To Ride or Not to Ride

"The hardest thing about the road not taken

is that you never know where it might have led."

Lisa Wingate

Next week-end  is the Kentucky 200K, and I am in no shape to ride it.  I have not been idle all winter, but I have only done shorter rides and some spin classes.  Accidents that left me with some lingering issues combined with the loss of the Big Dogs site and the loss of any long rides on the club schedule took away some of the motivation I had to get out and ride long rides all winter.  I grin thinking of the irony of this:  finally I have the clothing and the knowledge of how to pretty much stay warm unless it gets abnormally cold for this area, and I am not out there. But I forgive myself.  Most of my energy is focusing on retirement now that the long awaited finish nears.

Steve Rice tempts me saying that he also is out of shape and that perhaps our paces will match each other, for while I have enjoyed solitude on some brevets in the past, being widowed I know I spend altogether too much time alone and it would be good to visit and catch up a bit.  Then again, I know how hard it is to ride a brevet with someone.  Energy levels rise and ebb when there is that much distance to be covered and you have to take advantage of those moments when you feel strong. I contacted him to see if the route was marked as it has been in the past, but I also tell him  not to mark it my account as I am unsure if I will even attempt it.  And so, I waver back and forth, one moment deciding to give it a go and another not.  

My thoughts take me to the hard brevets, the ones where there were times where my strength was depleted.  I am on the road with Bill Pustow, Steve Royse, and Grasshopper, the wind is howling so loudly that we can't ease the ride through conversation, the sleet falls in a slant seen only through our headlights.  We lose Steve and we don't even know.  I remember thinking that if I stop, if I do not continue to put one foot in front of the other and continue turning the pedals, I will perish out here.  But I also remember the beauty of the unexpected eclipse that night and the elation at the end as we pulled into the last control and knew we had mastered a course that quite easily could have mastered us.  I remember the companionship as we shared a meal at Waffle House before heading our cars to homeward.   And I remember the warmth my husband's arms wrapped around me as he held me after I arrived home and how he called me crazy and how I knew that he was proud of my strength and my endurance despite the fact he did not understand what drove me.

My thoughts take me to brevets ridden in wind and cold and all day rain that soak into your very soul until you feel you will never be truly, deliciously warm again.  Only movement can salvage any semblance of coziness and comfort on those type of days:  the moment I stop I am doomed to chilling that shakes my entire being all the way to the core.  I remember riding with Claudia and Grasshopper and getting almost to the end only to find a train broken down on the train tracks we needed to cross, hardly fair after conquering the mountain on Oregon Road. But then my mind takes me to the happy moments, the laughter and the companionship and the beauty that is Kentucky in the spring.  One year a section of the road held what seemed to be hundreds of wild rabbits out in the dusk as I neared the last control, tails bobbing as they skittered here and there.  The allure of night riding, that feeling that it is just you and your bicycle and that everyone and everything else is asleep, snoring in warm beds.  My almost collision with a possum who took issue with my traversing his road. The amazement on the faces of store clerks as they sign control cards to prove you passed their way.

In the end my decision will probably depend upon the weather prediction.  If it were a PBP year and if I were committed to riding PBP again, (I'm not)  I could probably talk myself into an all day rain with a strong head wind on the way back or cold and windy conditions; but since I have not and am not committed, I doubt that I would once again ride some of the conditions I have in the past for I know how it will hurt.  Perhaps, I think, I have had too much hurt or perhaps I am too old because I don't know if I can go there again. Perhaps I have just changed. Or perhaps I am just not as strong as I used to be.  Oh, I know I could physically finish despite not being particularly fit right now.  Brevets, however, after a certain point, are less about physical fitness than they are about mental commitment.  I must admit, however, that if I decide not to ride, I will have the above mentioned "road not taken" syndrome, for during a brevet you never really know what might happen.  Decisions, decisions. 

Trek Woman's Mountain Bike Clinic 2018

"There is freedom waiting for you

 on the breezes of the sky.

And you ask, 'What if I fall?'

Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?" 

Erin Hanson

 For numerous reasons, I have been trying new things or variations of old things.  I am exploring myself, my interests, even my friendships, trying to picture how I want to forge my path forward as my life changes yet again. So recently I e-mailed a old friend that I trust who mountain bikes and works at Scheller's Bike Shop about mountain biking and was told of an upcoming woman's clinic sponsored by Trek and the store happening at the Mega Cavern in Louisville.  John Molnar sold my husband my first bike, so perhaps again it is a way my husband has of pointing me in a way I might go.

