Bethlehem 2024

"Great is the art of beginning, 

but greater is the art of ending."

Henry W. Longfellow

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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.

Solo Hardinsburg: Spring 2023

There is no doubt that solitude

is a challenge and to maintain balance

within it is a precarious business.  But I 

must not forget that, for me, being with 

people or even one beloved person for

any length of time without solitude is even

worse.  I lose my center.  I feel dispersed, scattered

and in pieces.  I must have time alone to 

mull over my encounter, and to extract its 

juice, its essence, to understand what has 

really happened to me as a consequence of it."

May Sarton

I wake up and decide it is time to ride my traditional spring century to Hardinsburg and Little Twirl despite the chill of the morning and a tough 62 mile ride the day before.  What is the use of being retired if one always has to plan things?  Just gather your things and go if you so desire.  Life awaits.  And one never quite knows for sure where your bicycle may lead you.  I realize that I desire.....I really desire to ride.   It has been a while since I have indulged myself with a solitary century.  It has been awhile since I have had the desire to do so. I meet the desire with open arms welcoming it back and hoping it settles down and stays.

The centuries I have put together mostly fall into two categories:  those whose goal is a destination and those whose goal is scenery.  Hardinsburg used to have both when the Mennonite Store was open.   Big, fat sandwiches on fresh, homemade bread.  An oasis that was rather in the middle of nowhere which may be why it closed.  

 

 

This left Little Twirl, a constant since I put the route together though it now closes for the winter months, something that it did not used to do.  Don't get me wrong.  I am fond of Little Twirl and it will always hold a special place in my heart.  I still grin thinking of Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish spinning around in the parking lot, index finger pointing downward and touching his skull, spinning like a ballerina, giving it a "little twirl." I remember the first group I brought this way, back when Sparky used to ride and kept me in stitches. So many memories. And their food is not terrible.  But it does not replace the lost sandwiches on homemade bread or the memories that store holds.  As I have said so many times, everything changes.  

 

I have always thought the Hardinsburg route was scenic, at least when your mind was not grayed out from lack of oxygen;-)  It has a nice blend of farm land and forest land.  It passes some of the Amish homes that sometimes have something interesting or different going on.  And it is low traffic.  Not once on this route has anyone threatened me in or out of a vehicle.   Sometimes I can ride for a half hour or hour without one car passing me or without seeing another person. 

Still, I also know that despite only having about 4,800 feet of climbing, it always leaves me rather drained.  There are, I suppose, two major climbs, or major for this area.  But there are rollers everywhere.  There is very little in the way of flats once you get out past Pekin and the flat Blue River Road section of the course until a few miles from the end.  Shorts Corner is such a pesky little road.  No major climbs, but it doesn't let you forget that it rolls.  And a steep but rather short climb that the Garmin registers as eighteen percent near Hardinsburg.  Is that major? 

 

 I laugh thinking of how I would hate it when people would call about one of my rides and ask, "Is it hilly?" because hilly to one is not to another.  Heck, now that I am older, what I considered not hilly seems mountainous at times.  Fitness, age, bike, other factors all play into the answer I guess. I remember one time, on a different century, we crossed an overpass that was not particularly steep but has a bit of a bump as most overpasses do and a new riders asking me if there were any more climbs like that on the course.  Leota Hill loomed ahead, a mountain compared to that bump in the road.  If I remember correctly, he bailed at the lunch stop....but that has been so long ago and the rider was not one that ever became near and dear to me so I am not for sure. 

On the ride I find that some farmers have not yet gotten around to spraying their fields so I am treated to large tracts of yellow flowers, so cheerful.  I used to believe they were wild mustard, but Duc told me differently.  Try as I might, I can't remember what he said they were.  Regardless, weed or no weed, they are a delight to the eye if not to the sinuses and I am in no rush today.  Probably a good thing as I have gotten as slow as molasses in January.  I do pass a few farm vehicles making use of the unusually dry weather.  But it is still too cold to do much.  When it is a large vehicle and  on a narrow road, I just stop and pull off to let him/her by hoping to engender good will and for the sake of safety. 

