C & O and Gap Trail: A Good Time

"I would rather die of 

passion than of boredom."

Van Gogh

I quiver at the thought of my upcoming adventure for I have been asked to ride the C & O Trail and Allegheny Gap Trail by some friends who were asked by people I have not met.  I decide to go for it. Life has been rather routine and boring lately, and while boring is sometimes good and comfortable it is sometimes not healthy; it will be wonderful to break out of the rut indulging my passion:  bicycling. It appears there will be a group of six, two that I know fairly well and three, including the planner and ride captain,  who are unknown to me.  Jeff Carpenter, someone I have not met before, appears to have done the main planning though others have contributed, renting rooms for us to stay in, arranging side trips.  The arrangement is for Amelia and I to drive to Pittsburgh in one car while the other four drive together in a separate vehicle.  From there, we will take a shuttle Jeff arranged through a bicycle shop to Washington D.C. where our exploration will begin the following morning.  We will ride to our cars in Pittsburgh and then drive home. 

The first decision to make, other than tagging along, is which bicycle to take:  the Surly or my mountain bike.  Amelia is taking her mountain bike, but I decide I have ridden my Surly on some pretty significant gravel with no problems and I handle it better than my mountain bike so I will take it.  I depend upon Bob Peters at Clarksville Schwinn to help me with a rack after reading that the Surly I have is a bit difficult to put a rack on due to the disc brakes.  He also helps me to decide which panniers will best suit my needs though I decline his first suggestion due to their diminutive size and am later very glad I did.  Michael Ragan or Mark Phillips, I can't remember which, offer to loan me some panniers, but I heed the advice of  old Polonius, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be."  I think I will use them for more than this journey and I also don't want to worry that I might ruin them, particularly since I don't really know Michael or Mark.  This is followed by the decision on what to take, and I find that I really don't take much that I don't end up using at some point.  Score one for me, the over-packer.  At one point, Michael tells me that this is his weakness as well. 

I do worry about the gearing for any climbs as I know my bicycle will be much heavier than normal and I don't know the route and I also worry about my ability to keep up for I don't know Michael, Mark, or Jeff and how they ride.  I do know that Michael is coming off of a bike accident that involved a broken rib so has not been able to ride as much as he might have liked to prepare.  I hope that I am not a burden, and as it turns out the gearing is fine and keeping up is not an issue.  That being said, it may be at the end of the ride they were saying, "Dear God, we are so glad to get rid of her."  I'll never know.  But on Saturday, May 18th, 2019 I get up very early, drive to Amelia's home as we are taking her car, and the adventure begins.  After a long drive, including getting slightly lost in Pittsburgh and thus avoiding traffic we might otherwise have faced, we arrive at the garage just a few minutes prior to the guys.  The driver is waiting.  All of us grab our bags and our bikes to load for the trip to D.C.  The loading itself is problematic but the conundrum is solved and we are on our way.

I am keen for the adventure to begin and to be free of a gas powered vehicle, but the drive from Pittsburgh to Washington D.C. is not bad and gives all of us a chance to get to know each other a bit.  Jeff White, Jeff Carpenter, Amelia Dauer, Mark Phillips, and I met once previously to discuss the trip, but this is the first time I remember meeting Michael Ragan face to face.  Meeting people is difficult for me as I am not particularly vocal and always feel rather socially awkward, but before the end of the van ride the teasing has started and I begin to relax a bit. They tell a funny tale of a misunderstanding based on Mark's accent and the word hall and I am laughing. 

"I hope," I think, "that they like me or at least do not dislike me."  "I hope," I think,"that I like them or at least do not dislike any of them." I know I have a strong personality and that there are some who don't care for me because of this.  Paul says I can be bossy at times and I know he is right.  But as my mom often told me, "Not everyone is going to like you. Accept it and go on."  In fact, she herself did not care for the strength of my personality and tried, unsuccessfully, to change me into the lady she hoped I would become. By my age, however, most people have come to accept their personalities while still trying to be better people.  We rein ourselves in as best we can, but we cannot change our essence.  Are we more or less forgiving of ourselves with age?  This question haunts me as I have sat with those I loved and lost as they readied for and then moved onto the next plane.  The questions they ask?  The similarities in feelings and regrets.  Often, I think, in emphasizing our differences, our need to be special, we forget our similarities or that others are special as well. 