I must admit, I have always been a bit concerned about mountain biking.  I had a supervisor at one time that would mountain bike, and I lost count of the bone breaks and injuries he had over the years, not just road rash or something small, but significant injuries.  And those of you that know me, know that I loath the thought of another shoulder injury and losing more years of not being able to sleep on my side without pain.  Still, this could happen on a road bike.  Yes, I might fall, but as Ms. Hanson asks, "What if I fly."  I e-mail Diana to see if she is interested in going with me.  She responds that she is in and plans are made.

As the day nears, I find myself surprisingly pumped about it. A grin splits my face as I work on my mountain bike changing pedals, oiling the chain, and making other minor checks and changes.  I think of my first brevets:  the painfully thorough checking of all my bags to try to ensure that I had what I needed.  I must admit, that there is something that I just like about the preparation.  Inevitably, however, despite careful preparation, I think of something that I "might" need, but because of or in spite of my planning I have always somehow managed to get by. And frankly, in this case, having never done it, I am not quite sure what I might need, but I use my imagination.

We arrive at the caverns early because Diana is renting a bike and neither of us wants to drive down and find no bikes available and come home.  After checking in, they tell us we can start riding while we wait for the clinic, and we are some of the very first people in that day.  The air is heavy, but not oppressive as it will become later in the day when activity sails dust into the air.  It is huge in here.  At first I worry about finding my way out, but we both note all the number signs that point the way outwards.

After we ride a bit, we run into Ameila Dauer who is also taking the clinic and is in my group.  It is good to see her.  I don't believe we have ridden together since the Medora Century, and it is good to have a bit of time to catch up.  She tells me that Paul Battle is getting an award for 150,000 club miles at the banquet tonight and I ask her to give him my best.  I have not been to the banquet for a number of years, and I won't go tonight, but I am glad to hear his efforts are being rewarded.

I then find that Sherri Thompson is one of our instructors.  She tells me she had been planning on taking one of the more advanced clinics, but they had not expected such a large crowd and asked her to help and she agreed.  I briefly think how this unselfishness seems to be an integral part of her character.  While I don't know her that well, I am appreciative.  It is interesting to me how many people from different walks of life that I have met through bicycling.  The shared interest bonds us as the game of Bridge bonded my mother with her friends.  (My mother would much rather I played bridge and always hated my cycling).  What makes us pick cycling?  And how many different types of cycling there are to pick from.

We take our class and learn some of the basics.  Eventually we begin to do some basic jumps over a noodle, first lifting our front wheel, then our back wheel, then both.  When the instructor explains the movement involved in lifting the back wheel, it somehow clicks for me.  I never do know how high I am lifting wheels or if I am clearing the noodle completely or knocking it about as some are doing, but I know they are lifting.  The jumping is much easier for me than some of the other moves such as ratcheting.  But now I have something to practice. 

After the class, I meet Diana and we ride a bit more.  It becomes rather obvious to me that she is much more of a natural at this than am I, for I am still stiff and unsure and it translates to my handling. Her quick reflexes (something that will save us from a car accident following the clinic) and lack of tension make her a natural. I fall twice that day, both after the clinic is over.  She does not fall at all. And I know that while I will do this again because it is a blast, I will fall repeatedly before I ever really feel comfortable on paths that twist like snakes and hills you can't pedal up without clipping your pedal on the dirt.  Hopefully, I think, it is like riding with cleats.  You fall down a few times and then something clicks and you remember.  Yes, I might fall, but what if I fly?  A variation on an old theme for me will provide some amusement in my retirement.  And I am glad I came.  Thanks, John.  Thanks, Trek.  Thanks instructors and friends.  It was a great day!

A Short Jaunt After Work in January

"So I am not a broken heart.  I am not the weight

I lost or the miles I ran and I am not the way I slept on

my doorstep under the bare sky because my apartment

was empty and if I were to be this empty, I wanted something

solid to sleep on. Like concrete.  I am not this year and I 

am not your fault.  I am muscles building cells, a little each 

day, because they broke that day, but bones are stronger once

they heal and I am smiling at the bus driver and replacing my

groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower

anymore.  I am the way a life unfolds and blooms and seasons come

and go and I am the way spring always finds a way to turn even

the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life."