As I near the road that leads to Little Twirl, I think, as I always do on this section of road, of Steve Sexton.  I will never forget the cold December he and I rode this stretch together.  The others had pulled ahead.  I suspect he stayed back with me, not to witness the wind teaching me a lesson, which it did that day, but out of kindness.  Winter sometimes seems to leach the kindness out of us all.  We enjoy riding, but we also want to get it done and get somewhere to warm our bones.  Conflicted feelings I suppose.  I remember another time when a rider I did not know showed for a winter Hardinsburg and how he was averaging nine or ten mph and how I worried he would cause the whole group to get in after dark had fallen.  I tried to cut him loose and give him a short cut home.  He would not listen.  I left him but swept him in later with my car.  

After a small lunch at Little Twirl, the wind is, for a time, my friend.  It was supposed to shift to the west but stayed out of the south. Either will help me on my way home until the last mile or so.   I am not putting much effort into my pedaling, but my speed does not reflect that fact.  More memories pop up.   As I descend the huge hill on Cox Ferry, I think of the time a deer ran right next to me as I descended and my fear that she would veer out onto the road for the steepness combined with my speed made stopping almost an impossibility.  I remember the road crew betting on if I could climb that hill when I first came that way which made me decide to climb it or fall over trying.  I remember Paul Battle, after the descent, looking at me with concern in his eyes and saying, "You don't ride out here by yourself, do you?"  He didn't understand that I feel safer out here than I will ever feel in a city, but the fact that he worried about it touched me.  

Soon I am faced with the worst climb of the day.  It is one of those hills that you think you are doing fine on until you realize it gets steeper toward the top.  But I climb it with no issues.  Perhaps it is larger in my head than it is in reality?  Or perhaps because there is nobody with me to watch my slowness.  I can just take my time without worrying that someone is having to wait for me.   

 

It makes me think of how differently people ride.  Over the years I have found riding companions are different.  Some, like Steve Rice and Bill Pustow, would mostly stay with me and we would talk and share ideas and thoughts.  Bill always had an interesting book he was reading that he would fill me in on. Others, like Jon, like to ride ahead, each of us sharing the course and stops, but other than occasional interludes, riding our own ride. 

 

 I pop in to the Red Barn for my last store stop.  Amos is talking with someone but they leave when I arrive.  I notice his hair is graying as,  of course, is my own.   He talks about his daughter who is a service member and her new baby and I enjoy a bit of conversation before heading toward home and one of my favorite roads.  Low to little traffic, a canopy of trees in many places, and just scenic.

 

 I pass an Amish home where there are three small children outside, the youngest seeming to be about 18 months.  I grin from ear to ear watching her desperately but determinedly trying to keep up with the others dressed with her little bonnet on her head.  In the yard nearby graze two ponies with short, stubby legs and bellies so large they appear to be near to dragging the ground.  I come upon the mother, working in the yard cutting the grass with a non-motorized push mower.  And then I am isolated once more not passing another person or car for miles, able to enjoy the greenness that has drenched the forest.  

I reach home quite tired and quite glad to be there, fully saturated with the day, the sunshine, and the alone time that I still need despite living alone.  Soon I will be craving company, but with the weather becoming more conducive to riding I know that lies ahead shortly.  And in some ways, perhaps, I was not alone today.  The ghosts of cherished, loved friends were with me as I relived memories.  Some ride.  Some no longer ride.  But today, for just a bit, they were by my side.   I was glad to be alive and on a bicycle with no constraints on my time, able to look at where I have come from, where I am now, and where I am going.  Just me, my bike, and the road.  I am blessed. 

STORY CENTURY IN THE FALL: UNPLANNED BLESSINGS

"I remember it as October days

are always remembered, cloudless,

maple flavored, the air gold and

so clean it quivers."

Leif Enger 

 

I like to try to ride all my century routes at least once yearly, but despite being retired, between tour stages and doing Jon's centuries and age and increasing recovery time needs, I find it is not always happening. Perhaps sloth also enters into the equations.  Regardless, it is what it is.

