Thoughts of Hell Week 2014

"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep

because reality is finally better than your dreams."

Dr. Seuss

It is cold and dreary here.  And while there a certain  beauty in the stern, unforgiving landscape with its crust of hard, white snow and ice covered roads, it is not conducive to bicycling...at least on a road bike or a regular mountain bike.  The roads are too icy and the alabaster snow that does not give under my feet while walking gives when the wheels of my mountain bike try to glide over the surface.  It is, however, conducive to dreaming and the cultivation of that inside, unnameable longing and inside ache that dreaming sometimes brings:  it is conducive to thoughts of Texas in the early spring.

It is this time of year when I begin truly counting the days until I will be there, until I will see friends that I see all too rarely because of the physical distance, until I see the friends that I do see fairly regularly though not on a daily basis, until I am on a bicycle where I best interact with people.  For some reason, friendship and discussions are so much easier on a bicycle than they are sitting in chairs across a table from each other, just as they are after I have had a few drinks of alcohol. My husband says that alcohol primes the pump, and for some reason it is the same with a bicycle.  Indeed, sometimes I feel sorry for those condemned to a solo long distance ride with me;-)  And yes, I will miss my husband during this week, but I also will love him more for letting me go, for tending the home hearth and our furry family, for his patient waiting.

Despite the physical distance between us, my friends remain ever close to my heart, irrevocably woven into the fabric that is my very being, the world of bicycling.  Each is special to me, unique.  And while I know most of the these friendships will not last beyond bicycling, they are incredibly dear and important to me.  Perhaps it is that forewarning of loss that causes me to treasure our time so, for as so often happens in cycling, I have had dear friends whose physical presence fades as they no longer cycle even while they remain part of my history and are cherished and often thought of during a ride or during times of contemplation, each loved in their own special way.

Soon I will be in Texas, and hopefully there will be at least one day of hot, sunshine that just screams shorts and a short sleeved jersey and sun screen so that I don't burn, at least one day where the sweat will run freely and cleanly so unlike the cold, passionless winter sweat.   Soon my legs will ache with effort and my rear will hurt from unaccustomed hours on a bicycle seat and I will curse my inability to keep up and to capture the green sign.  Soon the strange,stark beauty of the landscape there will fill my eyes and I will once again fall in love. Soon I will laugh freely and be released from my recent winter weather captivity.  No dishes, no chores, no  work....nothing to do but to ride my bike, eat, sleep, and ride my bike again.   

And by the end, my passion will be spent, at least temporarily.  Because thus far, I am one of the lucky ones, the ones whose passion remains intact and who has the physical ability to carry out that passion.  And I will be satisfied for awhile knowing that reality has been better than my dreams if only temporarily. And my heart will sing. Oh, yes, Hell Week and Texas, I am sooooo ready. 

Brevet Training Time

It is that mad time of year again, brevet training time.  In my head it is my sensible self against myself.  Sensible self, "You're not actually going to try to train for the brevet series, are you."  Regular self, "Well, I thought I might."  Sensible self, "You're crazy.  Why do you want to do this?"  Regular self, "Why not?"  Sensible self, "Because it will hurt, because you don't have to, because there will be wind and bad weather, because you are getting old, because I really don't want to put up with your whining about it again. And you know you will whine and complain and even blame me for not stopping you, particularly on the 600K if you even get that far this year. You might get the puking sickness you had the day of the 300K last year.  Then all that preparation is for nothing."  Regular self, "Too bad isn't it.  You're stuck with me and I'm doing it.  I suppose we could divorce and become a dissociative identity disordered person." Sensible self,"Without me, God knows what you would try and we both would end up dead before our time.  Okay, I give in.  Let's not divorce.  But I won't quit nagging you throughout the brevet season."  Regular self, "I am not the only one who whines;-)"

