The Adjective Century

"Rain is grace; rain

is the sky descending to the

earth; without rain, there

would be no life."

John Updike

 

I check a few times to see if the century is canceled due to the prediction for rain and possible storms, but it is not.  So I pack my things, double checking for rain gear, a rain cap and a waterproof phone case.  Then I head out.  I decide not to pack my rain jacket as the rain is not supposed to arrive until the afternoon and it should be hot by them.  I do pack a small, disposable poncho, something I try to carry during the summer when storms can pop up suddenly and without warning.    

 

Too well I remember a hot summer ride where the rain caught us on what was a sweltering day reducing us to a mob of shivering, miserable cyclists....at least until we bought and adorned ourselves in white, plastic garbage bags, tearing a hole for head and arms:  the time I joked about riding with white trash.  I think it was the first time, at least that I remember, where I was so cold my body shuddered in strong, involuntary contractions in an attempt to warm itself. To this day, I wonder why they make some trash bags white.  Seems rather an odd choice of colors for the task.  Like the time I wore a white dress on a first date and we went for barbecue ribs which I promptly spilled onto my lap. 

 

I like most of this century; however, I greatly dislike the unnecessary section on River Road.  River Road is a dangerous road with impatient motorists and no shoulder for a cyclist to move over.  But it is what it is and there is only three to four miles on it.  Still, considering it and the coming rain, I decide to ask the ride captain if I am able to start the ride early.  Sam says yes and so off I go leaving the others in the parking lot.  Steve Rice, Mark R., Dave King, and Steve Meredith catch me a bit down the road having left early as well.  

 

As I ride through neighborhoods, a solitary woman on a bike, I think how nice it is to leave early, before traffic has become too thick.  It is so peaceful.  I like riding in the morning while much of the world is sleeping or gathered around the table eating breakfast.  The neighborhoods are wrapped in quietness other than bird song and the occasional dog disturbed by my unexpected passage or an unidentified rustling in the bushes. Everything is lush and vibrant nurtured by the moistness and rain that has haunted this area recently and seems to show no sign of abating.  "One of those summers," I think. I am glad it was  not my decision to have or to cancel the ride today with summer being so unpredictable.  Summer flowers adorn green lawns in bright colors.  Even humid, hot, rainy summers have their benefits I suppose.

 

Despite the coolness of morning, it is obviously  humid.  Even with the flatness of the first part of the course, my skin begins to glow.   If only the moisture would sink in and revitalize my skin, I think.  I have never considered myself to be particularly vain, maybe because I know that while I am not ugly, I am not a beauty, but I dislike the coming of crepey skin.  Of course, cycling is hard on the skin.  And I  have done a lot of cycling.  A song reaches my lips despite those thoughts and I find my rhythm, the one I know that I can maintain for a hundred miles barring something unforeseen. 

 

Before they catch me, I think about where on the course I will probably be when the rain hits.  I speed my pedal stroke thinking to  minimize my chances of getting a good soaking.  I really don't mind rain, though, in the summer. I only truly mind the storms or torrential downpours that impact visibility and my ability to see and my ability to brake if needed or the downpours that leave you shivering cold to the point where even pedaling can't warm you.  Indeed, as I told a friend who rode yesterday rather than today because of the rain, better a rain ride and some coolness than that blasted heat that saps my strength so quickly and so thoroughly.  He does not agree.  

I hurry through the first store stop after eating my homemade blueberry oatmeal bar and Annette Melecio, a triathlete, John Pelligrino, and Dave King come with me.  They ask about Steve and Mark, but I really didn't notice if they had already left the store stop.  Dave says he is in training for PBP and getting in and out of controls or stops rapidly. (He will forget this by the third store stop where Annette, John, and I roll out without him while he finishes a milk shake). Dave's relationship with food always amazes and charms me.  Dave and Steve are both headed back to PBP this year and I feel a momentary tinge of regret for not being part of it, but I just don't want to be that tired again.  Twice, I think, is enough.

The first climb is Liberty Knob and I warn them about the dogs at the top.  There is a group of three or four of them that always come out.  I have talked to the owner about them and others have talked with the owner about them, but he is unwilling and/or unable to control them.  They have never bitten a cyclist that I know of, but they can be quite scary.  There are times when I change my route to avoid them. I am wary of groups of dogs like I am groups of people:  both do things in groups that they would never do individually.  Today, however, they are not as bad as usual.  Perhaps, I think, because the stronger riders have already passed this way and wore them out.  Even dogs seems to grow lazy in this humid heat.  