Charlotte Eriksson

 

What is it about a sunny winter day kissed by the first hint of warmth that makes me want to jump on a bike and ride and ride.  My butt will ache and my fitness will dissolve, for this is just a teaser of what is to come.  Still, after work I jump on my bike and I ride.  Miles pass, enough to sate me physically in my current state of fitness, but not enough to sate the longing that surges through me, a longing for warmth, for long rides, for easy companions.  Oh, God, I miss Hell Week.  At least in the past on these days that stir the blood and make me long for warmth and hours on the bike I knew I had Hell Week to look forward to and that usually there was at least one day during that week that was warm, a day when the sun soaked into my bones.  Mostly, there was laughter and companionship.  I even miss the impatient but good natured waiting for Dave for each morning.

But today, I cannot regret today.  And I will not waste spending time on things that have passed me by.  I am healing, and I am alive. True, the wind is blowing, slowing my speed to a snail's pace crawl, but the sun is shining and it is almost warm.  And it becomes possible to actually believe, as Ms. Eriksson points out, that spring will eventually find her way to turn things green.  And yes, I am smiling.

A Winter HIke: January 2018

"The past beats inside me

like a second heart."

John Banville

I originally was supposed to hike with a friend today, but the ice storm two days ago unfortunately made me rethink or overthink and cancel.  But today, I realize that I can't stand it anymore:  I have to get out of the house.  If I fall on the ice, I fall on the ice.  It is just the way of it. So off I go.  I decide to go the the Henryville Forestry because it is close and I really don't know how things will go.  When I was a child, I tromped the woods in any weather, snow, ice, rain....but I am not so young anymore, at least on the outside.

I do not realize all the memories this hike will bring up for me, but it does:  perhaps because I am alone and have time to reflect.  Or perhaps it is because I brought the small "I" thing, I can't its remember the name but it is a small blue square, that Jeff and Lena bought me that slips in my pocket and carries my music.  Whatever the reason, the memories arrive, ghost-like and unexpected.  

There is only one trail that I know of in the forestry, but I don't want to drive back that far to the entrance as I am unsure how clear the roads will be.  As I walk to the start, I wonder if I will be able to follow it, for while the snow is not deep, it covers everything.  I reason to myself that if I get off the trail, mine will probably be the only footprints and I can retrace my path.  And I am right.  The path is virgin with no footprints.  It is, however, recognizable. Past footprints have caused the path to sag in them middle, like an old mattress.  

While I am sure I have hiked this path more often, I only remember three times.  The first was with my Girl Scout troop when my daughter was young.  We hiked the trail and then had a cook-out.  They tricked me by icing a slab of Styrofoam and having me try to cut it before they brought out a real cake.  I have a picture that I like of all the girls hanging upside down from the monkey bars, smiling ear to ear, a brilliant moment of time captured.  I realize I don't know what happened to most of them.  One I know is tragically dead from a drug overdose.  Another girl's mother told me a few years ago had numerous kids and was using drugs.  The rest have vanished.  I had twenty in my troop.  Do they ever think of me as I think of them?  Why do we let relationships fade?  Is it even possible to keep all of the alive?  For we no longer live, as ancient man did, in small groups, huddled together for safety and companionship.

The second time I hiked this trail was when I had a fight with my husband and I came here to cry, hot tears raining down my cheeks as I ran most of the trail.  I don't remember what the fight was about, only how it made me feel as if my world had crashed and things would never be okay again.  There is a passion in early marriage that somewhat abates or changes, but it leaves behind a comforting security, at least that was how our marriage worked.  And perhaps there is a different type of passion that takes its place. By the last years we were together, I knew that it would take an act of God to separate us, and indeed, that is what happened.  The third time I hiked this trail was with my daughter, full grown, when we were just hiking and spending time together, teenage angst and disagreements a mere shadow.  

It strikes me that the woods are splendid despite the cold and lack of color, crystal snow providing relief from the stern austerity of winter landscapes.  The ice still clings to trees, hard to capture on film but shining brilliantly in the sunshine.  For some reason, a line from "The Night Before Christmas," comes to mind:  "The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below."  The snow gleams in the sun, sparkling and twinkling.  The only disturbances I have seen at this point are deer hoof prints.  For once, I stop to write my name of a tree and to make a snow angel.  I am playing and it feels good.   And I know he would approve of this, my smiling, for he wanted me to be happy. And I approve of this.  How much better I feel when I make myself get out and about, even alone.

