Sink and Swim: 2023

"We all have our time machines.

Some take us back, they're called

memories. Some take us forward, 

they're called dreams."

Jeremy Irons

 

It is going to be perfect weather for a century ride despite the tumultuous rain that pounded the area the day before that left roads abandoned and closed in my area and took out power in others. Trees are down everywhere, unable to stand the force of winds that, in places, got up to eighty miles per hour. There is no doubt that the roads will be covered with debris. In fact, today's ride captain, Dee, is without power.  But that weather is gone. This area does not seem to flood as easily as where I live.  So the ride is on. 

 

Today it is crisp  and cool without being cold and with not too much variation in the temperature so that one has to worry about undressing and carrying throughout the day.  The sun is shining. Still, I slip on a light backpack just in case.  Weather is always unpredictable, but perhaps a bit more so this time of year. I heed the lesson learned from an earlier ride this year when I was under-dressed and rather miserable.

I like this century: Sink or Swim.  I think it is, perhaps, that best century that Larry "Gizmo" has ever put together though I am not particularly fond of the lunch spot.  There are, unfortunately, some busy roads, but many of the roads are low traffic and scenic.  There are a couple of long climbs and a couple of steep climbs, but none that will be too painful. Besides, it is time to begin building leg strength for the coming riding season. One does not realize how winter has leached strength so much until encountering a good climb.  Then the legs let you know, whining and complaining as they do every spring, asking if you aren't getting too old for this nonsense, threatening to quit but sucking it up and turning the pedals, however slowly. 

 

 

 I have memories from this century stretching back for years.  Sometime during the ride I will remind Larry of the time John Paul, he, and I rode this century and of our river swim after lunch.  So long ago, it seems like a dream. J.P. had never been in the Ohio River before.  I suspect he has not been in it since.  I KNOW he would not have gotten in without our urging. But he did it.  Oh, the power of peer pressure.  At one point, I think of Dave Combs, who no longer is able to ride, and remember riding with him one year on this exact road.  I remember eating at the gas station with Steve Rice each of us with a slice of terrible gas station pizza but downing it to keep moving.   Odd, the things the mind chooses to remember. 

 

Dee is the ride captain and  has a nice turn out.  About the perfect size group.  Small for a tour stage, but actually perfect for the day. There is Dee, Larry, Glenn, Thomas N, Tom A, Jon W., Samuel, Clint, John P., Chris, Will, and me.   All are strong, capable riders. Well, except perhaps for me.  I am definitely capable of completing the course, but I no longer consider myself strong. But I am out here.  There is that to cling to.  And I am far and away the most senior female.  Indeed, other than Dee, I am the only female.  Distance cycling seems to remain largely a male sport, at least in this area. 

I take off early in hopes of a private place along the first roads to relieve myself since, for some unknown reason, they demolished the bathrooms in the park and I drove quite a ways to get to the ride start.  Since Dee is captaining, I let her know I am taking off a bit early, but I feel certain they will catch me quickly.  Every year it gets harder to maintain a decent average no matter how hard I seem to work, but at least I am out here.  I had started to wonder if I would have to return to riding solo just because of my speed.  I don't like to feel as if I am holding others up and impacting their ride.  I think to myself that this is rather odd because of the number of times I have ridden at the back, sweeping, when I could have gone much faster.  Normally, I didn't mind.  But somehow it still bothers me that it now will be me being swept.  

 

I ride by myself  for quite awhile.  I am glad when the fast group passes and do not notice my tears.  I just found a very good friend from high school passed away and I am grieving the loss.  She was part of the childhood that will never return and enriched my life in so many ways. Her loss triggers memories that I haven't thought about for years, some good, some bad.  Indeed, despite looking forward to the ride prior to that knowledge, I had to press myself to come.  I think of my mom talking to me about how hard it was to be the last of her biological family and among the last of friends she had made.  Experience, perhaps, makes us emphasize in a way that we could not emphasize when younger.   Life is, indeed, about learning.  All too often she rubs our faces in it, recalcitrant students that we are. 

But it is hard to remain glum when the sun is shining and it is spring in the country.  The peepers sing to me.  Flowers are starting to shyly raise their faces toward the sun and bravely open themselves wide.  The grass is showing signs of greening and trees are starting to bud. Color re-enters the world. And I am on a bicycle.  How many times has my bicycle been a friend and a confidant?  How many emotions, tears and smiles and curses and laughter,  have I scattered across various roads leaving them behind.

