I don't know as well and just enjoying the day and the slow pace.

At the first store stop, a group we thought was in front arrives having missed a turn.  One thing I have learned through designing multiple routes is that no matter how carefully you prepare a cue sheet, it is almost inevitable that someone will get lost.  With myself, I find it happens most often during conversations with friends, but whatever the reason, it seems to happen on almost every ride.  It is, however, more of a concern on a century ride than on a shorter ride, because the distance is already a challenge.

The major climb is after the lunch stop.  I think that perhaps for once I am taking Paul Battle on a road he has not ridden, but I later find that while he has not ridden it for years, he has ridden it before.  The majority have never done this climb out of Bethlehem.  And what a climb it is.  It is beautiful, forested on both sides, and shady, but it is steep and rather long. Two in the group we are shepherding come off of their bikes. Steve and I dig in and climb.  He reaches the top and waits for me and we both wait for the others.

This is the point where two of the riders begin to really struggle, one cramping and the other just worn out.  Even minor hills have become a challenge.  My heart goes out to them, but there is nothing I can do to help them.  If you don't ride distance rides regularly, you can just expect it to hurt, even at a slow pace, particularly if you are older.  I think of a few of the times I have bonked on a ride, either from lack of preparation, weight gain, or just being the weakest in a group, and I remember how miserable it can be.  Steve tells me that one of the struggling riders did not eat at lunch, and I remember learning that lesson both through my own experiences and through listening the others who were more experienced and taking their advice to heart. And the rest of the route, while it has only one more significant climb, has lots of rollers, many of them steep despite their shortness: leg testers. It is on the last of the significant climbs that the rain begins, threatening worse than it becomes.  A brief patch, a few booms of thunder, and it is over.  By the time we reach the third store, we are mostly dry.

And we manage to bring them in.  Near to the end, Jeff White has ridden back to join us.  Hopefully everyone, even those struggling, feel a sense of accomplishment.  I feel certain it was not a play day for them, but one of those rides that are more like death marches, but those are the miles that make play on a long ride possible.  I think of brevets, of that inevitable time when you ask yourself why you are doing something that is painful, that most people consider insane, and yet, there is the je ne sais quoi factor, that indescribable something, that not only makes you finish but makes you eager to come back for more.  Play, my friends, play on your bicycles, it is important.  Play in your bedrooms, in the workplace, in your day to day interactions with people. Play may, in the end, be what it is all about.  Never forget how to play. 

Maple Syrup Ride 2017

"Man plans and God laughs"

Yiddish Proverb

While I am not overly excited about the cold start, I am excited about the Maple Syrup ride.  I have so many memories of this ride.  So I head to bed early so that I won't be tired as well as weak.  While it is normal in the winter to lose fitness, circumstances have caused me to lose more than normal and I am feeble.  It will be so nice to see everyone though, and I have ridden a couple  of centuries lately albeit slowly.  I know I can finish:  it will just be slow. And I need company.

At 2:00 a.m., however, I am rudely awakened by a loud ringing.  Cats arch their backs, puff their fur, and scatter from my bed in a dead run.  A few years ago I had my basement waterproofed, and that included a pump with an alarm.  The pump has stopped working. The alarm courses through the house in warning. Instinctively I know, there goes my three pay check month. 

I don't fall back to sleep despite telling myself this is silly.  The house did not have a pump for many years.  In the early morning, right before departing for the ride, I e-mail the installer feeling he will probably come the next week. It is, after all, a week-end.  Rain is due later this week which worries me, but I lack the skill to fix it myself.   Bike packed as well as an extensive wardrobe that allows for last minute clothing changes, I head out.

 I arrive and there is a large crowd despite the cold.  Many I don't know, but many I do and it is so good to see them.  I realize that my eyes have been starved and I look forward to a day of company and conversation.  As usual, I am not sure who I will end up riding with, particularly with my weakened state, but regardless it will be delightful to be  on a bicycle and to have conversation with camaraderie. 

Suddenly I receive a text.  The repair man is coming and coming today.  I pack up my bike and head home, disappointed but glad I don't have to miss work next week to deal with things.  As I head home, I realize once again how much my life has changed in the past few years. I think of how, while I always loved and appreciated my husband, I appreciate him even more now.  Not too long before he died, he asked me why I always thanked him when he did things that he should do.  And I explained that just because people should do certain things, they don't always do them, and I was just grateful every time he did something to please or help me, whether he "should" do it or not.  I miss that.  I miss the giving and the taking.  The things done for me and doing things for him. He would have fixed the pump or waited for the repairman so that I could be selfish and go ride.

I have a theory that things happen to us for a reason, that there is something we should learn from every experience that we have.  Indeed, as the saying goes, "Man plans and God laughs" or, as Steinbeck and Burns said, "The best laid plans of mice and men." As I told a friend recently, if I really want to exercise regularly, it appears I will start having to drag myself out of bed and go to the Y.  Then it becomes a question of how badly do you want it, for I treasure my time in the morning, cat on lap, coffee cup in hand.  I think one of the things I have learned is that we can never love or appreciate those people in our lives that care for us enough.  No matter how hard you try, when someone is gone there are always those little nagging regrets, the "if only." 