Soon, however, I come across other prints.  I don't know what made them:  errant dog, coyote?  Are there mountain lions here?  Do coyotes run alone or in packs like wolves?  I realize the only thing I know about them is the sound of their song ringing out across the night, beautiful and haunting. I feel no fear, merely curiosity. So many things I don't know.  How did I get this old and still not know so many things?

I see no other footprints during my hike.  No raccoons or birds or rabbits.  At the few places the creek is not frozen, I see no footprints at all and I wonder where the animals get their water as the creeks are mostly frozen. 

As I reach the end of the trail, I decide to hike it backwards for it is so beautiful and I don't want the day to end.  I think of the last time I came here with my husband and how the snow kept us from the target range where he wanted to go to shoot.  I think of how after that snow melted, he came on his own as I was working and, thinking his truck was in reverse, wrecked.  How the lady at the wrecker company scolded me about his not having a cell phone.  But he did:  I bought him one.  He just would not carry it.  How lucky we were that someone found him?  For that was near the end when his strength was nearly gone.  I could not scold him for I was glad that he had a hobby he could still do.  It seemed as if everything else he loved to do had been taken from him.

I toy with the idea of climbing to the top of the Fire Tower Hill, but the road here has not been treated and I have visions of sliding down that steep hill on my rear.  I remember failing the first time I tried to climb it by bicycle not understanding why I could not stand without my front wheel leaving the pavement, and Diana, at work, telling me her husband said that if I could climb it on a bicycle I was a better man than he was.  Not too long afterward I made it and went to work telling her to go home and tell her husband I was a better man then he.  Who knew that we would become friends? And who knows if I can still climb it?  Perhaps this spring or summer I will try again.

The day is over and I head home.  Entering the house I am slapped in the face by the delicious aroma of the soup I put in the crock pot this morning.  Only a bath and then it will be time to eat.   And to dream of what tomorrow will bring.  Life is good. 

Born To Roam's New Years Bike and Hike 2018

"What good is the warmth of summer, without

the cold of winter to give it sweetness?"

John Steinbeck

I have been looking forward to this bike and hike, but I have to admit that when I awaken and the weather person says that the wind chill is below zero, there is a moments hesitation when the couch, a good book, and the warmth of the house beckon.  I scold myself as this is no way to start a New Year, a fresh year  full of promises, dreams, and hopes. There is a time for  gentle pursuits and mental massage, but I need exercise and to be outside.  I have been too sedentary following my surgery and the children's visit and it needs to stop before it becomes an established bad habit.  I have ridden in cold weather before and now I have the appropriate clothing.  Besides, this is a short ride, only a hour or a bit over. As with so many things in this life, my hesitation is purely mental.   I know that if I give in and don't go, if I confine myself to the warm house, I will regret it as the day creeps forward for despite the cold, the sun is to shine and my body is ripe for activity.

And the weather person does not lie.  The sun shines dazzlingly and the sky is the clear, brilliant blue of a winter day.  There is no warmth from the sun for the body, but it does provide sustenance for the soul.  There are greetings when I arrive and while I am still struggling with placing names with faces, I need no names to see the kindness and welcome shining from eyes, some familiar and some not.  Indeed, I get one greeting hug, and I feel the warmth of that brief touch travel to my core.  The children leaving after the holidays to return to their own lives and this hug remind me how much I miss the shelter and warmth of my husband's arms, the touch of his hand.  Yet still I know, somehow, that he watches over me and would be glad to see the smile that lights my face and the warmth that lights my soul.  I am grateful. Perhaps this is one of the lessons loss teaches us, for I truly believe that God places us on certain paths for a reason, introduces us to certain people for a reason, however much we struggle against him and fail to understand. 

While it is a road ride, I have decided not to bring the Lynsky but to bring the Surly Straggler again.  The Surly has pedals that accept flat shoes and in this cold, regular boots will be much warmer than riding shoes. Also, there is to be a hike as well as a bike, a hike described as having some rugged areas, and hiking without ankle support is not a wise idea for me.  Lastly, the knobbed tires are less likely to have a flat, one of the dreaded mechanicals on a cold day.   Once again the voice of Eddie D, an early riding mentor, whispers to me about the difficult of and the importance of keeping the hands and feet warm during winter rides.  So many people have helped me through the years, offered hard won advice.  Some I heeded immediately.  Some I resisted. Some advice worked for me and some didn't.  All was well meant, a gesture of friendship. When Rich talks about his camel back tube being frozen, I harken back to a hard learned winter lesson when I stuck the tube inside my jersey to warm and it leaked.  Luckily, I was only a half an hour or so from home, but I was one miserably cold woman that day.