Larry, Tom, and I ride together for a bit and enter Smithville together.  The road we are to travel is barricaded due to downed power lines.  We cross the barrier to ask about crossing and are accosted by an extremely pissed off line worker who informs us the barricade is there for a reason.  He allows us to pass however.  Tom and I try to placate him telling him how much we appreciate how hard he is working to get power re-established, but it seems to fall on deaf ears.   He mumbles something about the riders ahead of us.  I later learn that it is here that another Mad Dog earns his nickname.  He bunny hops the downed power line without seeing that there is another line that is not on the ground and is low hanging, clipping his helmet.  My understanding is that the lineman said something about him being clothes lined and a new MD nickname is given:  Clothes Line. 

Right before the first store stop, I am riding with Larry and Jon if I remember correctly when Jon's carefully packed lunch falls off the rack of his bike landing in the road. I am able to dodge it and avoid a fall, but behind us are numerous cars.  Somehow, however,  it survives intact.  The joking begins about how Jon "lost his lunch" and Chris comes up with Jon's new Mad Dog name:  Lunchbox.  

At the store stop, the twelve riders regroup.  A truck that looks as if it is held together only by rust passes.  A young man rolls down his window as he passes and yells out, "Faggots."  It makes me sad.   A bicycle would, I think, help this young man.  But of course it will never happen.

When we near the lunch stop, a small group of us decide on the gas station rather than the restaurant.  We sit joking with each other and fueling and before we are even finished, the fast riders arrive from the sit down restaurant.  We take off together.  

As we near the third store stop, I recognize it as well as some of the roads from past Kentucky brevets.  The group re-groups for the last time.  By the end, some of the riders will already have left for home.  Some of those homes will have electricity.  Others will still be without.  I pull off by myself again for awhile, pushing hard at the pedals, enjoying the feeling of my lungs and legs struggling, only to find a small group waiting at the top of the last, short but steep hill.  I debate moving on by myself, but I decide to be sociable.  I am in no rush to finish.

 

 We wait for the last of the group and arrive at the finish together after a short stop by some to reclaim clothes they had hidden along the route after shedding them early in the ride.  There is, of course, laughter and teasing about this, about Dee getting the men to strip and vice versa, and as I laugh I realize I have had a good time today.  This ride has been good for me.  Yes, I have suffered another loss magnified by memories. But this is tempered as I begin to dream of future rides and the laughter that I hope they also contain.  Once again I am forced to accept that I am, in most things, powerless. But I can dream.  There is really nothing in this world quite like a bike ride with friends, nothing. 

 

Bob Grable's Century: Scotland Bound

"It's all to do with the training:

you can do a lot if you are 

properly trained." 

Queen Elizabeth II

 

It has been awhile since I have really trained for anything.  I suppose the last cycling event I really trained in earnest for was the 1000K brevet designed by Crista Borras that ran through Virginia into West Virginia, the one I completed shortly before my husband died in December of 2014.  While I am not training as assiduously for this event as I did back then, it feels good to have at least the outline of a plan in my mind and a goal to reach.  And it feels good to feel my body adapt so that I am in at least half way descent shape for a change.  I do not adapt nearly so quickly, and it takes longer to recover, but I do adapt.

The spring the Pandemic started, I entered a cycling contest on Zwift that was put on by Wilderness Scotland.  It was hard.  Even with the rubber band (and that didn't work on one ride) it was difficult to keep up requiring all the effort I could muster. I had to ride a number of Zwift rides to qualify for the drawing, and for once I actually won something: a cycling trip  in Scotland.  This was so exciting.  I love the beauty that is Scotland.  But of course with the Pandemic, I was  not able to go right then.  

When I contacted the company this spring, I was not sure if they would still honor the win, but not only did they keep their word, they upgraded it.  And so, I chose the week long tour I wanted to complete, the Tour of the National Parks, and signed up.  And now to train.  The distances each day are not long, but it appears there is lots of climbing.   Plus riding day after day for a week with no rest day is not normally on my agenda anymore.  Oh, I could ride in the van, but I am not going to Scotland to ride in a damned van:  I am going to ride a bicycle.  What a vacation it will be.  The icing on the cake was when I found out that Dave King decided he will join me.  It will be so lovely having the company of someone that I know and whose company I enjoy.