After the repair man fixes the pump and leaves, another thing that I appreciate, I decide to head to the festival anyway, but it will be a mere 20 mile trip rather than 100 miles.  On the way, I think of the brevet I missed today as well,  and while I have some regret, I find that despite the good weather, it really does not bother me that I decided not to ride.  I hope the desire to do brevets returns, but if it doesn't there is nothing to be done and the bicycle holds so many other promises. Another thing I have learned is that life is fluid.  Changes happen whether we want them or we don't.  And while I don't particularly like change, I really have very little control.

While I don't expect to see any of the century riders because of my late start, I actually pass numerous groups of riders.  Some are obviously puzzled by my appearance.  They wonder if I have just been that slow, or if I am with the group, or where I came from.   When John passes I think how I wish we could have ridden together today and talked some because John is funny and makes me laugh and I have not seen him for awhile.   The same with Lynn.  Amelia and Mike pass, but  I know I would not have kept their pace today.  Cathy and Kirk pass.  All of these people I have met through bicycling. 

By the time I get to the festival, there are no riders left.  I park my bike and make my intended purchases.  Christmas presents for certain people are bought.  For this purpose, I put my carradice and large handlebar bag on my bike and rode the Surly.  I sit on the hill in the odd warmth of the early March sun eating Maple Cotton Candy, a treat I allowed myself since the line for pancakes is longer than I am willing to wait.  And for awhile I lose myself in memories:  Dave standing too near to the heater and melting the material on his riding pants,  Mike Pitt laughing and joking, Grasshopper, Steve, Randy, and more and more.  I wonder how many of the riders today knew that I originally designed the course, and how during the design I came upon a motorist bent on terrorizing me.  

I slowly pedal home, thoughts still swirling knowing there are a million chores waiting for my return.  I keep saying that one day, when I retire, I will get them done.  But I am wiser now, at least when I remember to be, and know that while I plan, God laughs. 

Off To Bethlehem

"Learn from the river the

art of moving on without

letting go."

Panana Reed

Other than an wasted week-end, I have been busy this week taking care of those fall chores that need to be done so that you can feel cozy and snug and prepared for the colder weather.  No, I did not get them all done, but I got done some of the ones I like the least:  cleaning the sump pump well and cleaning the culvert.  (I must admit I did enjoy using my new culvert cleaning tool).  The weather for this much needed vacation week is incredible:  warmer than normal, but not so hot that it is a struggle.  After thinking about where I would like to ride and not having planned out a new route, I decide to go to Bethlehem. I will make a few changes from the original route so that I can leave from my home.

As I ride, I can see that fall is gently nudging  summer, telling him that his turn is over and asking him politely to yield. Summer is a male month, demanding and hot.  When he refuses, immune to her wheedling, she will exert the full force of her power and inevitably she will win.  But for now, he stands his ground.  It is warm with a hint of the wind that awaits and makes riding so much more difficult.  There are clouds that come and go throughout the day.  The corn and soy beans retain no hint of green:  they are brown and dusty.  In a few places, farmers are beginning the harvest, jeans covered with dust, sweat dotting their brows that are furrowed with concentration and determination.  Wooly worms scatter the road like confetti and as always I wonder about their journey.  Where are they going?  They seem to be crossing the road from one corn field or soy bean field to another.  Is there some difference in fields that I can't see?  They aren't all going in the same direction, say north.  I smile to myself thinking, "Why did the chicken cross the road?"  Some things we humans are not privy to.  The only think I know is that it  happens every year and is a portent of the coming cold.

As I near Bethlehem, it becomes evident that it has rained here despite the zero percent rain chance predicted.  It is not yet so chilly that I have to worry about this.  While I may not be comfy if it rains on me, it is not dangerous.  I make a mental note to pack the garbage bag that I normally begin carrying this time of year for when I don't want to tote a rain jacket. I think of Joe Camp on this ride when it rained so, and the hardware store yellow rain jacket that he wore like a tutu. I also watch my speed on the descent with all its twists and turns.  Leaves, walnut, persimmons, and acorns litter the ground.  I think of how I used to harvest the black walnuts for my husband as he preferred them to the English walnuts.  I miss him so.  And I remember that this was the last century that I rode before he returned home to heaven.  And yet again, there are tears of sadness and gratefulness, an odd mix. I realize that rightly or wrongly I have moved on, but like the river, I have not and will not ever let go.  There will be new experiences for me, some pleasant and some not.  I may or may not fall in love again.  People will enter and leave my life, some for the better and some for the worse.  Despite my reluctance, I am moving forward.  And there is, for the most part, a smile on my face, and a bicycle that needs to go for a ride. 

Surly Straggler

"There are more things in heaven and earth,

Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosoply."