So far, I have managed to get some long rides in, but not much of the in between, shorter rides due to a combination of work and weather.  And you see, I am a "bicycle trainer" hater.  Yes, I know you can put a tape on television, that you really improve your speed and peddling mechanics while using a trainer.  It just is not my thing.  I am always amazed at and in awe of the mental fortitude of people who spend mind numbing hours on trainers.  They emerge at the end of a long, dreary, snowy winter as strong as ever. And very occasionally I will give in and use a trainer, but it doesn't take a session or two to realize that what I love about cycling has nothing to do with improved pedaling mechanics or increased speed or getting exercise or keeping off weight.  I like those things, but they are not of primary importance or why I love cycling.  Loving cycling has something to do with changing scenery, with the wind in my hair, with the hills that need to be conquered and put in their place, with the hills that conquer me and tame my ego, with the freedom to chose my way, with the surprises you find along the way, with the things you learn about  yourself along the road.  What I love about cycling is being alone and having time to think, being with friends and laughing until my sides ache and I worry that I will wet my shorts.  What I love about cycling are the challenges, the not knowing if I will prevail, and the satisfaction when I do.  What I love about cycling are those times when all the hard work comes together and a difficult ride is easy. And so much more.  But it is not the trainer or the benefits it bestows.  And so, with all the snow and bad weather, brevet training will be a tad more difficult this year than in the recent past.

Oh, well, as T.S. Eliot once said, "If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall your are."  Regular self, "So I may be in over my head.  At the end, at least I'll know how tall I am."  Sensible self, "Sighhhhh.  Here we go again."

Mistakes During Brevets and During Life

"I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something.

So that's my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody's ever made before. Don't freeze, don't stop, don't worry that it isn't good enough, or it isn't perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.

Whatever it is you're scared of doing, Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever.”
BY― Neil Gaiman

When I came upon this post by Mr. Gaiman, I was immediately smitten  by his idea.  Who hopes to make mistakes?  Who wishes this for others? Mistakes are those things that you castigate yourself for making, things that cause your self view to deteriorate rather than build, things that cause that inner voice to stay stupid, stupid, stupid.  But perhaps I have been looking at things the wrong way all along.  Perhaps mistakes are good things as well as just being necessary and inevitable things.

I thought about my years of riding and the mistakes I have made and what I have learned from them.  The knowledge has been invaluable and has laid the groundwork for future successes.  Perhaps without those mistakes, there would have been more failures and less successes.  Or perhaps the failures were the successes because I certainly learned more from my failures than I have from my successes.  Perhaps even my idea of success has been convoluted.  Perhaps all actions are successes so long as they help us to move forward rather than to sit motionlessly.  And can I, a person who is troubled by changes, who struggles with changes,  make this change in my way of thinking?

When I first began riding, I normally used a camelbak to meet my hydration needs.  Firstly, my bicycle handling skills were lacking even more so than they are today.  A hydration back pack allowed me to keep my hands on the handlebars and respond more quickly.  Secondly, a hydration pack kept me from drifting to one side as I pulled the bottle out of the bottle cage and allowed me to drink without worrying I would cause someone to have an accident. And thirdly, in the winter, worn underneath my jacket, it kept the water from freezing so there was something to drink. But I remember one winter ride where I was in a rush and I didn't cap the pack correctly. The water spilled out during the ride.  Luckily I was only about 20 miles from home when I realized I was sopping wet.  By the time I reached home, the jersey was beginning to freeze and stiffen and huge,uncontrollable shivers were claiming my body despite pedaling to beat the band.  

What did I learn from this?  I learned that it pays to take the time to be sure that your equipment is operating the way it should.  That it can be uncomfortable or possibly dangerous not to do so.  And this extends from camelbaks to all your equipment. Check tires before rolling, not just for air but for bald spots or imbedded shards of glass.  One nightmare I have is a front tire blowing out on my way down a gloriously long and steep hill, possibly because I have seen this happen to another rider much more skilled than I and perhaps because I sometimes take downhills much faster than perhaps I should.  Luckily my friend was okay, just bruised and shaken,  but it could have been so much worse.  If you are going to ride, you just have to accept the possibility that these things could happen to you, probably will happen to you at some time or another, but accept that risk and not dwell on it. Because another mistake is not doing things because of what "might" happen.  Things happen regardless:  all we can do is make the best possible preventative measures.