 I am warm on the ride to the lodge where we will park our bikes while we hike.  Others complain of the wind, but I am thankful that it is not slapping my face as it often does this time of year.  At one point, I soak in the sound of the wheels turning, the hum of conversation, and the gentle laughs occasionally brought forth during the conversation.  There all types of bikes from fat bikes to mountain bikes to cross type bikes.  There is also another woman on the ride.  As I suspected from the lithesome grace of her movements in the parking lot, she rides well despite saying she has not ridden for a long time and that running is her preference.

When we get to the lodge, I did not expect to find that my bike chain has frozen and has been made hard to manipulate by the temperature.  Keith asks if he can share the chain as he forgot his and is strong enough to unwind it and secure our bikes.  It is different, this locking of bikes, but then I normally am not leaving my bike for a long period of time.  Even when I ride somewhere and stay the night, I take it into my hotel room with me.  But I am excited about the hike, something I have started to enjoy in the past year.

Originally we were going to meet with a local hiking group, but as we are running rather late and Rich says he does not want them to have to wait for us to lock our bikes and prepare, so we leave to hike from another area.  Despite the sun, the woods  are delicately laced with the alabaster snow that fell recently.  There is beauty here, just a different beauty than there is in the spring when the fecund earth gives birth, or graceful, green summer,  or fall, that grand, glorious, good-bye to color and warmth.  It is not my favorite season, cold winter with her brumal blasts, but she does, as Steinbeck notes, enhance the sweetness of what lies before and will come after.

During the hike, we come across frozen waterfalls her tresses cascading silver and white against the gray, stone background.  Icicles squeezed from earth that was too saturated,  unable to contain the fluid within, glimmer in the bright sun.  On a bridge above the falls, we note the water, bubbling, imprisoned yet still alive in the creek under the frozen crust.  Briefly I wonder if it will freeze solid before the weather breaks, for it is not supposed to get above freezing for a number of days.  As always, I notice the roots of trees in the path, acting as stairways by containing earth that otherwise would have slid down the hill.  I briefly think  of how I cherish trees. Odd, but I could tell you every tree that graced our yard when I was a child, and we had a lot of them.  On this hike, unlike the Knobstone,  there is no place where I have to silently curse the loggers for ruining the picturesque beauty of the trail. Some areas should be left alone, undisturbed.  The words of Keats come to mind for some reason, "Thou still unravished bride of quietness."

 Rich is a story teller and seems to know area history and it is interesting to hear him talk along the way.  He points out concrete fence posts from what was once a working farm.  I think of how the land yields to us and I remain glad that some is now kept safe.  Keith complains of being hot and when he takes off his hat, I notice the gleam of the auburn in his hair, short hair, but the color is still magnificent.  As with my son's curls, it seems almost wasted on a male.  Internally, I tease myself as a sexist for having this thought. It is odd how different people appear without helmets and riding apparel, as if we adopt an alternative identity. 

We arrive back at the inn, have a pit stop, unchain our bikes and head down the hills toward Madison.  It is the only time on the ride when I am cold.  My nose feels as if it will just break off if I gently touch it, but still the decent is splendid.  I find myself emitting peals of laughter on the descent in the way that I sometimes do on descents because, well just because they are descents and so exhilarating.  The earlier climb was lovely, but this is what climbs are all about, the descent, like when you drag your sled up the hill repeatedly to go back down again and again. I think briefly of the look of celebration on the face of one of my new found friends after the climb when he tells us that he has lost 36 pounds, certainly something to celebrate and to be proud of.

All too soon we are back in the parking lot.  The group is going out to lunch, but I did not bring anything to change into and decide to head home rather than to run the risk of sitting and chilling.  I had meant to pack other clothing, but I forgot in the same way I forgot my phone.  Nothing like old age.  As my husband used to say, "A mind like a steel sieve." ;-) I don't feel the dampness that predicates being really uncomfortable on winter rides when you stop, but you don't seem to notice it until you have stopped for awhile and the shivering begins as your body convulses in an attempt to warm itself.  And I do dream of a piping hot bath, delicately scented, one of my favorite treats after a winter ride.  Nothing like a soak and a good book following a winter ride.  And so I head home to prepare for the coming work week.  Holiday is over, but what a wonderful time I have had and how glad I am that I came to ride with this group on the first day of this New Year.  Happy New Year!  May you see much of it from the seat of a bicycle.  Oh, and with a tail wind and lots of descents;-)

St. Nick's Hick Ride 2017

"Every new friend is an adventure...

the start of new memories."