We arrive at the hotel and there is a large wedding reception taking place.  Guests mill about in fancy dresses.  It emphasizes my slovenliness as I have brought nothing I did not anticipate wearing on the trip, but at least I am not alone. We check in and wait for what seems to be ages prior to snagging an elevator for our ride up to our rooms.  We then meet for dinner and to discuss our morning plans, a trend that will continue throughout the trip.  We decide to leave early for "The Tour de Mark" as Mark has put together a route through the National Mall in D.C. before we head to the trail.  Four of us take a short walk after a rather mediocre dinner and then head to bed.

In the morning, prior to heading out, Michael starts his day with a flat tire.  Trying to insert air into his tire, he instead lets it all out.  But we are not delayed long before we begin.  It will not be the first mechanical we run into during our journey and is easily fixed.  He then finds that the camera he brought is not working.  I am disappointed for him.

I am interested to see how I ride with the panniers as I have always ridden with a carradice or a rear rack bag.  I did a short trial run at home, but it was very short.  Time just sneaked by me while I was engaged in other things.  I am surprised to find that I really think it is easier than either the carradice or the rear rack bag despite weighing so much more, I assume because the load is evenly balanced and has a lower center of gravity.  If I ever do PBP or a 1200 K brevet again, something I find unlikely though possible, I will consider panniers.  My bike is heavy though, so heavy that it is difficult to pick it up off the ground. Standing while riding still requires a bit of adjustment as I grasp for handling familiarity.  But gradually I become comfortable with the set up and how it rides.  With the weight, despite some beastly squeaking, I am glad I have disc brakes.  I remember touring on my road bike with a loaded carradice and how it was difficult to stop on descents.  That being said, I expect there will be little descending on this route and I am correct. Other than the detour, it is essentially a flat ride. 

As we leave, I think how this reminds me of when Steve Rice, Dave King, Bill Pustow, and I would ride into Paris a couple of days before PBP to have lunch and just to look around.  There are many times during the trip when I think of the trips I have done with other friends:  not better, not worse, just different.  I still see Dave at club centuries, but I have not seen Steve or Bill for the longest time. I miss them, but know that our paths have diverged and may or may not join together again in the future. Things change. As Narayana Murthy says, "Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck where you do not belong." I know Jeff is doing the same when he later talks about his travels with Mike "Sparky" Pitt and Jim "Grizzly" Moore.

Despite having seen many of the D.C. monuments and such while visiting my son who lives in Annapolis, I find myself thoroughly enjoying the sights Mark has put together.  At one point, it becomes hysterically amusing when two young, lovely, Chinese women grab Jeff White and begin taking selfies with him, pertly chattering and smiling the entire time, posing one on each side. My amusement fades a bit as I find I am their next victim, (odd how things are sometimes funnier when they happen to other people) but it is all in good fun and I find I am laughing, deeply laughing, for the first time in what seems to be eons.   They then move on to Amelia.

 I can't wipe this smile from my face as Jeff gets teased and the tour continues.  All of us seem to be eagerly anticipating the next few days and what they will bring. There is a graduation going on and we pass an attractive girl wearing a figure hugging white dress that has a triangle missing from the back with the tip reaching up to the middle of her bottom.  This dress shouts "SEX" and I think how my mother would have locked me in my bedroom before she let me out of the house wearing something like this despite my growing up in the age of short shorts and halter tops.  Plus, I never was built like that.  Music is playing and the mood is festive, but it is time to get our on way for we have miles to cover to get to Leesburg, Virginia, our first stop. I try to remember if that is where the 1000K Brevet I did in Virginia started.  I "think" so, but I remain unsure.  My memory does not hold to names of cities and the like, but I could tell you about the excitement in the air as we lined up outside waiting for the event to start, darkness still laying claim to the world.  I could tell you about the sounds and the smells.  But I could not tell you the name of the city.