I also learned the value of appropriate winter clothing, an ongoing lesson and an ongoing experiment with myself.  I have come to love wool and to use it and to use bar mitts even though I don't love them.  I have learned that for the most part, you get what you pay for, and that some things are worth saving for even if they are outrageously expensive.   I have learned that you can be comfortable under most winter conditions in this area if you have the appropriate clothing.  I have learned that the importance of warmth far exceeds the value of fashion and to ignore people when they sneer at my less than attractive winter riding gear. 

Another time I was on a brevet with two friends, Dick "Grasshopper" Krakowski, and Bill Pustow, when I had a flat after heedlessly crossing a  metal bridge that had a sharp edge that caused me to flat.  Cursing the loss of time but not yet concerned, I changed the tube and pulled out my CO2 inflator to fill it with air.  The inflator broke.  My regular pump was on another of my bicycles. Grasshopper said not to worry, he had his pump, but for some reason or another he either had forgotten it or it didn't work.  Bill thought he had something as well, but if I remember correctly he also had forgotten to pack it.  After what was a comedy of errors, somehow, and I don't remember how, I got the darned thing inflated and we were on our way.  But I learned to always check my bags before a brevet, or before any long ride, to make sure I have at least the basic repair tools with me.  As I have often said, it is better to carry things you don't need rather than to need them and not have them.  And while he would desperately try, my husband would never find me out on the country roads that are the Kentucky brevets.

And I could go on and on about the mistakes I have made:  not drinking enough, not eating enough, not resting enough, not dressing properly, not riding at my own pace, not testing new equipment before depending on it, etc.  But that would a novel unto itself.  I could go on about my fears, enough to fill several novels, but I overcame my fear of brevets, at least for the most part, though I do respect them. I suppose everyone makes as many mistakes as I do and maybe has as many fears.  And perhaps that is a good thing.  Neil Gaiman says to do something that I am afraid of doing, and perhaps that will be a New Years Resolution because it is hard for me and I  am afraid of so many things, including making mistakes. It is just hard to choose:  there are so many mistakes to be made including the mistake of being afraid of mistakes;-)  Ride on, friends, make the mistakes and learn.  We will make them regardless because that is the nature of the beast.  But what a shame when our fears stand in our way of trying something new. 

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.

Thankfulness

"Smile every chance you get. Not because

life has been easy, perfect, or exactly as you

had anticipated, but because you choose to be 

happy and grateful for all the good things you do have

and all the problems you know you don't have."
Unknown author

Deep in my heart I know that creating for myself a culture of gratefulness for my many blessings will enrich my life in incalculable  ways and is one path to greater satisfaction and will enhance my life. Experience has taught me that.  I have worked for  people who are incapable of being grateful figuring that you are paid for what you do and that is gratitude enough.  I have worked for those who regularly express their appreciation for loyalty and hard work.  The same with friends and relatives.   The power of the words, "Thank You," when sincerely said, never fails to amaze me.  Perhaps Machiavelli is right and fear is more motivating in the long run.  I was sure of this in my youth.  But things no longer seem so clear cut.  Strange, you would think age would make things less rather than more muddled.  Sometimes it seems the older I get the less clear cut things have become.

I have much to be grateful for in my life, and part of my New Year's resolution will be to continue to strive to create a culture of gratitude and to let those in my life know how very special they are to me, how close to my heart.  

I am thankful for my husband, the man who has supported me through thick and thin, the man who bought me my first bicycle, who encouraged me to complete triathlons and to do PBP, to take on new challenges and not worry so much about failure.

He has the courage to tell me when he thinks I am wrong, but to still to be there for me.  I prize his honesty even if it sometimes stings.  The love behind it makes it much more palatable, and I always know where I stand.  I grin thinking of the one anniversary or Valentine's Day.  Coming home from work I find a card and some flowers.  He asks if I would like to go out to eat, and of course I say yes.  He takes me to a nice restaurant, and I am feeling so very special and loved.  I am thinking that he will get thanked later that evening, when we get home.  He looks at me across the candlelit table and gently says, "I think you are starting to grow a mustache."  I am taken back, but immediately burst into embarrassing loud guffaws of laughter and tell him how the women of this world owe me a great debt of gratitude for taking him off the market.  As a young bride, those words would have destroyed me, but the safety net of his love and knowing that he would never be purposely cruel to me gave  me the ability to find the humor and to create a memory that I treasure.  I would long have forgotten that dinner had it not been for his sincerity and knowing it was meant with love.  While our marriage, like any other, has not been all peaches and creams and sometimes seemed on the verge of toppling, I am thankful for his presence in my life.