William Shakespeare

I have done it.  I have bought myself an early birthday present, a present I have wanted for awhile now.  I have wavered back and forth because truly I should not do it, delve further into the nest egg painfully saved for retirement and emergencies, but I decide to be impulsive.  You see I hear him, my husband, though no longer in this world, whispering in my ear, telling me to do it now while I can, while I have my health and the desire as he did so many times while he was living.  Like Puff, "without my lifelong friend," I have difficulties being brave; but I bite the bullet and it is done. And so, I have bought another bicycle, one more suited to riding gravel as well as pavement.  I have purchased a Surly Straggler.

I struggled with what bicycle to get, what bicycle would best suit my needs.  I want a bike that can take gravel or paved roads with equal equanimity.   A bike that I can do overnight trips on or week long trips on and not have to worry about the surfaces of the roads I might have randomly picked.  I want a bike that I can retire with in a few years and use to see things and go places I have never been.  I gather opinions settling on the advice of Steve Rice. 

I pick my bike up from Clarksville Schwinn deciding when I get there on those little details that you MUST have for the bike to be fully functional:  pedals and water cages.  It is beautiful, almost the same green as my bedroom walls.  There are braze-ons readily available so that I can carry "stuff" in the front and "stuff" in the back once I decide what bags I want.  

Of course, when I get home I decide that I need to try it out immediately despite the fact I have two more dead bushes to dig up and dispose of and numerous other lawn chores.  I dug up a bush this morning and planted two new ones as well as hanging the clothes on the line to dry, weeding the iris bed, and a few other chores. I think of my daughter asking me, "What will happen if you don't get it done?"  She is right: the world will not perish if I take a bicycle ride instead of finishing lawn work that never is completed anyway despite my best efforts.  And actually, had it not been for the new bike, I would have ridden a century today.  I did not ride a century this week-end or last, and I do not like going two week-ends without one, but next week I have four blessed days, and surely one of them will have good weather.

I quickly change into cycling clothes and head out to a gravel road I have not yet ridden.  It is windy but the sun is shining and the world is beautiful.  New leaves delicately lace tree branches, shy of the sun, flirting with the breeze, letting her know that she can not take them until they begin to decline and wither, changing into their fall outfits.  Wild flowers line the road in places, and I see the stalks of what promise to be orange day lilies in May.   

I have never ridden with these type of shifters before, Sram,  and I pray that I don't have to go back to the bike shop and feel like an idiot for not knowing how to shift gears, but I soon figure it out and get the hang of it.  And before you know it, the paved road ends and I am on gravel, going up a road I wondered about but never rode.  The pavement ends right at the gravel, and for a bit I wonder if I am going to make it or have to walk.  For a minute I ask myself why I ever wanted to find out what is on this road.  Despite the knobs on the tires, they slip in places when I try to stand and pedal. My lungs heave in and out, gasping and making noises that let me know they are not at all happy with the demands being placed on them, but they serve me well and eventually I arrive at what I "think" is the top.  It is beautiful:  no cars, no houses, just new, verdant, unspoiled forestland.  I suspect I will find the Amish eventually, for there is horse dung on the road in places.  

I find I am wrong about the climbing being over, but the slope is not steep and before you know it I arrive at the top.  Sure enough, the rest of the road appears to have only Amish residences.  Work horses rest lazily in the pasture, busily munching grass, swishing tails at flies,  knowing that there will be no field work today despite it being planting season.  In one yard, a horse and buggy is in the yard.  A young Amish man is lifting his daughter down from the seat.  She points and giggles when she sees me, and I wave.  I would love to take a photograph, but I know that it is considered rude in the Amish community though they rarely say anything when someone takes a picture because, well, to say something would be rude.  But the children always look so darned cute.  How I miss having little ones to play with now and again.

I think about the things I need to get for my bike.  My son and his wife got me a handlebar bag for International Woman's Day that will be perfect for this bike.  It would not fit my other bike as my road bike has narrower handlebars, but I just know it will be perfect for this one.  I need to find my extra GPS attachment so that I can have it along.  I have no idea where it is, but I keep my bicycle things in a few places and will look. And I just need to browse and dream, work some overtime, and save.  I need something to look forward to. I do decide that I will take off for a week-end soon, maybe return to Montgomery for an overnight, this time with a bike more suited for the gravel that I know awaits.  Mostly I dream, and I thank Lloyd for his sage advice, for all that he taught me.

Shortly before my husband died, he was sitting on the couch in the living room and said to me: "Melissa, I don't know if I'll be able to, but if I can I will look after you and take care of you even after I am gone."   My faith is not as simple or strong as that of my  husband or his mother, a dear friend I also miss.  After I get home from my ride today, I gather the laundry in the laundry basket and take upstairs: one of those last chores that you do to prepare for the coming work week.  Tom helps, of course, by sitting in the laundry basket.  Also in the laundry basket, from somewhere, somehow, is my extra mount for the GPS that I was thinking that I needed to find.  And suddenly I am crying, silently and with great longing tempered now by acceptance.  I don't know how that mount got there.  I assume you used that rascal, Tom.  But thank you, Lloyd, for caring for me and letting me know I made the right decision about the bike.  I will try to be brave and I will try to have faith for in the end, I know Shakespeare is right.