I find it is beautiful along the canal though the trail is rougher and not as well maintained as I expected.  The water is still but for some reason does not smell.  Green moss covers it in patchily in places and heavily in others and I think how it is like a green, Chantilly lace tablecloth that is no longer serviceable yet somehow retains its beauty.  We pass a lock house, white washed and solitary, alone alongside the canal.    This is the first of many lock houses, though only at the start are they consistently white washed.  Some of the lock houses later in the ride are a beautiful, rich red.  I am told that the stones came from a nearby quarry and that we will pass the quarry, but somehow I miss it.  One lock house is open and the people who stayed there the previous night allow us to look around and tell us briefly about their night there:  no electricity, bed mattresses pulled off rope supports to the bottom floor as it was cooler on that level. 

At one point I see a white crane or egret, lazily standing one legged in the murky waters.  I wonder how one tells the difference between the two and learn that it is in the beak, neck, and legs, but I am not observant enough to remember.  Egrets symbolize strength and patience while cranes represent happiness.  I wish for both strength and happiness on this trip, and my prayer is answered.   I pass turtles drowsily sunning themselves on rocks, occasionally slipping into the water as we pass leaving only a slight ripple in the water to mark their passage.  What looks to be yellow Japanese iris is growing on the banks in spots. Later in the ride it is joined by purple. Everything is green, lusciously and richly green.  The blackberries are in bloom and in places their delicate, tiny white pedals have settled across the path. An elusive floral scent haunts the trail, and I don't know if it is from the blackberries or some other vegetation that is in bloom. Honeysuckle is surprisingly absent. My mind likes the smell, but my allergies don't. I ask if mules pulled the barges remembering a song from elementary school, "I've got a mule and her name is Sal, 15 miles on the Erie canal."  I am told yes. I soon learn to ask the man from New Zealand, Mark, if I have a question about American history.

What would it have been like to be the lock keeper or the lock keeper's wife?  Would you be isolated and alone like the light house keeper and his mate if he was lucky enough to find someone to share his lonesome solitude, or was there more human interaction for the lock keeper and his wife due to the barge traffic?  Did they worry about the children falling into the canal as they ran in the front yard, little legs pumping, breath steaming, laughter trailing like a melody in the breeze behind them, engaged in a serious game of chase, intent on eluding each others touch and becoming "it."  I don't know.  I will never know.  But still I wonder. The only thing that disturbs my day dreaming is the interactions with other riders and the need to keep my eyes on the trail for there are sticks and mud puddles and bumps that could potentially cause a fall or a mechanical.  I am not a mountain biker like Jeff Carpenter and don't have the handling skills of a mountain biker, so I try to be extra cautious.  I find it is wise to leave myself a bit of room and time to react, to pick lines, rather than riding up close and personal as I often do while road biking. One thing I do know is that each of us is responsible for our own front wheel and if I would touch and go down, it would be nobody's fault but my own.  Luckily, this is never an issue.  I remain upright throughout the ride.

One thing that plagues all of us throughout our time on the C & O is the cottonwood.  Despite concentrating on keeping my mouth closed and nose breathing, it sneaks into my wind pipe and fluffs up almost causing me to puke on a couple of occasions.  All of us fight it at times.  But still, it is lovely in places where it has delicately settled on top of the water.   I do find that if I can force myself to breath deeply through my nose and relax my throat while sipping water, the irritation does not last as long and is not as severe. 

We stop to have lunch and the man at the food stand is nice enough to take our trash despite the fact that everyone is expected to take trash with them.  The park even provides bags for this, though they are plastic, one use plastic, the worst kind. Is the cure worse than the disease?  Still, there is remarkably little trash along our way. 

Pedaling off, we reach the falls, and as always not only the sight of water but the sound mesmerizes me. The power of water and wind, the elements, is truly astonishing.  We are lucky that normally it is so gentle with us despite our continuous efforts to tame and make use of it.  Throughout the trail, I remain amazed at the stonework and wonder about the men capable not only of designing the canal, but capable of building it.  Large stones in intricate patterns piled highly and evenly.  Amazing. And the sound of the water:  throughout this adventure there is the occasional sound of running, untamed water, thundering on and over and around rocks and boulders for we often have river on one side and canal on the other.  So unlike the lazy, meandering Ohio River. I think of the irony:  on one side a tame canal with motionless water and directly opposite, a roaring river full of strength and bravado. And of course there is the railroad running endless beside us, persistent and enduring.  I think of Gordon Lightfoot's song, "For they looked in the future and what did they see, they saw an iron road running from the sea to the sea. Bringing the goods to a young growing land all up from the seaports and into their hands."  (Gordon Lightfoot:  Canadian Trilogy)