I am thankful for my children.  They have enriched my life in countless ways and have been and continue to be blessings.  They have taught me many life lessons such as how you can hurt for someone else as much or more that you would hurt for yourself, about how sacrifice can bring untold rewards, about family and what it means to be bonded by the adhesive of caring and love.  Together we have memories that warm me.  One Mother's Day my daughter gave me a "Memory Jar" she had created.  A decorated jar filled with papers on which she had written about memories she had of our times together.  A woman where she works told her she would not like such a present, that she wanted something bought from a store.  To me, the present is like gold.  While I have been through those memories many times, occasionally I still  pull out a paper and take a walk backwards in time. I have a son who, despite the distance and his busy schedule, takes the time to comfort me when he knows I am hurting about something, who comes home at Christmas.

I am thankful for my health.  There are many who do not have this blessing.  I am thankful for my home, and my job, and my friends.  I am thankful for laughter, for food on the table, for family.  I am thankful for the cats and the amusement they bring to the house, and I am thankful that I am strong enough through loss to open myself to possible new pain down the road.  I am thankful for my bicycles and the many gifts they have brought me:  new experiences, new friendships, new ideas. 

So, on this Thanksgiving, I say thank you to those in my  life and to my creator.  I will try to do a  better job of appreciating you and of being sure that you know exactly how very much you mean to me.  I will continue to strive to create for myself a world of gratitude and thankfulness and to not take things for granted anyone or anything, and perhaps even come to realize that those things that I would prefer not to happen sometimes needed to happen, for without sunshine we would not appreciate the rain, and without rain, sunshine would lose some of its richness.  As Graham Nash once said in a song, "Grow a little taller even though your age defies." Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.  May you always recognize your blessings and be grateful.  There are, indeed, problems you don't have.  Pray for those who do.

November 2013

"Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter

what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude.

It is because they have tried to blend into the world

before, and people continue to disappoint them."

Jodi Picault

Today I will not ride the club ride, but will do my own thing.  I feel some guilt in this as originally I was the one who put the ride on the club schedule, but I did not force anyone to take it over.  Jody was just nice enough to volunteer.  I was perfectly willing to cancel it if nobody volunteered. I have more than fulfilled any obligation that I have toward the bicycle club I have ridden with and I would feel no guilt at canceling.  I have been disappointed yet again as people bend rules to suit their desires, and it will take me time to make my peace and deal with the loss of respect I have for some I considered friends. Changing rules appropriately does not bother me, but breaking rules does. Ridiculously asserting that there never was a rule makes it even worse.  But perhaps I don't see my own faults and shortcomings, and maybe rigidity is one of those faults. In essence, for better or worse, I am a rule follower and believe that some things are just plain wrong despite our efforts to convince ourselves otherwise.  The emperor can say he has fancy new clothes all he wants, but to me he still looks pretty darned naked.  In the end, we have to live with ourselves, and I have done plenty of things that have brought shame upon me. As I prepare to ride, I think of a quote from one of my favorite movies, "A Man for All Seasons:"

“Thomas More: ...And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned around on you--where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country's planted thick with laws from coast to coast--man's laws, not God's--and if you cut them down...d'you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I'd give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety's sake.”  

This leads me then to think of the rest of the movie, More's incarceration and his interaction with his wife during that incarceration, a scene I consider one of the most poignant of movie scenes.  And I think of my own recent losses and the losses to come.  Recently I lost my sweet little Meg Pi, and sadness yet again lays me low, my own culpability a scourge. Recently I lost my aunt, the next to last aunt and the one for whom I was named, the one who gave me back my father's side of the family.  Recently I lost a step-son. I have often said that God made teenagers the way they are so that we can bear the grief when they move out onto their own.  And perhaps this is God's way of preparing me for my own demise:  losing others and watching those I love grow old.  Time to move on, time to ride.  Riding will bring solace and time to think.  Riding will help me to mourn and heal.  Riding, hopefully, will bring acceptance. I shudder at the thought of a day when I will no longer be able to think and process and find consolation in the soothing yet demanding arms of my bicycle.