 

And so there is more of a purpose when I ride now.  It is lovely to ride just to ride, just to ride with no goal or purpose other than pleasure,  to watch the road give way to my wheels, to see seasons change, but it is nice to have a goal beyond that. And to know I will see the beauty that is Scotland again, that is heavenly. But I have been off the bike for over a week due to grandmothering and travel.  

 

When I awaken after returning from visiting the granddaughters, the day of Bob Grable's Adjective Century, it is raining and thunder seems to shake the very timbers of my house.   I don't want to get out of bed.  I have not slept well and would like to stay tucked in, snug and warm, shutting out the day.  But I need to ride.  The cats rejoice at my early awakening which equates, in their world, to early feeding.

Dragging myself out of bed, I wonder if Bob will cancel or at least delay the start. It is raining but it is quite warm out.  Still, it is raining hard, not a gentle drizzle.  The last I checked, the rain was supposed to end early morning.  I check the web site and there is no delay or cancellation.  I get ready for the ride, don a  yellow rain coat to load the car with my bike and other necessaries,  and head out the door shortly before six into a driving rain.  

By the time I arrive at the start, the rain has eased down to a drizzle that will pretty much last the entire day.  I suspect that because of the rain, the attendance is quite small.  But then numbers have dropped consistently over the past years.  Certainly starting the TMD in winter did nothing to improve numbers.  Things change.  If there is one constant in life, there is that.  And sometimes in fighting the change, one accelerates it.

We start out and I find that I remain in a somewhat foul humor.  Some days are like that.  I don't feel like talking.  I do feel okay with riding, but even this early in the ride I can tell I have been off the bike.  Still I know a ride is what I need to burn this mood off.    As always, I am amazed at how quickly fitness evaporates.  After all, being off with a one (almost two) year old and a three (almost four) year old is not like just sitting on your bum eating bonbons and watching television.  But that is how it is.  Fitness leaves us much more quickly and easily than it is gained.

I pull into the first store we come to, our traditional store stop, rather than riding across the street to where the majority are stopping. I leave the first store stop with a group that I know I won't keep up with (Tom Hurst, Tom Askew, and Mike Kammenish) and soon find myself riding alone.  I am okay with that today.  No need to blanket the entire world with my bitchiness. Plus I just notice more if I am by myself.  Some days I want company and other times I prefer my own company or a companion who is well versed in companionable silence rather than idle chattering. 

 

As I ride, I realize that it has been quite awhile since I have done a century in the rain, and I find myself remembering that sometimes it can be quite enjoyable.  And lord knows, we need the rain.  Everything was starting to turn brown and my lawn is crunchy.  The rain seems to accentuate the greenness of the leaves and grass and the crops I pass.  Flowers seem more brilliant except for the lilies who hide their faces as there is no sun to impress with their smiles.  For a moment my thoughts run the rainy ride that I completed following a canceled century, the ride that earned me my nickname, Puddle, bestowed by Carl Davis and Mike Pitt, neither of whom ride with the club anymore. 

On the hills, my legs complain at what is being asked of them, but I grit my teeth and tell them what they need to do and they do it however grudgingly.  Sometimes I wonder what it will feel like one day when the inevitable happens and they refuse to obey, but for today I am good and t hey are good.  I think how easy it would be to just drop into granny, but that will not help build the strength I am trying to gain.  I grind on sending my mind elsewhere.

When I pull into the lunch stop, Mike and Tom Hurst ask if I have seen Tom Askew.  He was riding with them and dropped back but never showed at the lunch stop.  I tell them he probably missed the turn to the lunch stop and is half way up the long, though not steep, climb that comes shortly after the stop.  But they worry that he has gone off the road and crashed prior to the lunch stop.  They call and text but thus far have received no reply.  

After a quick sandwich, I begin to chill.  There is still no work from Tom A. but there is also nothing I can do. Amelia Dauer and Steve Meredith pull in from the wrong direction having missed the turn. The others have arrived and are ordering, but I ride out alone.  