Patrick Lindsay 

I can't decide whether to do this ride or not.  There is a ride in Madison I spot on Facebook that sounds enticing:  "St. Nick's Hick Ride."  It is on the "Born to Roam" Facebook page.  According to what it says, you can ride if you bring canned goods.  The ride is supposed to be a combination of pavement, gravel, and single track.  I click the "interested" button and decide to think about it.  To go or not to go, that is the question.

Essentially, I am a road biker.  I have a mountain bike, but I normally use it when it snows so I can get out on the roads.  I came into riding in my middle years, and I have never really done "mountain biking" per say.  While he was still alive, my husband urged me to, said he thought I would be good at it (though how he would know never having done it before who knows), but it just never seemed to fit in with where I was at.  I remember Phil Patterson asking me if I could jump curbs when we were discussing mountain biking, and telling him no and later wondering why I had not just said I had never tried because I had not. And I still have not tried it.  The thought of re-injuring either shoulder does not appeal to me.  And it is cold outside.  Yes, I have done an entire century at 10 degrees, but I was younger then, more foolhardy.  There are all sorts of reasons to change my mind, but I dare myself.

The ride description recommends wide tires and I contemplate taking my mountain bike, but I have it fixed up for Diana who is going to use it to ride the "Lights Under Louisville" ride later that same day.  I have switched out the pedals for flat pedals since she does not do clipless pedals, so when I see the ride description, I decide to take the Surly Straggler.  It has wider wheels and can take rougher treatment than my road bike. I almost don't go because I have already committed to the afternoon ride with Diana and have to be back, but Rich, the organizer, assures me on line that the ride will end no later than 12:30.  Despite worries about the cold, the pace, not knowing any of the riders, and the terrain and if I can handle it, I go.  I guess they won't shoot me if I have to turn around or can't keep up. And f I fall, well, I never have to face them again.

I arrive early and find the ride start, canned goods in a bag.  I like this about the ride, the ride fee of can donations for the needy.  Rich's wife takes the canned goods and is very welcoming.  People that care about other people, about those less fortunate, are some of my favorite people in this world because it is so easy to not care. Everyone is welcoming, but still I can tell this is a group that rides together regularly, that has forged bonds, and I am not sure if I can or will fit in.  As those of you who know me know:  I do not like to be a burden or an inconvenience. And as so often happens, brevets, distance rides, I am apparently the only female riding today.

Yet again I am amazed at how love of the bike can merge diverse groups of people. Gender, income, age, race, all fade away as insignificant and I think how God must love a bicycle because of this. The pace is easy and nobody seems to mind, there are mainly new roads, and the scenery is engaging. People climb at their own pace and then wait at the top, patiently, without resentment. As the ride progresses, personalities begin to emerge, and I find I am beginning to smile.  This smile will eventually turn into laughter at some of the youthful exuberance that has seeped into the ride that will continue to stay with me for a few days.  For the first time in a long time, I wake myself up in the middle of the night following a ride actually laughing, and it feels wonderful.   As an added bonus, not too long after the ride starts, it begins to snow and slowly the roads turn white.  Unlike my snow rides on a road bike, the Surly handles the snow just fine and I am overcome by the beauty,  particularly while we are in the state park.  What a fine day it is to be out on a bicycle despite the cold.  How glad I am that I came.  How thankful I am to Rich and the others for their acceptance of a stranger in their midst.

The trees are bare now, stark sentinels, arms reaching skyward, outlined by wispy bits of snow that are starting to cling but still ephemeral, pleading for their covering as Adam and Eve in the garden following their sin.  Perhaps they stand as a reminder.  There is beauty in their nakedness, but yet they seem not comfortable with it.  The wind is light and kind. The whiteness emphasizes the lack of color in the world.

As we descend from the state park into Madison, we ride a bit of what I think is called "single track."  I am able to handle it, it does not seem to be very technical, but the rear wheel on my bike is not and ends up rubbing and I do fall behind.  I find them waiting, but again I don't sense impatience or the feeling that they wish I had not joined them.  Instead, I am met with smiles and stories and a magnificent view and I am appreciative of their kindness.  I debate whether to stop and fix it, and decide that with the car so near I will not.  Only when stopped by a stop light do I realize how badly it is rubbing.  I can barely push the bike.  My legs are strong enough to make it go, but not my arms.  The car appears in front of me and it is over.  A lovely time, but due to meeting Diana I cannot join them for lunch.  Perhaps this is best as I always find it easier to talk and to meet new people on a bicycle rather than sitting at a table somewhere.