It seems but a short time before we reach White's Ferry where we need to cross to stay the night.  I am not really tired in a sense, but in another sense I am so there is a relief in nearing our night's destination. We are asked to allow the cars to board first.   We patiently wait though by this time we are all eager to get a shower and to fill our bellies.  I long for a cool drink.  Laughter floats in the air, warm and bright, familiar voices mingle with those that are not yet but will become familiar, a medley, and I briefly close my eyes and enjoy  the chatter as I begin to pair sound with rider, each voice and laugh individual and unique.  Will I come to love them as I have come to love Steve, Bill, and Dave, a love borne of the time spent together, wheels turning, difficulties faced?  It is strange, this caring, because I know their faults as well or better than my own as they have come to know mine, but still I care as if they were family to me.  I suppose in a sense they are.  But this is just a short trip and most of these people do not ride with me regularly.  My reverie is interrupted by the call to get on.  After we board, I brace myself for the start expecting a jolt, but the leaving is the same as the landing will be, smooth as silk.  After landing we ride to the motel that will be our home for the night. The short climb up from the river tests our legs which have grown lazy with the continuous flat.

When we head out the next morning for one of my favorite days, we again cross the ferry.  Today is one of my favorite days, a mix of the path and a detour around the washout at Catoctin Aqueduct.  Early in the ride Jeff has a rear flat. While we all have bicycle pumps in our bags, pump after pump fails to work until Mark produces his.  I find this quite amusing.  Jeff later remembers that his pump has to be changed from Presta to Schrader valves, but at the time that thought did not hit. We all laugh at the pump dilemma and I think of the brevet I rode with Grasshopper where pumps and CO2 inflators failed after I flatted on the rise of a metal bridge. And a lesson is learned.  Before I travel alone, I need to check whatever pump I am taking and ensure that it works.  So many lessons I am learning, lessons that I may take into the future with me for other journeys. 

There is some discussion about which detour to take, but the decision is to go through Virginia and what a decision it is.  Yes, there is climbing, but the views are absolutely spectacular.  Some of the roads are paved and some are gravel, but all are lovely and have very little traffic.  I find myself softly singing to myself as I climb, content with the world. I decide that I will return here, drive to a small town, ride a day or two, load my bike, and move on.  It is just too lovely here.  Once back on the trail, we stop at one point and a few of us soak our feet in the river.  The water is frigid but feels so good on the feet.  I am glad Mark has this idea.  I thought the water too cold for swimming, but Amelia later laments that she did not swim and only soaked her feet.  Early on at Brunswick we stop at a coffee shop that used to be a church. It was not originally our intent to stop at that place, but it was the only source of food open in the town and it turns out to be great though a tad pricey. 

 While at Brunswick, I have my first mechanical issue of the trip. No, it couldn't be something simple like a flat tire.  I have to try to move my bike by the saddle.  The metal support pops out of its holder and nobody seems to be able to put it back.  I think I could ride with it like that, but I suspect it would quickly cause the plastic frame at the back of the saddle to break.  So, since we are already at a bike store, I ask about getting it fixed.  The mechanics struggle because they lack the basic tools they need to do the job, but the man works trying different things until it is fixed.  I hate it that I am holding the group up, but I still think it is the right decision. If they had not been able to fix it, I would have bought and carried another saddle, but I am very sensitive to what saddle I use and get sores with many of them.  My friend, Greg Smith, helped me discover the saddle I currently use at a time when I was near despair at finding a saddle I could use on longer rides.  

This is also the day, I believe, that we stop to visit Harper's Ferry.   Because our bikes are so heavy, the men help Amelia and I get them up the steps.  As we cross the bridge to the town, I notice that along the top of the wire at the side of the bridge, there are padlocks of various sizes and shapes. I ask about it and am told that lovers clasp their locks there together and throw the keys into the water below, thus pledging their undying love for each other.  Evidently, in some places, because of the weight, they have to be removed. I wish I would fall in love again and feel that my heart was locked to another, but  I know it would be extremely difficult for me to give up the lifestyle that I have become accustomed to after my husband's passing.  I think how grateful I am that I had him and how I still miss him so much and suspect I always will. We just are not as flexible when we age as we are during our youth, but I remind myself that this is not a good thing. 