My Kindle predicts that it will be windy, yet warm day for November.  Today the ride I pick will determine the bicycle that I ride for I intend to climb the dreaded hill on Cox Ferry Road, the one that has brought so many cyclists off their pedals and onto their feet, cleats sliding and protesting at walking such a hill, but leg muscles demanding relief.  Yes, today I will ride my Lynskey triple giving myself that respite,  but I will not walk the hill.  I have walked the hill before and I have climbed the hill before it in my middle ring, but today the only demand I will make on myself is not to get off the bicycle.  Today I vow I will be kind to myself.

I pull out into a gray world, a sun chidden world,  remembering to wear orange as it is hunting season and I will be on many roads frequented by deer hunters.  The roads are wet from a nighttime rain.  I double think my bicycle decision because this bike is clean and the cold weather will make washing it more difficult, but I decide to go ride on.  Dawn has just surfaced and as it is a Saturday, most houses are still sleeping peacefully;  I wonder about those of us who haunt the mornings on our bicycles and the runners who haunt the silent, early morning roads.  I wonder if this ride will be drudgery or rewarding:  I know it will be difficult with the wind and nobody to share the wind with.  Before long I have my answer as I find myself entranced with the beauty of the world.  Even though the leaves are mostly gone the trees are beautiful, graceful and long limbed, dancing with their unseen partner, the wind.  Wooly worms line the road, and I wonder if there is any truth to being able to predict the coming winter from their wooly coverings.  The fields are mostly harvested, but those that are not are empty and waiting for the scurrying farmer to arrive. Yes, I miss the color of the other three seasons, but this scenery also has its place.

I am right about the hunters.  On Eden Road and Delaney Park, pick up trucks dot the side of the road, bright blobs in a muted landscape.  I come upon one hunter walking the road, no deer in tow, gun pointed toward the ground, head bowed, and I warn him that I am passing on his left. Disappointment in his lack of a kill gives off an aura of disappointment.  There is a freezer to fill.  It never does to startle someone with a gun that might be loaded though.  It is hard to imagine a road that is worse after having pavement fixes than it was prior to being fixed, but such is the case with part of Eden Road.  Farm machinery or something has scarred the pavement into ruts and my bike bumps and jostles, shocking knees and wrists.  I know it is only for a few miles though, and the lack of traffic on the road combined with stunning scenery makes it worthwhile.

Before you know it I am at the Red Barn.  The parking lot is filled as people bring in their deer for checking and weighing.  Amos, as usual, is welcoming and I realize I have developed a quasi-friend here.  No, I would not  pour my heart out to him, but he would help if ever I should need it.  The laughter of the hunters and their pride in providing for themselves fills the air and I shamelessly eavesdrop as they talk of pictures with their kill.  One hunter briefly teases me about my bright orange attire as compared to his camouflage, and I tease back that I don't want to find myself in the back of someone's pick up truck with a bullet through my heart.  Hunting is not my thing, but bicycling is not their thing.  And these are people who use what they kill.  Not being vegetarian like my children, I have no moral ground here to be upset at their enjoyment of what they do or their pride at feeding their families.   I attempt to call my husband to tell him about a local shooting range I have discovered where they have board shoots on week-ends, but I discover that there is no cell service here, at least for my cheap Trac phone.  Knowing the wind will be wearing me down, impacting my speed, and daylight is short, I quickly down a Snickers Bar and a drink and move on. 

The hill approaches.  I have already climbed a nice hill to get to the Red Barn, but it is not like this hill.  It is long, but it is not so steep that it hurts.  This hill will hurt.  Even using my triple, it will hurt.  My legs will scream and curse at me, my heart will thud heavily against my chest, my breathing will become deep and ragged, and my mind will become traitorous  questioning why I am doing this and urging me to just get off and walk.  As my friend, Paul, once told me, there are those times during certain rides where you would sell your beloved bike to the first person who came along and offered you a ride home;-)  And this may be one of those times.