I am grateful.  Grateful for new friends, ones who are kind and make me laugh, grateful for my health, grateful for the snow that brightens the scenery and seems so Christmas-like, grateful for a new memory and a new riding experience.  This next week will be a difficult one one for me as it holds the day I lost the best part of myself, the stroke, the dying, the knowing that I could not save him, that it was time for him to go home and that I would be alone in a way I had not for so very long, but I also know that I will survive, that he wants me to, and that I can have fun and even laugh until my sides hurt knowing he is happy to see me smile as he patiently waits for me.  And I am again grateful for that first bike, the one he gave me when he was worried I was running too much.  Somehow I think he knew, even then, that it would help me find my way.  It has, indeed, been an adventure. 

Bethlehem Century 2017

"For outlandish creatures like us, on our 

way to a heart, a brain, courage, Bethlehem

is not the end of our journey but the beginning -

not home but the place through which we must

pass if ever we are to reach home at last."

Frederick Buechner

So many Bethlehem Centuries through the years.  Some have been ridden in weather so foul that it is a miracle that we finished.  And others, like today, are blessed with temperate weather for the time of year.  With a 30 degree or more temperature variation expected through the day, I dress in light layer after layer, knowing that I will look like a pregnant chipmunk at the end of the day after I have stripped them off, and yet I don't mind.  Perhaps being rather plain has its benefits.  When I ride, I care much more about function and comfort than about style.

The Bethlehem Century is rather special to me despite the fact it is not the most scenic of my routes.  Memories make it special:  Joe Camp swirling in a yellow rain poncho he bought during one of the Challenge Series; the Mad Dog naming of Stormy when we rode the century but the stage was canceled; Steve Rice asking me if the wind ever stops blowing on this course and seeing Santa Claus at one store stop when nobody else that rode did;  three riders bailing midway and being glad I could call my daughter to sag them in as there was no shortcut to the end;  buying gloves with Grasshopper at the third store stop because our fingers were wet and frozen and the blessed gift of warmth they gave; Scott Kuchenbrod, an exceptionally talented and strong rider, his face pale and looking strained at the third store stop leaving me to understand without words that I was not the only one totally exhausted and that I did, indeed, have reason to be.  And how exhausted the holy family must have been reaching Bethlehem.  Did Mary weep at finding there was no room in the inn, her back sore from pregnancy and travel, unable to nest in the way many woman need to do soon before the birth of a child? And that even the stable was but a respite before she truly went home. Ghosts of riding companions and others from my past dance past me the entire ride, elusive yet ever present. I grow tired on the century, plagued by a cold that seems to have taken residence in my lungs, but I have not grown tried yet of the ride, the scenery, the wheels turning, the people met along the way or those that shared the journey.

Until the December my husband passed away, I used to take Christmas cards to mail on this ride.  Originally they were mailed in Bethlehem where they would stamp them with a special stamp.  When that post office closed, the New Washington Post Office took over, but you have to take them INTO the post office.  It really matters  not as I send very few Christmas cards anymore.  I still have the stack I had ready to take when he had his stroke, and I think I need to toss them. Some things left when he did.  But it was the reason I designed this century.  And I am back in my mind, trying to find my way without long stretches of gravel.  Finally successful.  I have changed and would now find gravel more acceptable, but then it had not yet seduced me seeming bumpy and just a bit too difficult to maneuver.  Speed was more important then as well I suppose.  Everything changes, always.

The fields are mostly bare,  harvest completed.  Leaves have dropped from all but the hardiest of the trees except those like the stubborn oaks who hold on as long as possible.  But there is no color there.  Reds and yellows and oranges and russets have faded into shades of brown. Occasionally as the sun warms, the smell of leaf mold wafts through the air. The last bit of green is being seeped from the grass, and I think that it is going to be a long winter.  In the morning, frost covers all the vegetation, and the sun, bright but with no heat, makes it look lovely.  The first pond I pass is beginning to freeze over, a thin layer on the top, not yet encompassing the entire surface.