When we reach Harper's Ferry, some of us have ice cream and others a sandwich.  The ice cream is rich and cool, sliding easily down the throat.  Jeff W. laments breaking his vow not to have ice cream as he eats ice cream. How easily we lapse from good intentions, and not just those about food. We then explore a bit before heading back down to the trail.  A man introduces himself as being from Amsterdam and ends up helping me down with my bike before we part wishing each other safe travels.  He tells me he bicycles at home, but not during his visit here. As we pass bridge after bridge during the ride where railroad bridges have been turned into bridges used for pedestrians and bicycles, I wonder why the railroad has resisted doing something similar with the bridge in Louisville. Surely the liability issues would be the same?

Leaving Harpers Ferry, we continue on to Shepherdstown where we stay the night.  The days and cities are beginning to run together, so I hope my fellow riders and readers will forgive me if my remembrances begin to blur.  The hotel has laundry facilities next door so we do laundry.  Michael decides that he does not want to talk to dinner, so goes to an Italian restaurant near our hotel while the rest of walk to town to a pub.  I "think" this is the pub that was supposed  to have "bangers" and "cornish pasties," but every time those with me order, the waiter returns saying they don't  have it.  Meanwhile Michael sends a photo of spaghetti and meat balls that looks delicious.  Amelia laughs as she orders spaghetti after they were out of whatever she ordered before and the joke becomes that the meal is "the best we ever had." I think it is interesting how we begin to have jokes that have no meaning to anyone outside of the group and I think how this has happened on my other travels. Humor, one of the best of human traits. 

We leave Shepherdsville the next morning on our way to Hancock.  Jeff and Mark are excited as they are staying at the C & O Bunkhouse.  The rest of us opt for a motel.  After seeing the bunk house, I can't say I am truly sorry that I did not stay there, particularly as it is the or one of the coldest evenings we have and would have meant adding a sleeping bag to what I am carrying, yet a part of me does wish I were staying.  Jeff W. later tells us of the campfire and the man playing the banjo.  But the thought of having to get up and go to the port a pot at night that is located across the gravel lot is not so appealing.  Despite staying in separate places, we do meet for dinner that evening at a local restaurant.  At the start of the trip it was decided that we would avoid fast food and patronize local eateries. And we manage to do this and to eat as a group other than the one night Michael headed off on his own.


Mark has arranged a side trip to Antietam Battlefield and we arrive there early in the morning, even before the welcome center has opened.  A man is there dressed in civil war attire and riding a horse.  He allows me to pet her and I realize how much I miss having a horse to care for, but alas they are too expensive.  He says he is early but is dressed to address children that are coming there on a field trip from school.  After speaking with us, he rides off and there is something poignant and moving about seeing him silhouetted against the morning sky, flag high and gently rippling in the breeze.  At one point, we pass and read about the "bloody lane" where 300 or so died one day and a shiver runs down my back.  I think of how terrible it must have been for them, their wives, mothers, fathers, sweethearts.  Having suffered so much loss in the past few years, this needless waste of life and love bothers me.  I remember my brother saying that America presently has not been so divided since the Civil War, and I am overwhelmed.  I  yank my thoughts away for I don't know these people well enough to muddle through this morass of disordered thoughts with them.  I don't know them well enough, even those I do ride with more often, to cry as I want to at the futility of it all and our failure as a race, including myself, to understand what is really important. 

I could have stayed and explored longer, but time is burning and there are roads to travel, so we set off from the battlefield for Hancock. When with a group, one has to bend because each of us is an individual with different interests and ideas.  At times the canal path becomes monotonous, but the side trips have offset this and it is beautiful.  We begin to see more wildflowers along our route:  white and purple.  I soak in the greenness and take lots of photos so that I can remember this, the sounds, the sights, the companionship, these people.  At times we chatter and at times we ride alone.  Amelia later points out that this has given us each some alone time, something we both have a need for. As I so often do, I think how strong my husband was to tolerate my need for independence and for alone time and I send a thank you up to heaven and once again ask God to give him a hug from me. 