The second climb is William's Knob, better known to me as Bill's Knob as it is on my Marengo  Mangler ride and I would tease my friend, Bill, about it. Teasing.  I think that perhaps it is a sign of a good relationship so long it is not hurtful.  The climb is not quite as long as Liberty, but a bit steeper.  Since my left knee has been bothering me a bit the past few rides, I decide to drop into my triple, something I don't normally do on this climb.  It is newly paved which makes climbing it easier.  I tell the group Sam said there is now a dog residing at the top, and there is; however, he never leaves his yard.  

And now is the time to look forward to the descent on Daisy Hill, the one that always amuses me as a cyclist will almost inevitably being going MUCH faster than the speed limit when the hill ends.  I always envision a  law enforcement officer with his radar gun pulling over cyclist after cyclist. This is the hill that last year, people worried that Tom Askew had gone down on as he did not show for the lunch stop.  (He just missed the stop as it is not right on the course and rode onward).  After the descent, we go to Subway but there is a long line of the faster riders waiting to be served so we head a few streets over to a local cafe for lunch.  

It turns out we arrive prior to lunch.  They tell us food will be quick, and it is.  In the end, however, it does not matter as while we are eating the skies open up, thunder cracks, lightening flares, and rain comes down in a torrent.  We wait until the worst of it passes and head out into a drizzle.  Dave has a rain jacket, I have a cheap emergency poncho that I usually carry on the bike, and Annette and John (with some help from Annette) adorn trash bags donated by the restaurant. 

I worry that we will overheat on the climb that comes almost immediately after the lunch stop, but needlessly.  The air has chilled and I am glad to have my poncho.  It is not too long after, however, that I decide I am starting to sweat inside and stop to take off so as not to dehydrate.  It also reduces the enormous drag that being inside a plastic bubble has on forward movement.  And we are moving.  Each of us seems intent on a fast (for me) pace.  It is cold starting out, but soon the work of the ride warms me.  Annette and John have followed suit removing their trash bags.  We save our plastic just in case, but we never need it. The rain has cooled things down making the ride much more pleasant.

We roll into the third store stop thinking the fast group is in front, but they pull in as we (well, all except Dave) are finishing a quick bite and drink.  I worry about Chris Embry not being in the fast group, but I know he had a rather serious fall.  What I did not know....what he did not know until later....is that he is riding with broken ribs.  (Been there, done that).   In the end, we will end up finishing with this group, but only because they waited at lunch until the rain stopped whereas we did not.  The hills are getting to our legs.  Though there are no significant climbs after the climb to Rake Road right after lunch, there are lots of rollers.  And we have been pushing.   

The end is a whirl.  I end up finishing with Thomas Nance's group only because they have to stop at a stop light, but as I look around at that light I realize that I probably have children as old or older than some of the riders.  For a 67 year old woman, I suppose I did okay.  The rain actually helped by keeping the temperature down.  I just suffer anymore when it is really hot, and my pace shows it.  I vow not to ride so  hard the next century, but who knows.  What a blessing to have the health to ride, slowly or quickly, and ride for a hundred miles.  Is there any better way to spend the day?  And thank goodness for the rain that not only cooled us for the effort, but will lend her beauty to future rides by keeping everything so verdant.

Century of the Week: Orleans: The Back Door

"We're all traveling through time together,

every day of our lives.  All we can do is do

our best to relish this remarkable ride."

Domhnall Gleeson

At the last minute I have to change the date of the century from Saturday to Sunday. This combined with a number of club members doing an out of town ride leads me to expect a small group, possibly no group.  And I am right:  only two arrive to ride. Jon Wineland and Mike "Diesel Dog" Kammenish are the two.  Expecting that those who did come to ride, if any,  would be stronger than I am, I had already decided to ride the Cannondale for I am much faster on it than I am on the Lynskey though not nearly so comfortable.  I don't understand the physics behind this.  I just know that it seems to be true.  I also recognize that despite my riding the Cannondale it will still be a slow pace for them, but perhaps not so wearisome as it might otherwise be.  Jon, particularly, with riding a century and running the day before might even be content with the slower pace.