One thing I love about this hill is that unlike most of the ride that is rolling, it comes after a flat section.  When you approach the hill, it is foreshadowed and hidden by the growth of trees.  I grin thinking of past  rides and the cries going from rider to rider, "Triple alert." And before you know it, I reach the top without walking. There is a core nugget of satisfaction, of a job well done, of success, of still being strong enough to complete the climb. The strong wind beats on me the rest of the way to the store, as if she is angry that I was successful.  Helmet straps that are too long and have not been trimmed whip nosily against the side of my helmet.  As the wind slaps me, doing her best to block my passage, I realize and accept my weakness.  I can't fight it.  I can only accept it and ride on my consolation being that where the wind is now slapping me, it will push me on my return as I have decided to return via the route I came.  And I think that is what I must and should do about the weakness of others.  Then perhaps I can be more forgiving of myself.

When I reach the Mennonite Store, "The Dutch Barn,"  where I will have lunch, I suddenly realize I am scantily clad.  Yes, I am covered from toe to head, but when I first dressed this morning I intended to use tights rather than leg warmers.  Thus, I put on shorts that are mostly worn out as I thought they would be covered by the tights.  Cycling shorts are so expensive, I struggle with throwing them out. When I changed my mind from tights to warmers, I forgot to change my shorts, however, and left on my see through version.   This would be bad enough at any store, but at this store where women are all in dresses that reach mid calf or longer, I would feel absolutely naked.  Even wicked.  But I need to eat and there is no other restaurant nearby.  Little Twirl is closed for the season.  I think of a solution.  I take off one of my tops, tie the arms around my waist, and cover my bottom. 

Leaving the store, the wind initially is with me and I am cruising along in the low 20's with no effort on my part. I am not naive enough to believe it will last long, but I will enjoy it while I have it.  Farmers are now in their fields trying to get in as much as they can today.  Rain and even stronger winds are predicted tomorrow, and the withering plants may bow tomorrow scattering their bounty on the ground where it can't be harvested.  Twice I have to dismount and get off the road to allow the passage of road wide farm machinery. Occasionally I hear the rustling noises of silos being filled.  And all around me there is heart-wrenching beauty.

As I ride I think that I am at one of those times in my life when you realize how limited your time is and that it would be prudent to look at your life and how you can spend what time is left wisely.  That is time to decide what relationships I want to recommit to and maintain and which should be left to wither and die.  A recent possible cancer scare may have magnified this concern, this melancholy,  but thankfully the labs were negative.  I think about how I want to spend my time and about those people I want to share my limited time here with.  By the end of the ride, I still am not sure.  But I am sure that I want to continue to ride.  I am sure that I want to continue to see  the loveliness of this world, the absolute magnificence of this world, in that way that only seeing the world upon a bicycle seems to bring.  I am sure that I want to continue to maintain some of the relationships that I have made through riding even if it means accepting that others, like me, may not be perfect. As Adrienne Rich  once said in a line that has always moved me, "Our lovers failed us when most we sought perfection."   I am sure that I want to continue to make new friends through riding.  And I am sure that I will heal with time, that recent pains will not be so tender and raw but will scab over.  Yes, the losses will be there.  The losses will mold me as all experiences mold us, leaving a wrinkle here, a character change or magnification there, and a scar upon an already battered human heart, forming who I am.  And Picault is both right and wrong, because there is a time and place for solitude for this loner.