 

 Story is one of my favorites.  Not necessarily because of the roads.  Some of the roads, particularly at the start, get a bit boring with miles of crops, but because of the destination.  Something about the old, pretty much abandoned, small town of Story with its outdoor dining and rustic atmosphere draws me.  

Despite the wind prediction, it is best to ride it on Sunday as there is road construction that I may have to route around if it is impassable and the outside dining and music is only available on week-ends.  Passage also is easier on week-ends when road workers are at home.  Some will  let me pass.  Others are determined not to do so even if there is a clear path through. And so last minute I shoot an email to Jon telling him what I am doing and that if he wants to join me he is welcome.  I get an email back that he does want to ride.  While I intend to ride anyway, it will be nice to have company on the journey.  

The day dawns with a chill, colder than normal but not as cold as it has been. It is fresh and inviting, this crispness that often comes with fall despite knowing what comes after.  I know I will be shedding layers to remain comfortable so don a backpack. I also know I will not be freezing at the start as happens with winter rides.  The sky is blue and the sunshine is bright.  We head off pedals briskly spinning as we warm our legs for the task ahead. 

As we ride, I am glad that the wind will be in our face on the way out and not most of the way back, for it is strong.  At one point, Jon mentions that flags are flying straight out, often an indicator of 20 mph. Regardless, it is hard work, this pedaling into the wind.  I laugh as we come upon a kettle of vultures, some sitting on the roof, telling them it is not yet time.  During our ride, we will pass three to four kettles and I jokingly tell Jon I will need to change the name of the ride to the vulture ride.  Perhaps they know, somehow, about the increasing difficulties of these rides, how they stretch me not only  physically but mentally, but how I love them.  

As always, during the ride I will think of times and people  I have ridden this course with in the past.  Bill Pustow comes to mind.  It was a nice day, that day, just Bill and I.  And Mark Rougeuz and Paul Battle one time, Mark pushing the pace as he always does while Paul and I desperately try to keep his wheel, hearts pounding, legs pushing, breath rasping.  And more.  One reason I keep this blog is to remind myself of miles and of people I have shared them with knowing that a day will come when I or they will stop riding, when I will grieve the loss of them because not all losses are due to death though that is always a possibility.  Sometimes I wonder if there is, indeed, an afterlife, as I believe, do we keep our memories?  If so, do they still remain special.  For I have loved so many of those I have ridden with, the warmth of their company, the stories they  have shared, the laughter we have indulged in.  But like the leaves in autumn, I let go while holding the memory of those blessed moments. Still, they are all blessings that have enriched my life and for which I give thanks. 

I wonder as we approach Freetown if the Dollar Store will have put the small store, Denny's, out of business.  But it has not.  Denny's is open and business is brisk. I rejoice and will gladly pay a bit more to keep these small stores in business.  According to the sign, Denny's has been there and in business since 1946.  I think of Thomas Nance saying that it was his belief that we have been our own worst enemies in this area, buying from bigger stores to save a dollar or two and helping them put the small business out of business.  And I think he has a point. 

 

 The road out, often one that has some traffic on it, is lightly trafficked due to road closures.  Along the edge of the roads, I begin to notice more leaf changes. It is beautiful but holds an element of sadness knowing that short, dark, and cold days are on their way.  But today is not a day for sadness.  It is a day for rejoicing with sun that still speaks of warmth, bicycles, blue skies, and company that I enjoy.  

At one point, I tell Jon how one of the things that bothers me about aging is that I need more rest, and that there are days like today where when I don't use the day actively but resting there is a feeling of wastefulness.  Perhaps because age makes us more aware of how days are numbered, particularly days of riding centuries.  And he agrees.  He has the same feeling at times.  