The weather is unusually cool for this time of year and there is wall to wall sunshine, something that has been in short supply this summer.  It is delicious to roll out into the coolness. Queen Anne's Lace lines the hedgerow along with some purple Chicory and white Sweet Clover.  There are a few Black Eyed Susan's, but they are mostly gone, whisked away by July. What is left whispers of their former beauty and glory. Dew covers everything in the early morning, thick and nourishing and adding a beauty to the already gorgeous scenery.  I know it is very temporary, and perhaps that makes me appreciate it even more than I might otherwise.   I soak it in.  With winter coming and the Pandemic once more taking hold of the world, I know these days, like the dew and most things,  are limited.  I need this reminder of the beauty in the world, of friendship, for yesterday I was with my sister in Hospice, a living reminder of change and loss and the shortness of life.  I hope this ride will help me shake some of the anger over the unfairness of it.  Crippled in her twenties and now this.  Life just isn't fair.

The first of this ride has a couple of climbs that test the legs a bit:  Liberty Knob and the ironically named Flatwood.  But I love both of these roads.  There is brief, sporadic chatter and there is silence, silence that makes me remember the miles I have spent with each of the other riders.  Memory after memory of the years Diesel and I have ridden together flood my brain.  Diesel was the first person to talk to me on a club ride. I see him at the Back to School century in Seymour, along with Chris Quirey, as we pace lined and worried about the hill they promised us.  I grin thinking of how we kept waiting for the hill and realized we had climbed it without realizing it was the grand hill the organizers had talked about.  I see him on the Short Frankfort Century, allowing me to suck his wheel as we fought the winds from Hurricane Ike, signs blowing to the ground, loose gravel and sand blasting our skin until it it hurt.  I remember finally reaching a pop machine and being so grateful as  I could not let  go of the handlebars to drink due to the wind and how, as I opened it facing the wrong direction, the wind drew the precious liquid up and out of the can without it reaching my lips.  

I remember Jon and I and our picnic at Hardy Lake when we were first becoming friends.  I remember our later ride where we hit gravel and came upon a cow who had just given birth, placenta still hanging and visible, and how precious it was watching the newborn calf learn to stand.  How it knew instantly where Mom kept the milk.  And I am warm from that day.

We take a brief wrong turn that will add a mile onto the ride, but nobody complains and we are at the first store stop before you know it.  A car pulls in with the radio playing so loudly that it is an assault on the ears even from a distance.  As we look in, there is a woman and child, upper bodies dancing in time with the music, obviously entranced and enjoying themselves, and hearing the music scream, "Screw you."  I think of  how things have changed.  My mother would have put her foot down on music with those lyrics, or perhaps not.  The questionable lyrics of a couple of Beatles songs float through my brain.  All of us grin at  her antics.  I expect her to be  young, but when she gets out of the car she is not so young and appears to be toothless. I think how I love the different things I see on rides.  How odd each of us is.  I feel quite certain that she would believe anyone riding over a hundred miles on a bicycle is quite on the edge of sanity.  It is always the other person's existence that seems rather peculiar to us, locked in our own view of reality and right and wrong.

As we leave Shorts Corner to take Daisy Lane, I am glad.  Shorts Corner is more demanding than Daisy Lane and Martinsburg Roads are.  It is easier to keep up on flats than on hills.  I have grown noticeably weaker on the hills over the years.  But I suppose that is also true of the flats.  Later today, I will be impressed with my 16.1 finishing average, but it has not been so long ago that every century of the Century Challenge, a five century back to back event, was over 16 each day. I quite enjoy being at the top of the rise and the view that stretches before me like a canvas of colors.  Everything still lush and green despite the start of what looks to be a dry spell.  How lucky  I am to have the health to be here and to have friends to share it with.  

My GPS has been giving me some issues, but finally decides to behave itself and I am glad to have arrows as I am less familiar with the route once we leave Salem.  Orleans is late in the ride and lunch is not until about 60 miles.  At lunch Diesel talks of a bad fall he had breaking five ribs and other bones.  I realize I was not aware of it and I think how easily we loose touch.  Not good when there are so few of us left that ride. 