 

The view up in the knobs after the climb out of Borden is lovely, particularly once you reach Skyline.  This is my favorite part of the ride.  In fact, it is the part of the ride that makes me ride on River Road, something I absolutely detest. But a thick mist appears for awhile that really obstructs my ability to see anything much at all.  I stop to make sure my red flashers are on to try to protect myself from an altercation with an automobile with limited vision.  They are. I remind myself that in  Scotland there is likely to be one or two days like this, maybe more, misty and rainy.  When Amelia and I rode there last time, there was an 8 mile climb that we did in the rain, and I remember how cheated I felt at the top for not being able to see and on the descent for having to be so cautious.  

This scenic part of the ride ends all too quickly and before you know it I am descending down toward the greenway, the bridge to Kentucky, and River Road.  My legs continue to feel sore from the effort despite a reasonably slow pace, but I know that is the pathway to greater strength.  On the bridge there is a large group of people taking the entire bridge.  Luckily for me and them, I am going slowly as despite my asking they refuse to yield any of the pavement.  But after that I am good.  When I reach the park, Tom Askew is pulling out and tells me he has let the others know he is safe.  As I suspected, he missed the turn to lunch.  How dependent we are on GPS routes.  

And so I continue to work toward "proper training" for my Scotland trip.  Tomorrow I will, despite any residual soreness, throw my leg over the seat of my bike and ride, though not quite so far.  And so on and so on.  Hopefully I can avoid illness or injury that would prevent my going as the trip is all planned.  And hopefully I will be strong enough to never, never hop in the van. 

 

 

Hardinsburg Solo Century: June 2022

"Time flies over us

but leaves its shadow behind."

Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

It has been awhile, perhaps too long, since I have ridden a solo century.  The weather is supposed to be perfect for early June with wall to wall sunshine, low  humidity, and highs only in the seventies.  I really want to ride a new course I have put together to Bedford, but there are too many concerns about flooding around Medora.  So I decide to ride an old favorite:  Hardinsburg.  There is some road construction going on there that I strongly suspect means a favorite old bridge is being replaced by something more modern, and this trip will give me the answer to the question that has been haunting me since I first read of road closures in that area.  

 

 

One benefit of riding solo is that you can leave whenever the whim strikes you.  If you feel like one more cup of coffee before hitting the road, fine.  If you don't, that's okay too.  There is nobody to answer to except yourself.  I slip out into the chill of morning a bit after seven clad in shorts, short sleeved jersey, and a pair of sun sleeves that serve as light arm warmers but are way too hot to wear as intended.  They don't stay on long.  The climb up Leota Hill warms me and I peel them down around my wrists.  

While it is technically still spring and not summer, and while it is cool outside, the green no longer tells of new birth and spring but of summer.  Trees are full figured,  ripe with greenness.  Daisies litter the road in numerous places, so cheerful.  I briefly think of how I would wander into the pasture to pick them when my marriage was new, trying to brighten the small mobile home in which we lived. 

 

Despite our lack of "things," I do not regret those days.  Indeed, sometimes I feel rather sorry for those that start with everything.   When I look around me now, though without him at my side, I see what we earned pulling at the harness together.  I remember the sacrifices and the achievements, the wins and losses, and the happiness that comes with an honored commitment though like everyone, there were times when we wondered if we would/could remain a couple. A burst of love and thankfulness fills me knowing that he worried about how I would do alone and that I have done okay partially due to his worry. 

It strikes me that there are still no orange day lilies.  And the crops....throughout the ride I notice that the crops, particularly the corn, is not as tall and as healthy looking as it normally is in early June.  Perhaps, I think, it is my imagination.  But a Facebook memory from this very date a year or two ago notes that the day-lilies were in bloom, their orange faces turning throughout the day to follow the sun.

I also notice throughout the ride that numerous people have gardens that did not have gardens in the past.  Some of them are not much to look at, but many of them are glorious and I miss my gardening days.  That thought takes me back in time to the hours I would spend tending the garden, canning and freezing.  Hard work, but how satisfying to hear the lids seal after taking them out the canner.  To open the freezer door and see frozen vegetables galore.  And how, sometimes when I would cook with them in the midst of winter, it would seem as if a trace of summer returned right there in  my kitchen.  The smell of food cooking so that one can fill the empty bellies of loved ones.  Is there a better perfume, particularly when combined with a warm, cozy shelter against cold weather? 