Story is lightly populated and the food service is fast though they are out of things listed on their menu outside.  Still, the barbecue is delicious and the portion is large enough that I struggle to finish it.  Music, per a woman we met there, does not start until after we will be gone.  Jon is talking with this woman when I return from a bathroom run.  She is quite interesting and certainly outgoing. A few years younger than me, her big accomplishment last year was riding her mule across the state of Michigan in a cross state event of some type.  She is here with her girlfriend to ride this area and tells us we need to go to the Garden of the Gods in Illinois sometime.

We would talk longer, but day light, while still ample, is shorter.  So we push off enjoying the tailwind that is now ours and well earned.  The morning slog into the wind has taken its toll on my legs but I still manage a decent pace the rest of the way back despite their ache.  At Dairy Queen, we find the dining area is finally open.  I rejoice because I have been looking forward to a chocolate shake to fuel me for the rest of the ride home.  Soon, as I point out to Jon, it will be too cold to sit outside enjoying the cool shake sliding down my throat. Even with the wind, I enjoy sitting outside with the sun, however pallid compared to summer, beating down on me. And my ride has paid the dues for this treat.

Other than the climb out of Brownstown, the hills are finished and we glide back in finding that while not all of the road closure signs have been removed, the road is open.  The day is spent but not wasted.  Never wasted on a bicycle.  I am, indeed, blessed. 

The Crawford Century TMD Ride: 2022

"Action may not always bring

happiness, but there is no happiness

without action."

William James

 

I am looking forward to this century though wary of the heat.  It takes awhile for the body to adjust to  heat, but the only way I know to make that adjustment is to ride in it and be outside. At least I don't puke normally like some people.  As with most things in life, you have to pay your dues.  The cost for some appears to be higher than for others, but I suppose in the end it all equals out.  I am looking forward to seeing everyone.  I am looking forward to  a new century route.  And I am looking forward to riding my bicycle.  

 

  When asked, I tell Bob Grable that I will be riding more slowly than the last century, a century where I surprised myself with my speed.  No, not a blazing fast pace, but faster than I expected and faster than I should probably go today.  

 

 

It is a good group that shows.  All strong and seasoned riders as best I can ascertain though there are two or three I am unfamiliar with.  They look fit.  And I do start the century at a reasonable pace, only to find my speed increasing as I warm up.  I have found that it takes me longer for muscles to warm up than it used to....they need a bit of coaxing and convincing before they concede that they still can do what is being asked of them. And today is no different. 

 

Still, I feel stronger than expected today. Can a vitamin B12 shot be responsible for how I feel?  At a recent doctor visit, Sara took blood and told me my levels were low and advised that  I needed a shot after questioning if I had gone vegetarian.  (I have not though I have significantly lowered my meat consumption over the past few years, particularly red meat).  The day after I felt as if I were twelve years younger.  Such a relief as I believed my fatigue was age related.  

We ride on roads that I have not ridden for awhile, many from past brevet courses and occasionally memories of past rides tease me.  I push them away.  Today is not a day for dawdling and reminiscing. I think of Dave King and Steve Meredith, both doing the Kentucky 400 K today and I wish them strength and a successful finish.

 

 

 Everything is green and lush:  summer creeping in and taking over.  There are still a few spring flowers scattered here and there, but they are obviously on the decline.  Daisies are starting and the honeysuckle is in full bloom, perfuming the air whenever we pass. If I were by myself and/or going at a slower pace, I would notice more, instead I find myself pushing, monitoring my breathing, monitoring my legs, thinking how best to put 100 miles behind me without ending the ride wishing I had been left in a roadside ditch somewhere.  And I find myself singing.  I am happy here in the heat and sunshine rolling along on a bicycle with friends.

As usually happens with larger groups, and there are  probably 19 riding, not large by normal TMD standards but large for this calendar year, we split into groups.  Bob and I are together at the first store step.  Ned is close behind us, but for some reason does not stop at the store with us.  I worry a bit but assure myself that I am not responsible for him or any of the others.  Steve Rice and Mark Rougeux, another group, are already there.  They head out shortly before we do though both Bob and I gulp our drinks quickly and head out. 