I think of how important it is to keep making new riding friends because so many drift off either having health problems or finding other interests or doing shorter rides.  I have made so many friendships through bicycling, friends that I treasure.  And while I know the day will come when I cannot ride anymore, I also know that unless it is due to sudden death, I will miss these miles, these friends, the hills, the grass, even the wind that I curse as it slaps me in the face and impedes my progress making a difficult journey even more challenging. 

After lunch the head wind we have been fighting becomes a tailwind and there is a long flat stretch that allows us to fly. Since it is a small group and we have space, I drop into my aerobars which seems to help me go even faster, perhaps because the bike fit was done anticipating being in the aerobars.  It seems no time before we hit Salem and the last store stop.  

And then we finish.  Diesel says he feels good and adds a few more miles to an already long ride.  I long for a chair and water.  I realize I have not drank nearly enough on this ride, a common fault of mine.  Despite the cooler weather, Jon registered 86 at one point and not counting the store stops, I have not drained one water bottle.  I resolve to do better next time.  And I appreciate the fact that in all likelihood, there WILL be a next time.  There is something healing about being on a bicycle.  There is something healing about the laughter on group rides or even just the silent companionship with each knowing the other truly loves what they are doing.  Doing my best to "enjoy this remarkable ride."  Ride safe and ride happy. 

 

Early December 2020

"For everything you have missed, 

you have gained something else; 

and for everything you gain, you lose something."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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. 

Nearing the End of Summer: 2020

"The morning had dawned clear and cold,

with a hint of crispness that hinted at 

the end of summer."

George Martin

 

I wake and despite tired legs, feel like riding.  I can't get enough of this weather. Yet when I leave the house, I find that, unlike yesterday, I need arm warmers, a vest, and full fingered gloves to be comfortable.  Perhaps I would wear less if I were sharing the ride with others for I would be riding faster, but that was yesterday.  Today I ride solo. And my legs are complaining.  It is my heart rather than my body that desires this ride. As I debate my choices, I decide to ride about sixty miles going through Pekin and on to Salem where I intend to eat donuts curbside for breakfast.  

 

 I think about why I can't get enough riding in this time of year.  Is it because I know what is coming, the end of comfortable, little laundry riding?  Yes, you can ride all year long in relative comfort, but it is not the comfort of grabbing your bike and slipping out the door clad only in shorts and a jersey, of knowing that other than your helmet, shoes, gloves, and sweat rag, you will be fine.  Yes, you might get hot, but there is nothing to do for that other than to endure.  And so little to wash compared to winter when it seems riding clothes make up load after load even though you actually have spent relatively little time on the road.  So much more planning revolving around winter or cold weather riding compared to the  simplicity of preparing to ride in the summer.

 

The world is still green, and today the fog is thick.  I turn on two taillights hoping that it will lift quickly.  It really doesn't, but the roads I have chosen to ride are very lightly traveled so it is not a huge issue.  I think again that it is time to buy a new helmet mirror.  The one I have is starting to move without being touched.  I can reach up and adjust it, but it does not hold the adjustment.  Normally that would be fine, but not where quick action is required.  My safety is worth more than a few dollars.  Sometimes I need to remind myself of this.  Spending a few dollars for protection is MUCH cheaper than a hospital visit, and a hospital is the last place I want to be during the age of Covid.  Next time I am at the bike store, I will buy one.  

There seems to be an abundance of wildflowers.  In the morning they are still sleeping, half closed, their petals waiting for sunlight to warm them. The Ironweed has been particularly impressive this year, its deep, dark purple a lovely contrast with the verdant greenness that still remains in places.  I think of how I need to pick a few and press them for some Christmas gifts I need to make.  I started on the first present last week.  Each year I try to give each child something hand made as well as bought presents.  Some years they obviously like them.  Some years they probably don't but try to act as if they do.  But I enjoy the effort and how it makes me think about them as I work.  

 

I notice that the polk berries are ripe.  Lines I wrote about ten years ago race through mind:  "Jeff and Tiff, The poke berries are ripe. Come home! Let's paint our faces, build a bonfire, and dance until, exhausted, we fall into the embrace of the evening cooled grasses, a heap of giggles. Today I missed you both."  How I miss those days when my husband was alive and my children were little and every moment had needs ten times greater than the amount of time would allow me to fulfill.  I miss the laughter of the children ringing through our home.  And I miss bedtime, the smell of a clean child and the feel of them snuggling in your arms, melting into you, while you read the last story for the day.  I miss the hour or so alone with my husband after the children were snugly tucked into bed.  And I miss the way sometimes we shared a thought without ever saying a word.  But I am so glad I had those moments.  I have truly been blessed with a full life.