I notice mulberries on the ground and remember how a large mulberry tree grew near the front of my husband's mother's house.  How the children loved them.  And just as I am in the midst of my thoughts, I turn the corner to come upon an eagle feeding in the road who immediately takes flight to a nearby tree, his white tail feathers taunting me yet telling me I have identified him for what he is.  I stop to try to get a better look, but he must think I look dangerous because he leaves his perch taking again to the air, gloriously beautiful.  Tears briefly water my eyes as it all seems too much to take in.  So much beauty.  A gratefulness for the health to ride a bicycle fills my heart.

And then a descent is upon me, difficult to navigate because of the shadows that dapple the ground.  I have ridden this road enough to know it is not well maintained and there are quite possibly pot holes waiting to fell an inattentive rider.  It demands my attention and I heed its warning.  For almost a year now, I have been able to sleep on both sides, normally with no pain, and I know from past falls how easily that can end.  Falls from bicycles are how my shoulders got messed up to begin with.   A cat is at the road edge following a curve near the bottom of the hill.  My descent messes up his hunting, and he gives me a brief, disgusted look before melting, ghost-like, into the brush that lines the road.  

 

During  the ride I find that the bridge I was concerned about is, indeed, scheduled for replacement.  The sign says it will close on or after April 1st, and while I wish it was an April Fool's joke, I  know it is not.  This shadow of time's passage will soon disappear, laying down its life for progress. I say my goodbyes. I have lost count of the older bridges that I have ridden that are now gone, replaced with more practical but not nearly so beautiful replacements.  The number of small country stores that have closed their doors, unable to complete with Walmart and Dollar General and other large conglomerates.  I  accept that this is the way of things, but that does not mean that I necessarily like or approve of the changes time has wrought.  They shadow rides, these stores and bridges, when I pass their way. 

Lunch is at Little Twirl, the first place I ate at when first reaching this area.  At that time it was open year round.  Now, it is not.  There was a gas station that was open as well, long closed. Afterward, a Mennonite store briefly made an appearance and I enjoyed frequenting it with its delicious sandwiches on homemade bread.  But time closed it as well.  Little Twirl is all that remains as a rest stop in that area. 

 

After I have left the lunch stop, I remember that I was supposed to call the kayaking place my daughter and I are to go to tomorrow.  I stop thinking that there is no way here, on Branahan Road, in the middle of nowhere, I will have service only to find that I have better service than I do at home. Four or five bars.  Go figure.  I call and ensure they are open and not flooded.  Back on the bike to prepare for the long climb up to the Red Barn.  During the climb, I want to go to granny, but I remind myself I am, for the first time in a long time, training for a ride so quit whining and turn the pedals in the way that builds strength in both the legs and in character.  

 

When I reach the Red Barn, Amos is sitting outside.  I always wonder how he stays in business, there in the middle of nowhere, but while we sit talking another customer arrives so perhaps he is busier than I realize.  When I ask the man that arrives how he is doing, he grins at me and says that if he were any better, he would have to have help.  This tickles me and reminds me of the Lloydism's I used to share with friends and how we would laugh.  A grin on my face, I pull out of the parking lot to finish the century out.  

 

During the last 25 miles, I am surprised that I am tired, but then I remember that this century always leaves me a bit drained.  It is not the hilliest century, but there is very little flat other than Blue River Road.  But still I continue to enjoy myself, maybe because I love Eden and Delaney Park Roads.  Will, I wonder, this day be another shadow of the time spent?  I hope so. 

 

 

Hardinsburg: Century of the Week

"The longer I live the

more beautiful life becomes."

Frank Lloyd Wright

 

Today's century is the Hardinsburg Century, one of if not  my favorite of all my route creations.  When I originally put this route together, my intent was to have Hardinsburg at the half way point and eat there, but when I arrived I found that  not only would I have to add miles to have lunch there for it would be too early in the ride, but that there was no place to eat or even to get a drink.  There was an old Dairy Bar still open, but it was so filthy that even the thought of consuming something that came out of that building turned my stomach.  And so I rode on and the lunch stop became Livonia.  Today Hardinsburg has a rather nice gas station and what looks to be a clean, quaint restaurant.  Things change.