An Autumn Day

Is this not a true Autumn day?  Just the 

still melancholy that I love - that makes

life and nature harmonize.  The birds are 

consulting about their migrations, the trees

are putting on the hectic or pallid hues of decay, 

and begin to strew the ground, that one's very 

footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth

and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect

anodyne to the restless spirit.  Delicious Autumn!
(George Eliot)

It would be easy to talk myself out of riding today.  There is a prediction for rain all day long.  The radar shows spots of red both above and below where I want to go today.  Friends are tied up and I will be riding alone left to my own devices if the weather becomes intolerable.  I just had my wheel worked on and I will not trust it until I have some miles on it.  There is a ride scheduled for tomorrow that is a club ride and I have a century on the schedule for Wednesday and next Saturday and I could just ride then.  There is housework that needs doing. All these arguments run through my head as I fight with myself on whether to grab my bike and head out the door.  But  the sun shows signs of shining, shyly peeking through pink and purple tinged clouds.  It holds promise just as the day does.  The weather is warm and if it rains I will not be cold.  I have not ridden all week due to work and other appointments.  And I have a "restless spirit" today. I know I will regret wasting this day if I stay home, and so I head out, camera in tow, everything vulnerable to water wrapped in plastic baggies.  

I think of how many of my friends cannot understand the delight in riding a century on one's own.  How do I explain the freedom that this type of ride brings?  I can ride at my own pace, fast or slow, and I can pause when I want.  I can take any road I fancy.  I can stop at store stops or ride on if I am not hungry.  I can think of problems and blessings in my life  and my contemplations are not often interrupted by a need to think of others.  I can sing or quote poetry or stop and do a little dance.  I can splash in a creek I pass if I am hot and nobody will sigh or look askance.  In other words, it is a selfish day.  Everyone needs selfish day every now and then, particularly if they are a caregiver.  It is a day to renew my spirit. 

All around me, both people and animals seem to be preparing for winter.  I pass farmers harvesting their crops, once green corn and soy beans now a dull brown,  tractors droning heavily in the autumn air. The husky sounds of chain saws fill the air and pick up trucks are filled with wood needing to be stacked nearby to  heat homes and cuddle loved ones.  I remember the pride in splitting my first log, the smell of wood smoke snaking through the air, the chilliness of the morning when the stove had gone out, and the warmth once it was refilled.  I remember the rustling sounds of my husband in the mornings filling the stove, gently covering me, kissing my forehead, ensuring that I would not chill when I got out of bed, and I treasure once again that feeling of not just being loved, but being tenderly cherished by a man whose past wounds made it difficult for him to be tender or to cherish anyone or anything.  I remember the smell of our mingled scents as I snuggled deeply into the bed that was our nest, content and happy.  I think of how life can harden or change people as they move to protect that soft inner core.  And I am glad that I chose to ride.

I pass ducks with babies and then come upon a totem pole that someone is creating.  "The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls." (Picasso)  comes to mind, and I think that perhaps this is also true of a bicycle ride.  I round a corner and come upon a deer lazily crossing the road and note how quickly he shifts modes from meandering to intense evasive action.  I warn him it is hunting season both with words and thoughts.  

The first hints of autumn color the scenery, not yet the blaring farewell of late October but restless whisperings of the fanfare to come.  Leaves fall and swirl in places and in others remain firmly in place, refusing to yield to the inevitable fall from grace.  The first geese of the fall fly overhead, raucously  calling to each other as they navigate the sky to find a resting place for the coming cold.  And the sun reluctantly yields to the clouds,  the rain starts to fall, gentle but persistent, never quite demanding enough to require my full attention though I do turn on a taillight. 

I stop at an old graveyard near a log cabin that has drawn my interest before but where I have not stopped.  Someone has lovingly mended tomb stones.  Some still stand, some have been placed leaning against trees and I suspect that nobody was sure where they belonged.  I wonder if any of them lived in the log cabin nearby. I wonder what their lives were like.  I speak to them telling them that I hope they were well loved, that their lives were not too hard, that they were remembered with tenderness and love by those left behind.  That they were missed and mourned, but not to the point where life for their living loved ones ceased to bring happiness, disappearing into the grave with them.  Because this is what I hope for myself when my time comes:  to be remembered with love but also with the idea that my life was well spent. To be remembered with the feeling that I did not live life as a spectator, but as a participant.  That I rode my bike long and I rode my bike well because it was something that I loved doing as it shows me that world. That I loved often and I loved well and that I was well loved.  But not to take those left behind to the grave with me, but rather to have been an example in some small way. If I can do this, it doesn't get much better than that.