I think of those who rode this century and how, other than Tour de Mad Dog centuries in the warmer weather, club centuries appear to be a thing of the past.  There are none on the club schedule.  I think of when I first started riding and how one of the reasons was to have company to make riding easier when it was cold and windy and nasty, and how things have come full circle and I will be riding mostly alone until the weather warms.  "How long," I ask myself, "will I continue that?"  And I have no answer. Steve Sexton:  no longer rides centuries.  Mike Kamenish: only rides TMD stages now.  Bill Pustow:  appears to have left century rides behind him.  Dick Rauh:  no longer a century rider.  Grasshopper:  no longer rides centuries.  And on and on, names flitting through my mind.   The few that do still ride are now much faster than these 61 year old legs can ride, particularly in the winter time and mostly are not my companions of old, the ones that know my heart and accept my song however flawed it may be.  

I cry for a bit for my brother who is having health issues that will probably mean he has to retire whether he wants to or not.  I think of how leaving a job you have had for a long time is like cutting off part of yourself even if you want to leave.  And for him, I believe, it is more important than for most.  Other than his work, I do not think he has been very happy in this life.  I think how age robs us despite our best efforts to thwart her.  I cry for my husband, the anniversary of his death looming, and for my mother, her death shortly on the heels of my husband's, and for the others that I will not be able to spend time with this holiday season.  It was on this ride that one woman told me, no too long after his death, that I just needed to get over him.  And there was, perhaps, a time when I didn't realize the sad truth and was as blissful in my ignorance as she:  we go on, we are even happy, but we never truly get over the loss of someone dear that we loved. We love again, life is good, but loss has formed and molded as surely as the womb. I think of my cousin, half joking as I cared for my mother in Hospice, telling me I will have to do this for her, for she has no children.  The fear behind the words squeezes my heart, but she is asking for an assurance I cannot give for none of us knows our destiny or how and when we will die, only that we will do so. And I cry for the riders I have known that no longer ride.  

But it is hard to remain gloomy on such a sunny day.  A nip on the leg from a dog wakes me from my melancholy and I start by being thankful he did not break the skin or pull me off the bike.  I briefly contemplate going to the door of the home to let them know there dog just sampled my calf, but there is also another dog and if they were aggressive on the road, how much more might they be on their own turf, so I sigh and ride on.  I have never had dog issues on this route before.  Many other routes, but not this one.  Dogs.  A perpetual cycling danger and bane if not well cared for and disciplined by their owners.

At the first store, I chat briefly with a hunter.  He tells me he did not get a deer, that he did not even see a deer until he was done, and I giggle and tell him the deer was probably taunting him.  He grins back and then turns once again to bury his face in his cell phone. I do not linger long as I know my pace is lagging and day light is short this time of year.

It is nice when I get to the lunch stop because by modifying the route and leaving from my home, lunch is about 10 miles later into the ride.  For some reason, I would much rather stop and have a bite to eat at 60 miles than at 50 miles.  I find that despite not eating breakfast, I am not hungry; but I know I am tired and need something.  I stop at McDonald's and am again tempted to ride on as the line is huge, but I have made that mistake before and counsel myself to patience. My recent cold has left me with little appetite and each bite is forced. But again I wonder, as I have before, what is it about this restaurant that draws large crowds of people.  It really is no cheaper than any other fast food restaurant anymore.  My taste must just be different.  Every bite tastes as if someone spilled the salt shaker on my food. To each his own I suppose.

I strip off another layer and revel in the sun and in not being cold.  My GPS tells me it is 60 out and I believe it.  Chicken Run and Deputy Pike roll by quickly.  They are very lightly traveled leaving me to my thoughts.  As always, I admire the small bit of hand laid stone wall along the way, and looking at it think of Robert Frost:  "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."  I wonder who laid this small bit and why.  It is not in front of a home, but in front of woodland.  I pass what has been the lunch stop on past rides from the traditional starting place if on Saturdays, and think of how good the food was there on one ride.  Was it really that tasty or did the company and laughter give it spice it might not otherwise have had?

I surprise myself as I end my ride by missing a turn.  I have the choice of back tracking or riding a short distance on a fairly busy state route with little to no shoulder, but I pick the state route.  I should make it in an hour or more before darkness claims the roads despite my pace, but I do not want to take chances as I have only a small light on my bike, the one I put on in late fall as an emergency light and keep on until spring brings longer days.  I think  how glad I am that I chose to ride despite knowing that it would probably set my cold recovery back a few days, and I find I have indeed almost lost my voice again.  But it will return.  This day will not.  I may remember it, but it will never come again.  Tired and with achy knees,  I pull in the drive to home, knowing that this home is also a road on a journey, a  journey that lead through Bethlehem.