 

When I first reached Livonia, there was a gas station that appeared old enough to serve the first automobile and Little Twirl, an ice cream shop.  Not too many trips afterward, when I arrived the gas station was closed never to be re-opened.  Then Little Twirl was joined by a Mennonite Store that served sandwiches made from manna.  It, however, closed right before or at the start of the Pandemic.  Little Twirl remains though it is no longer open year round as it was when I first saw this town on my bicycle. 

 

I wonder who, if anyone, will show to ride today.   It turns out to be a rather small but pleasant  crowd:  Jon Wineland, Larry Preble, and Dave King.   Dave is running late and says to start without him despite my offer of waiting and so we do.  He catches us at the first store stop.  It is good to see him.  Dave and I have so many memories together, have traveled so many miles together over the years, that even though we are not really close in some ways, it is almost like being with family. 

 

The store in this town also has changed from when I first began riding here.  The original gas station closed when this one opened.  Dave reminds me that there was an old grocery store where the current gas station store stop is now located.  I had forgotten this but remember now and how when I was working I saw it had caved in shortly after the store closed. 

This route has a nice mix of farm land and forested areas.  Despite the drought, everything is green.  Corn is tassled and ears appear to be abundant.  I feel blessed to live in a country that has the ability to produce such crops.  Occasionally we pass family gardens and I think how I miss gardening, not enough to pick it back up at this point.  Maybe I miss the shared  labor.  There is something about sharing a chore that I almost always treasured.   Until the last few years, it was something that Lloyd and I shared together.  I think I have always appreciated the bucolic scenery on this route, but I do find that as I get older the scenery and life itself becomes more beautiful, more precious.  Perhaps this is because it also becomes more finite, this realization honed to a finer point by the growing list of loss that is part of life.  Whatever the reason, despite the fact I notice less while riding in company than I do on solitary excursions, today I am aware enough to soak it in.  I wish I could discuss with Mr. Wright his thoughts as to why, but obviously that is not going to happen, at least in this life.

How precious it is to have company on the ride.  How lucky we riders are to have the health that we do.  And yes, while we can attribute some of it to our own efforts, some is genetic and just the luck of the draw.  And how blessed we are to have these lightly traveled roads that are bordered by trees and fields bursting with bounty and the freedom and time to explore them.  

The road we take from Hardinsburg to Little Twirl brings back memories of many winter centuries for it always seems a rather hard road to me for some reason.  A ride with Steve Sexton comes into my mind, the wind raging, the others ahead of the two of us as our legs challenged the hills and the wind and the cold.  Today the road is not so challenging eased along by company and the lack of cold.  Indeed, today the humidity is the enemy.  It is eased by the wind and the cooler temperatures, but I do notice some rubbing in my shorts from constant dampness and know I will suffer a somewhat sore bottom this evening, something very unusual for me.  

At lunch we sit outside and meet an interesting woman and her partner.  She has two herding dogs that are exceptionally well behaved.  We chat a bit about dogs on rides and horses on rides as she also is an equestrian. It is refreshing to hear a dog owner express the opinion that it is the owners fault if dogs pursue riders in the road. This is my second trip to Little Twirl this year and yet again someone (Larry) buys my lunch and I think how fortunate I am to have such friends and how my riding friendship circle has expanded far from what it once was.  

 

The second half of the ride is challenging to legs that are already tired.  The pace is slower than what we have been riding during recent centuries, but there are more hills.  And my legs ache and complain at what is being asked of them.   If I were alone, I would ease my pace, but since I am the weak link in this group of riders I push myself a bit  knowing I will be a tired woman at the end of the ride.  

 

At the Red Barn, there is a group of men, including Amos, sitting outside.  They laugh when I say something about being a woman and getting chocolate telling me his candy bars are expired.  Of course, with aging eyes I can't read the fine print without the readers I don't carry on rides, so I buy the candy bar anyway and later find it was not expired.  They tease Amos about it.  

