Ride Diversity

"There is no beauty without difference  and

diversity."

Rasheed Ogunlaru

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A New Century Route

"The right to play is one of the divine rights

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

as essential to the peace, happiness, and prosperity 

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

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

healthy play." 

Silas Floyd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brevet Season Approaches: Thank You January.

 "Behind every beautiful thing,

there is some kind of pain." 

Bob Dylan

It is one of those rare, winter days that is a gift from the cycling gods:  blustery, but blessedly warm after a cold start.  Of course that always means that there is gear to take off and carry as the day progresses, but I can't complain about that.  I am thankful that I have friends to ride with, that I have a bicycle to carry me, and that I can get another January century in.  It is not every year that weather allows three January century rides.  And it is nearing brevet season.  These miles and these leg hardening hills will make the brevets much less painful.

Oh, I don't delude myself, I know that the brevets will hurt.  Kentucky courses are always challenging, and due to the rides being early in the year, weather is inevitably an issue.  But brevets, at  least longer brevets, inevitably hurt at some point.  I suppose that is one of the delights of brevet riding, as strange as it may sound, the challenging yourself to tough things out, to work through the pain, mental and physical, to prevail.  If you do, you have the thrill of the victory, knowing that you finished what you started.  If you don't, even if this was the wisest course, and it often is, you deal with the questioning of yourself, your decision, and your ability.  I suppose if it were easy, it would not be so satisfying.

I meet Steve and Bill at McDonald's and we head out on the Lawrenceburg Loop.  As we ride, it is like old times:  I have ridden so many miles with these men.  Things have changed, we have changed, but some things remain the same, and despite the time that has elapsed when we rode regularly together, I have memories with them, ties to them that cannot be denied.  I remind them of the caterpillar who did not make it across the road while we waited for a flat tire to be changed, of Bill's comment to Larry about his camera.  Past moments along this course flood my brain.  And more memories will be made today, like the store clerk grabbing Bill's arm and saying that while he is old, he is sooo strong;-)  As always, Bill takes our teasing with good grace and humor. 

Coming out of the first store stop, layers begin to be shed and it is a treat not to have a cold, wintry blast slap your face making you want to retreat back into the warmth of the store.  The miles pass and I realize how much I have healed since the last time I rode this course.  Time undoubtedly is a balm to all wounds.  And bicycling has  played its role.  Thank you, love, wherever you are for buying me my first bicycle.

The day ends too quickly for my mind, but  not for my legs which are begging for surcease, for rest to heal and strengthen.  Now if only February will cooperate.  Brevets are coming, and despite my moaning, cursing, and complaining, brevets can be beautiful things. 

Training for the 2014 Brevet Series

It has been a long time since I have ridden with others, instead electing to wander in solitude:  stopping to photograph things that strike as unusual or beautiful and that I will want to remember, choosing my route at random, varying pace according to mood and inclination.  I am always amazed at how much I forget, and as I age my forgetfulness becomes more frequent.  Sometimes I wish I could remember only the good things, the special things, the things that I hold close, like the times my family has told me that they love me or have done or said something that has strummed the strings of my heart or the times friends have said nice, memorable, special things to me that I can hold close to my heart and pull out when I am sad or feel deserted and alone.  But that is not the way.  And perhaps I would not be the person I am today if those were the only things that I could remember, if past hurts and grievances were completely forgotten. When I was younger I did not understand how older people remembered things from years before, but not from five minutes ago.  Now I smile a wistful smile thinking I have joined their ranks.  I briefly smile thinking about a joke shared with my husband about keeping note pads next to us in the living room so we remember why we went to the kitchen.

It is hard to get going in the morning, particularly as there are better days predicted for later in the week and I am on vacation from work.  It is delicious to get up in the mornings and put on a soft, fluffy night robe instead of clothing, to nurse a steaming mug of coffee, to take my time and know I have a day to spend on my selfish self.  It is dark and dreary outside, and there is no promise of sunshine. Wind is predicted. I have been sick as well with a chest cold and have not been on a bike in two weeks.  The course the guys have chosen is a hard one with lots of climbing.  This course hurts in May, the traditional date of the Pam Century,  so I know it will hurt in December when there are fewer miles in these old legs. Part of the struggle is always overcoming the part of my mind that encourages sloth and laziness, the challenge of getting out the door, the challenge of beginning.  Battling these feelings today are good practice for the upcoming brevet season when experience tells me there will be numerous occasions when my mind urges me to quit, to give up.

It is cold outside, and I curse myself for not taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather the first of the month for I continue to try to keep the Big Dog Challenge of riding one outside century ride every month of the year no matter the weather.  Despite the fact I know that I have it easier than others who live where there is even more snow and ice and cold and wind, I briefly toy with the idea of stopping at my ten year anniversary. but I decide that this would make it all too easy to stop riding long rides altogether, and I don't want to stop.  It would make it too easy to quit riding brevets, and I am not ready to stop. Normally, though not all the time, I am glad that I rode and that I rode the distance. And I have formed a group of friends that I would be loath to lose, friends that I share memories and good times with, friends who are important to me. Unlike when I was younger, I know that if I stop now I may stay stopped.   Objects at rest, including people, tend to stay at rest.  

As I drive to the ride start, I wonder if I will hold everyone up.  They never say anything, but I will know by the look in their eyes, the same look my eyes sometimes have when someone has slacked off and is riding way below our normal pace.  And this is winter with short day light hours. Being too slow can mean the whole group gets in at dusk, or worse yet, after dark.  For unlike summer, the group seems to always stick together in colder weather, paces merging to a happy medium.  I decide that I can always turn around if it looks like I will be holding everyone up.  And I feel like I will ride at a reasonable pace.  Prior to getting a cold, I made it a practice to climb lots of tough hills, but riding alone also normally means riding more slowly than you do with a group.   I will just have to see how things go.

And things do go well.  My legs tire, but I am able to maintain a reasonable pace.  At the last store stop, Mark complains about the ceaseless hills and I know that mine are not the only legs that are hurting, aching, complaining about what I am asking them to do. Somehow this helps, knowing that I am not the only one who hurts but will muddle through.  And I know my legs will be stronger for the next ride. Training for the 2014 brevet series has begun and I have passed the first test, the important test, the mental test:  determination, persistence, forbearance.  At least for now.