 

The lunch stop offers two possibilities, a gas station and a restaurant.  The majority opt for the gas station.  I am surprised at the number of people eating inside, not merely due to COVID but because the temperature outside is pleasant and there is a covered area with picnic tables.  I take my chicken salad sandwich outside and eat giggling again at the thought of another year of the finest in curbside dining.  At least there are picnic tables here.  

 

After a quick lunch we take off.  No lingering after this meal.  And our average speed continues to climb until the third store stop.  But the pace is beginning to tell and Bob and I, still together, decide to slow it down a bit, particularly knowing there is a huge climb that lies between us and the finish.   And huge it is.  Halfway up a man working in his yard grins at us and says something about the climb.  I tell him we have this in the bag.  And we do.  We end together, pleasantly tired but not completely spent.  And I am happy.  Happy for the day, for the ride, for friends, and for bicycles.  James is right.  I find I am rarely happy without action of some type, mental or physical, and today I have had my fill.  The day is completed when some of the men in the front group comment on how strong I am this year.  Their words are music to my tired ears.  And for today I am sated.  And as always, I am thankful....thankful for bicycles, thankful health, thankful for friends, and yes, even thankful for hills that serve to humble and strengthen us. 

 

 

Orleans: Spring 2022

"Spring drew on...and a greenness

grew over those brown beds, which,

freshening daily, suggested the thought

that Hope traversed them at night,

and left each morning brighter traces

of her steps."

Charlotte Bronte

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

A December Century

"In the sweetness of friendship let

there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things, the heart 

finds its morning and is refreshed."

Khalil Gibran

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

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

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

 

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

 

  

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

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

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. 

Solo Century March 2019

"Behold, my friends, the spring is come;

the earth has gladly received the embraces 

of the sun, and we shall soon see the results 

of their love."

Sitting Bull

It is still cold outside, but it is expected to be only mildly windy and not below freezing.  I have winter legs, unused to hard demands being placed upon them and there is no time like the present to begin to remedy that.  It is time to ride. I have a course to check for a ride I am captaining later this month and there is no time like the present (Club policy has changed and signatures on a contract are no longer required in order to captain), so today is the day.  If I did not have an appointment the next day, I might have procrastinated, but as it turns out I am glad that I did not despite a rare (anymore) sleepless night.  I also am glad that a calendar glitch has kept me from posting the ride and having company.  There will be no pressure.  The time has changed so there is plenty of day light and I am alone. 

It is strange how different climbs are when one is alone and there is no pressure to "keep up."   How much more I seem to notice.  You just pedal and there is not the agony or pain of pushing faster.  Not that I don't enjoy company.  Often I do.  But each has its charms.  With the difficulty of today's course on weak legs, alone is probably best.  It does, however, depend upon the company.  One group I ride with never seems to be in a hurry though they maintain a reasonable pace.  The last I rode with them, they assured me that was because they are mostly mountain bikers and not road bikers.  But it is all good.  I think for awhile of all the nice people I have met through cycling and how blessed I am.  Recently, thanks to Amelia, I have been hiking with some of them that no longer ride distance and gotten a chance to catch up.  I really enjoyed a recent conversation with Ron Dobbs and seeing Vickie. There truly are a lot of good people out there.  I tend to forget this when I read too much or watch too much news.

I know all the roads the first part of the course, and as I check the corrected cue sheet, all the turns and mileage seem right.   I thrill on the hills of Shorts Corner when I come upon a quite unexpected site:  Easter flowers, or so my mother-in-law used to call them, some type of small, yellow daffodil, is just opening.  Despite being in midst of a climb and knowing that it will be hard to start back up once I quit pedaling, I have to take a picture if only to remind myself later that it is true.  I have seen the green stalks elsewhere, the promise of bloom, but no blooms. These are the only blooms I see all day.  Mostly there is brown mud.  The stark outlines of tree branches are muted with buds, but they have not yet opened.  And trash, I see the litter that people make everywhere.  I am not a neat freak, but I don't litter and I wonder a bit about why people don't take their trash in when they park at home or wait and throw it in the bin when they get gas.  But they don't.  We don't love the earth as we should. 