 

It is good knowing the worst of the climbs are over after the Red Barn, but still I know there are rollers ahead:  lots of rollers.  Larry and Jon ride ahead, but Dave hangs back with me until Little York when Jon hangs back and Larry and Dave ride ahead.  A ride which has been challenging for me has been easy for them, even Dave who says he is not in century shape.  But still they allow me to ride with them, and that in itself is precious and meaningful.  And it is over leaving me tired and longing for a  nice soak and treatment for some raw skin, but still life is beautiful and I feel certain my dreams will be filled with the green bounty of August and the warmth of friendship and bicycles, always and forever, bicycles.  

 

 

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. 

 

Orleans with a Pizza Stop

"Remember, remember,

this is now, and now, 

and now. 

Live it, feel it, cling to it,

I want to become acutely

aware of all I have taken

for granted."

Sylvia Plath

 

 Since my solo century went well last week-end, I decided to put the ride on the club schedule for this week-end and share the course.  I really like most of this route to  New Orleans, particularly the stretch between Medora and Orleans, and I have not shared it with anyone for ever so long now.  I like the way it meanders for a bit between the railroad tracks on one side and the river on the other.  I like how the flowers grow alongside the railroad track, flowers shaded by the tree branches hanging overhead like a canopy.  I like how the shade of the trees dapples the ground, ever changing in the battle between shade and sun.  I like the old, metal bridge, no longer in use, that crosses the river only to end in  a corn field, a bridge to nowhere, and how despite the rust and rotting timbers, it clings to life reminding us of usefulness and how it too passes.  I like the climb up the Devil's Backbone and how the view you get changes so according to the season since the trees and grasses camouflage the valley to the side and below .  And  I like the anticipation of the descent down Tunnelton with its hazardous "S" curve at the bottom that includes a metal slab and grate that can snag any foolishly brave rider. Prior to their placement, sometimes I would find geodes, washed down the hill from the creek. 

 

When I schedule the ride, the prediction is perfect:  mid seventies and sunshine.  Of course, by the time it rolls around, the prediction is for a record cold high for the day, lots of wind, possible showers, and little sun.  Go figure.  I must admit that at times I wonder if, perhaps, my rides are cursed.  Sometimes it seems that the weather always wants to make them a bit more difficult than they might be otherwise. But it is all good.  Now, now, now.  I can ride.  I can push the pedals and feel my muscles contract and release and I can feel the wind.

I toy with canceling, but I need to ride:  emotionally as well as physically.  Those who know me well know that in the past six years, I have lost three of the people I loved the most:  my husband, my mom, and a brother.  Earlier this week, my youngest brother, older than me but the youngest of the boys, called telling me something was wrong with him and wanting my other brother's number to see if he could get him in to see a neurologist more quickly.  Hearing his slurred speech, I recognized the signs of a stroke, particularly when he says the left side of his tongue is numb.  And indeed, he has had a minor stroke.  All the horrors of my husband's death rush back over me for a moment, a tide of despair and fury at my helplessness.  On the very heels of this,  my nephew tells me that my sister is entering hospice.  It is just too much.  I ask  myself how strong I am expected to be and I am feeling sorry for myself as if nobody else has to go through this when deep down I know that life holds pain and loss for each.  I  know from experience the best way to fight this, particularly now I have nobody to hold me and assure me everything will work out, is to ride leaving the emotions behind on the pavement.  But, Lord, I am tired of being strong, and I do miss strong arms holding me and comforting me and someone telling me it will all be alright.  The words of Plath come to mind and I briefly think how much we take things and people for granted.  Between the Pandemic and the losses, perhaps this is the lesson to be learned.

I think of my nephew recently telling me that I am intimidating, a sentiment echoing the words of a friend after the death of my husband when explaining men's hesitancy to ask me out.  Rather ironic if  true. I certainly don't mean to be intimidating and it is not a quality that I think of being particularly admirable.  If they only knew what a shriveling, weak, coward I am inside, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do.  Standing still in life, well, it really isn't an option for any of us.  How glad I am that Lloyd was not intimidated by me.  Sometimes I smile thinking of how he once said that one of the things he enjoyed about being married to me was that he never really quite knew what I might do or try to do next. But now, now, now.   The past is the past.

I wonder how many will show for the ride.  John and Jon have both said they were coming, but the day looks bleak and it is in the forties.  As it turns out, there are five of us.  I am, of course, the weakest, and I sincerely mean it when I tell them that I don't expect them to hold back and wait for me.  I warn them of the sharp turns that are easy to miss and perilous to those riding with abandon.  I forget to warn them of the railroad tracks that can send you and your bike sailing through the air as I once learned but managed somehow to land, but I later remember and remind them at lunch.