 On the climb up Flatwoode, a road name I always find amusing due to the irony of this steep climb, I think how glad I am that Bob diagnosed my bike problem.  It is nice to be able to climb without the bike shifting down into granny ruining my rhythm and shocking my knees.  Evidently I had worn a tooth off of my middle ring.  He was unsure if he could find the part, but he did.  And it is shifting perfectly.  It will be a sad day when he can't find the parts to fix my triple.  It is not that I use it very often at all, but it is somehow comforting to know it is there if I need it.  It is also comforting to find that my legs have given in and quit complaining.  They do what they need to do to get me up the hill and I am in no hurry today.

 

Besides the cost, the thought of not getting a triple is one thing that troubles me about buying a new bike, an idea I have been toying with but keep putting off.  When is enough enough?  I notice on Delaney Park Road that the trees are beginning to hint of turning.  Leaves are starting to scatter onto the road and I amuse myself occasionally by purposefully running over one to hear the crunch.  Soybeans are starting to yellow.  Harvest approaches.  There are, however, as Paul noticed yesterday, very few walnuts.  The spring cold snap must have affected them as it did the local fruit trees.  

I end with 62 pleasant miles.  A century Saturday, 53 miles yesterday, and 62 miles today.  Perhaps tomorrow will be a rest day or perhaps the lure of the delightful weather will call me forth on my bicycle yet again.  Time will tell. 

 

 

 

 

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. 

Rain Ride

"Cherish your solitude.  Take trains by yourself

to places you have never been. Sleep out alone under

the stars. Learn how to drive a stick shift. Go so far away that

you stop being afraid of never coming back.  Say no 

when you don't want to do something. Say yes if your

instincts are strong, even if everyone around you

disagrees.  Decide whether you want to be liked or 

admired. Decide if fitting in is more important than

finding out what you are doing here.  Believe in kissing."

Eve Ensler

The rain believes in kissing, sometimes the deep, probing, throaty kiss of  passion that may even border on pain at moments,  and sometimes the gentle, nourishing kiss given to a child at bedtime, heart-achingly poignant. All day it has been falling, kissing the earth, and it would be an acceptable excuse not to head out the door with a bicycle.  I have no one to answer to but myself. It repels and attracts me all at the same time, and it is time to make the decision.  Housework is done and I need the training miles, thus I yield to the part of me that wants to dance with the rain, to feel it caress me, gently and lover-like, to listen to its rhythm on my helmet, in the trees, in the corn fields, in the creeks.  It is a warm rain today, a gentle rain, soft and alluring.  It should not be hard to force myself out into it. It is the type of rain that lead to my Mad Dog naming so very long ago:  Puddle.  It is the  type of rain that I need to reclaim as my own.  It is the type of rain that may, perhaps, combined with solitude, will help me remember, "what you are doing here."

Originally my training plan was to ride Bartles Knob, Pixley Knob, Liberty Knob, and another hill whose name escapes me, but the thought of the steep, curvy, wet descents turns me in another direction.  I head toward Salem via Mt. Eden Road and Delaney Park.  A deer melts into the woodland border, I see only his powerful haunches, brown yielding to creamy whiteness, and I wish that my hand could lie on his flank for a moment, to feel the muscles coiled, warm, and  sinewy as  he bounds away.  I wish him safety with hunting season nearing, and I thank him for the beauty he has added to this ride.  

I hear the rain in the way you can only hear it when you are out riding in it alone, and it forms a harmony with the sound of my bicycle wheels, a  harmony that changes as I go from corn fields to forest or when the road borders a creek.  Everything is unbelievably green and lush, and with the gentle veil of the rain, borders on mysterious.  A rafter of turkeys cross the road in front of me, two large turkeys and three small ones.  Spying me, the two older turkeys scurry off leaving only the sound of their passing into the brush.  The younger ones fly, gangly and graceless.  I realize I have too long neglected these roads for other routes.  I realize it is one of those days when you feel as if you could ride forever without ever tiring, physically or mentally.  And I am thankful.  I remember what I am doing here.