The squirrels are particularly active and chatter at me when I urge them to move off the road.  A gray squirrel seems intent on driving a brown squirrel away and I grin at his antics. Perhaps mating and territory related? I doubt gray squirrels mate with brown squirrels, but I really don't know. Deer abound and I see three different small herds throughout the day, bounding gracefully, white tails bobbing.  I think about how when I was recently reading about hiking the National Forest, it recommended wearing orange or red, but specifically not white.  Perhaps a hunter might think that the while was a deer tail. 

I stop for lunch at the Mennonite Restaurant and let them know that a group will be coming through.  She asks if they will arrive at once and I tell her probably not since we ride different paces.  I know she is trying to plan staffing requirements and I hope that I am right.  I love this restaurant.  If you ask, the sandwich is served on home baked bread.   And today is no exception.  The men at a nearby table stare at me and I assume I look a sight.  During the winter, I have stopped pulling my hair back when I ride as the balaclava loosens my hair band.  If they fall on the floor, Tom eats them if he gets a chance.  The few times he beat me when the band dropped to the floor, he vomited them back up, but otherwise I know they could kill him.  So I just look like an unkempt banshee.  For a moment I wish for short hair, but mine is so easy to cut without going to a beauty parlor.  I just pull it back, take the scissors, and cut straight across.  Money and time both saved.  It also saves me from having to sit and try to make conversation with a hair stylist that I don't know.  "Vanity, thy name is woman," may be true, but "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" either.  I just don't think I could make short hair look passable without going to a shop regularly, a time sacrifice I am not willing to make.  I also am dressed in layers of clothing and do a mild strip tease at the table.  No tips are thrown, but then I am almost 63;-)  As I tell people there comes a time when rather than saying, "Take it off, take it off," one is more likely to hear, "Put it on, put it on."  Time can surely be mean.  I have accepted that I will die without ever being breathtakingly beautiful to anyone, except my husband of course and he is gone. 

After lunch will be the major, unknown change. I am leaving out two of my favorite roads and adding a road that will cut mileage.  I had e-mailed my old boss, Mark, to ask about the road as in the past he advised me against riding it but I cannot  remember why.  He says it was because it had thick gravel for about two miles, but he thinks it has been paved.  And the first mile or so has been, though the pavement is bad in places.  And then, there it is, silently waiting, taunting.  A hill.  A magnificent, scary hill that appears more like a wall than a hill, winding upward toward heaven.  I know that at the end of this road, I will be turning onto a road that also has a long, tough hill, but it is not like this hill.  I take a deep breath and begin to pedal, then decide that I will walk it today.  My legs are tired already and I still am about thirty to thirty five miles out.  And so I walk, relieved but also a bit disappointed in myself.  Next time, I think, Mr. Hill, it will be me and you.  You won this round through intimidation, but perhaps next time the victory will be mine.  Still, despite walking, I enjoy the feeling of being on a new, unknown road. 

After I crest the hill, I find that Mark is wrong and there is still gravel.  It is sparse, however, and very rideable and nowhere near two miles long.  Even with all the recent rain, it is not muddy.  Good as pavement, I think, though I know that there are riders who will not appreciate it.  Then a descent and I pray that my brakes are good.  Of course, while steep, it is not a straight descent and there is a ninety degree turn at the bottom, but my bike handles it.  Then begins the next climb, the climb where I can still see Scott standing and saying, "Now that's a hill."  Being alone, I don't have to hurry.  I am surprised to find I don't need granny.  Perhaps I have not grown as weak as I thought.  But I am slow.  I think of the soy bean field I saw that was still unharvested, probably due to the excessive rain.  All along the route there is evidence of deep ruts in fields that have been harvested. 