At the start, there is the usual joking.  Everyone is complaining about the cold weather and how they had put cold weather clothes away a week or two ago.  But of the five of us, four are in tights and the fifth has knee warmers.  Everyone has full fingered gloves of some type, and most are dressed in three layers.  The only rider I know who regrets his clothing choice is the one dressed in only two  layers who wishes later in the ride that he had a third.

We ride off at a brisk pace on roads that were already damp and as we pull out of the parking lot it begins to drizzle.  I smile remembering a ride when I first started riding with the club and how  we were caught out on a century with no rain gear when the rain began.  At a store, we bought and all donned trash bags, tearing openings for our arms and heads.  And I remember how it warmed us and how I laughed telling the others I didn't know I would be riding with white trash.  And as I dream, I wake up to the sound of chatter around me as the riders that showed, as Tom Hurst, Jon Wineland, John Pellegrino, and Larry Preble catch up on all that has happened recently.  And the drizzle has passed only to be repeated once more and never for long enough to drench us.  For that I am thankful. Now, now, now.

The pace is brisk, at least for me, but I manage to keep up until almost Medora when I drop back.  I see a few  have stopped for a photo opp at the covered bridge, but I ride on so as not to hold them back.  I become worried, however,  when they have not caught me and turn back around thinking perhaps one has had a mechanical.  Instead they were just taking photos and doing other necessary things.  They seem to be enjoying themselves and I remind myself to hold on to the things I enjoy about all of them.  While I don't know him well at all,  I like how Tom's eyes crinkle and reflect his amusement when he laughs. I like the obvious pride he shows when talking of his daughter.   I like Larry's ability to recognize and capture beauty with his camera and his patience with my slower pace.  John, and I sincerely hope this does not offend him if he should ever read this blog, reminds me of a golden retriever, all smiles, laughter, happiness, and acceptance with no malice at all inside him.  He is a great conversationalist.  And then Jon and his beautiful mind, a boon and probably also a curse.  His sense of humor. Yes, now, now, now.  Appreciate these companions.  Don't take them for granted.  I may stop riding or they may stop riding or something else might happen to prevent our sharing the road in the future, so hang tight and soak it up, make a memory. 

At the store, we laugh at how the clerk is from New York (John is able to not only identify her as a New Yorker by her accent but guess where in New York).  She tells us she has lived in this area 10 years.  But still her accent gives her away.  And we each briefly wonder about how someone from New York City ended up in Medora.  Talk about contrasts. 

 

The lunch stop is not until we are past sixty miles.  By this time, Jon, Tom, and Larry are ahead.  While I know he, too, could forge far ahead of me, John and I ride in together and find them at Speak Easy Pizza, two of them already served.  Last week I was amazed at the speed of the service and this week is no different.  The guys tell me it is because of the brick oven.  As I look around, I again remind myself that this is "now and now and now," these smiles, these people.  Some will continue riding, some may not.  My pace may slow to where it becomes a burden to come to my rides rather than a pleasure, but not yet.  Or I may stop riding...one dreaded day.  As I often do, I think of the many who shared these miles with me and no longer ride or ride shorter distances or ride little and seldom with me.  Each has their own special place in my heart.  And so will these, the men gathered around the table, who came to ride despite the cold and the bit of rain. And we are cold when we leave the restaurant, but I know it is merely from stopping and that the hills that loom ahead will warm us.

Larry, John, and I finish the ride together while Tom and Jon ride ahead though we all meet for a brief time at the last store stop.  And this is good.  Even if they all rode ahead, I would be fine.  I am just glad that they came to share the day and to give me another memory to cherish when my riding days fall behind me.  I am preparing for those  days.  I have taken up painting in my quest to  find other hobbies.  And hopefully I will find other hobbies as the days and months and years pass.  But I want to concentrate on appreciating what is now and what I all too often take for granted and be grateful.  And I am fortunate that I have much to be grateful for in this life despite the fact that it is filled with losses, huge losses, losses that leave holes that can never be completely filled in.  My legs are tired, but I am sated for the day.  Beauty, bicycles, and some companionship.  Now, now, now.