I stop at Amos's store only to find he now closes on Monday as well as Sunday, but in my bike bag I have a sugar cookie I bought at lunch but didn't eat and I still have plenty of water.  I notice all the changes on Delaney Park. There are two new Amish home sites.  Laundry is hung out, something I look forward to doing but have not yet started for the year.  I dream of how nice it is to come home from a long ride to fresh sheets that smell of the earth and the sun.  At one home, there is a small Amish boy playing outside, I would guess about four or five.  I bid him good day, but he is shy and does not reply, only stares at the strange woman passing by on her bicycle.  I think of how odd it is that there have not been any other signs of spring other than that first small patch of flowers.  I caution myself to patience:  it will come when it will come. Technically, it is still winter.  I wonder if I should try to change back to the original route, and decide to think on it for a day or two.  Parking is the issue.  I decide I will measure to estimate how many cars I can fit and then decide. 

I am glad when I reach home.  I like my original route better and not because of the hill.  I just think it is more scenic, or perhaps it is because it has more memories.  Either route will be pretty as spring arrives and begins to show herself a little more, to pass on a bit of the love she received from the sun. Sometimes when I struggle on rides anymore I question why I continue to ride the century rides, but then I think of my husband when I stopped doing triathlons.  He told me that I would never be that fit again.  And I wasn't.  I think of Jim Whaley saying essentially the same thing  to me during a ride when he talked about when he gave up racing.  And I decide that, at least for now, I will continue to challenge myself.  Riding will season these old legs for another year anyway, I expect.  And so I continue.    102.7 miles.

Bethlehem 2018

"I think I'm stronger than I was.

I let God do what he does.  I breathe in.  

I breath out.  Got friends to call who let me

talk about what ain't working, what's still hurting, 

and all the things I feel like cussing out.  Now

and then I let it go, ride the waves I can't control,

I'm learning how to build a better boat."

Travis Meadows/ Liz Rose

(Sung by Kenny Chesney)

A century ride to Bethlehem to celebrate the upcoming holiday season.  Normally I do this ride the first week-end of  December, but I decide to take advantage of the half-way decent weather predicted for the day.  It is 30 degrees when I leave.  Ponds  are delicately laced with a thin glazing of ice.   Frost covers the mostly harvested fields and the grasses that edge the road, later melting, the dew left behind glistening in the sun until the sun decides to hide behind the clouds.  The sun leaves about an hour and one half into the ride and the day is grey and wintry afterward, reminding me of what is to come for the next few months. Without it, I suppose, spring would not be such a welcome delight.  Sunshine would not be nearly as appreciated.  Still, it seems so very far away.

There is a beauty in the colorless, stark stillness of the winter months, but I no longer seem able to welcome it as I once did with the welcome arms of a child awaiting the first snowfall.  Would a fat bike change that perception?  I have debated, but have been discouraged by many of the people I have spoken to about it. Still, I will think some more.  I am not yet done growing and becoming.  As per the song, I am still learning to build a better boat.

Thanksgiving just happened, and there are so many things I have to be thankful for and I feel quite blessed.  I decide that the greatest blessing is that my children are healthy and productive followed by my own blessing of good health.  And quite soon, God willing, I will become a grandma.  A smile touches my face dreaming of little Ivy and what she will be like.  At the shower, we were supposed to write down what we hoped she would have from her parents.  I do hope that she has her mother's laughter.  Lloyd and I would smile at each other when the children were home and upstairs, newly wed, as their laughter floated on the air warming our home and reminding us of our own beginnings.  I hope she has my son's good sense of values and his intelligence.  And I hope she has Lloyd's eyes.  How I miss those eyes and how they would warm with love when he would look at me, at least when he wasn't angry with me or questioning my sanity.

I am thankful for bicycles and for Clarksville Schwinn and Bob Peters who has kept my bikes moving over the years despite the foolish things I have done such as riding through flood waters without carrying my bike, not heeding a shifting issue early on, carelessly letting my bike fall from leaning it against something too hastily, etc.  I am thankful for the cycling friends I have made, both new and old.  I am thankful for the friends I have made that don't bicycle. All these friends have fed my soul and are as necessary to well-being as food and shelter.  I am thankful that I have a home, food on the table, and the cats to keep me company and to keep me amused.

Unfortunately, my meditation on the good things in my life is interrupted by something I am not thankful for:  a bad driver.  The woman, talking on her phone, is going the opposite direction from me.   She turns right in front of me and pulls only halfway into the driveway.  I barely have time to brake and swerve around her.  But it is not her driveway so I am not done dealing with her and her careless driving.  She is using the drive to turn around.  As I am ascending a blind hill, I decide that it is  smart to take the middle of my lane and perhaps she will wait to pass until it is safe.  But of course that is but a pipe dream and she doesn't.  When she is about six feet past me, as I feared, another car crests the hill.  She slams on her brakes and swerves over back into my lane, barely missing me.  All the while her phone appears to be hardwired to her ear.  She is, I think, completely oblivious to what just happened and the danger she put herself in, me in, and the other driver in.  But that, I suppose, is part of cycling.  Dealing with those who are oblivious, not only to the dangers but to the wonders one sees from the seat of a bicycle.  Thankfully, most of this route has little traffic. Thankfully there are more good drivers than bad.  Thankfully, God watches over fools and drunks.

I begin to think of next year's PBP and whether I want to cancel my room.  I wish I could say that I have some interest in going, but I don't seem to be able to relight the flame that drew me. I suppose, barring terribly inclement weather,  I will ride the Kentucky 200K and go from there.  Dave King is the new RBA and it will be interesting to see if there are any changes.  I have no doubt that barring a serious mechanical or illness, I can complete the series and PBP again, but it seems too expensive and time consuming unless I develop a bigger desire to ride it again.  And perhaps knowing that I can do it is part of the problem. I loved the ride the two times I did it.  The people were amazing.   The countryside was amazing.  But yet, I remain unsure that I want to face the tiredness and the stress of travel again.  And there are other places to ride in, other people to meet, other scenery to see. Well, no decision needs to be made today I think and put those thoughts behind me.

The wind picks up.  The Bethlehem Century, I think, is never easy despite the course not being an exceptionally difficult one.  The only challenging climb is climbing away from the river once you reach Bethlehem. I am doing the easiest of the climbs out, but it is still a long climb.  Like many long climbs, it is a teaser, easing the tension on the legs midway with a relatively slight grade only to resume with more steepness. At least the wind is not out of the west as it usually is. I try to think how many times I have ridden this route since I first weaved the roads together to design a course, but it is too many to count. 

 I think of Jeff White, shivering, the year three riders had to be sagged back to the start from the lunch stop due to the rain and cold and their inability to continue riding.  The woman at Subway gave those of us who continued onward plastic gloves for our hands to help protect them better.  I think of buying gloves with Grasshopper at the last store stop another, different cold, wet Bethlehem Century, mercilessly shivering from the cold, damp, and wind,  and how the warmth was heavenly.  I still have those dark blue gloves though I do not use them for riding.  I think of Steve Rice asking me on Chicken Run Road if the wind ever stops on this route.  I think of reaching the last store stop yet another time and seeing Perry Finley and Scott  Kochenbrod, two very strong riders, their exhaustion etched in their faces letting me know that I was not struggling alone.  I think of stopping with another rider only about six miles from the finish as he struggled with whether he could go any further.  So many rides.  Today, as happens more and more often since I no longer captain for the club, I ride alone.  And it is okay. Suddenly, realizing that despite the challenge I am enjoying myself,  the wind  suddenly does not seem so bad as I count down the miles until I can turn out of it and not meet it face on. Yes, I am building a better boat, but that does not mean it cannot include those things I love, like bicycling.

When I stop for lunch, the woman making my sandwich is concerned about my riding alone and the distance I have yet to go.  I do need to remember to slap a light on my bike, but I am making good time and know that barring something very major, I will be in well before dark.  And I am, tired and ready for rest, looking forward to the next day when my daughter is to come, we will put up the tree as we have for years, and I will find comfort in the continuity and the comfort as I continue building what will be, what is my life.