Prior to arriving at our destination, Mark, Jeff C., and I take a detour to see Ft. Frederick while the others ride onward.  The visitor's center is closed, but the fort itself is open though not the rooms.  I peer through the window to see that each room appears to be furnished.  I wonder about the difference from Kentucky forts which are wood while this forts outer walls are stone, but Mark points out the obvious:  this fort was for the Civil War whereas the Kentucky forts were geared for protection from Native Americans. 

After a good night's sleep at Hancock (at least for some of us;-) we head to Cumberland.  The highlight of the day will be the trip through the Paw Paw Tunnel; however, prior to arriving there, Jeff W. unwittingly runs over a stick and shreds his derailleur and derailleur hanger.  The trail has become two ruts in the road and as he crosses the grassy area, he hits it. Chain tools seem to follow the lead of the pumps.  The first two don't work.  I could not find my chain tool and had not purchased one prior to the trip as others said they were carrying them.  Jeff tries to turn his bicycle into a single speed, but as soon as he takes off the chain drops off.  (He later finds that the frame is slightly bent).  He is very patient as everyone gives him advice and I know he would like to duct tape our mouths, particularly those of us who know so little about bicycle mechanics, but being Jeff he doesn't. We feel badly, but we take off leaving him to walk the approximately 7 miles to the closest town while we ride ahead. I see a truck at the side of the road, a State Forest worker, but he says he can't go on the path to get Jeff and he won't be able to give him a ride when he gets to the intersection. We pass through the Paw Paw Tunnel shortly before town. When we reach the closest town, we have lunch and ask the diner owner if she knows of anyone who could sage Jeff to Cumberland.  She does.  All of us text the information to Jeff happy that we have cell service. 

Amazingly, when we reach Cumberland and the Inn we are staying at, Jeff arrives at exactly the same time, bicycle fixed and ready to go.  Cumberland is a nice little town and the place we stay at is one of my favorites of the trip, perhaps because the owner has chocolate for us in the kitchen.

The next day is when we leave the C & O and make the climb to the Mason Dixon Line and the Continental Divide.  I laugh at how I worried about my gearing.  The climb is long but hardly qualifies as a climb despite going on for twenty miles or so.  I find I am using my big ring easily once I realize it is not going to increase in grade.  The vistas are lovely. We pass through another tunnel.  At one point we stop and there is a man who is also cycling but is taking a survey about our thoughts on our President. When we reach the top, the sky begins to threaten rain, something it has not done this entire week.  Jeff W. says he is going to ride anyway and I join him only to be hit by a deluge along with thunder and lightening.  We pull to a covered shelter with picnic tables to wait it out and find the others just behind us following our lead. Everyone is nice about being caught in the storm.  When we take off, we meet Vince and Beki going the other direction.  They warn us of hail and storms ahead and we warn them of sticks.  I urge moving on quickly, leery of the weather, but we stay and chat quite awhile before moving onward.  We hit no more rain the entire trip.  God has blessed us with nice weather.

When we arrive, we stay at the Hostel Bunkhouse.  We laugh when we ask about dining places and the woman says pizza.  Most of us have had so much pizza on this journey that even I am tired of it.  In one town where we stopped for lunch, there were two restaurants:  both pizzerias. We do end up eating there and have the best homemade chicken potpie I have ever eaten. And I am NOT joking. I manage to cram in a sundae for dessert and think how I will have gained weight on this ride.

All of us will be sleeping in the same room.  Everyone wants a bottom bunk, but Mark is a good sport and says he will take a top bunk.  As it turns out, none of end up on the top bunk because one of the private rooms has not been rented out, but I remain grateful.  Jeff W. is relegated to that room because of his snoring and Mark takes his bunk. I don't sleep but a half hour or so at most that night.  Michael has made friends with a man named Joe, who is also sleeping there and will ride with us a bit the next day.  He takes over the common room which made my insomnia all the more annoying.  Everyone else, however, appears to have slept well and I am glad because I worried that my constant tossing and turning would keep them awake. Mark comes across a journal entry from someone who had ridden the trail the previous year and warns people not to ride the "cow path."  Jeff C. and Michael had intended to do this trip last year, but had canceled with the rain.  This entry justifies their cancellation and brings a smile. 

In the morning, we head out for Connellsville.  As we ride, we discuss the possibility of riding further than originally planned so that our last day will be shorter and we will arrive home earlier, but the motel will not allow us to cancel and some have reservations about riding such a distance.  At this point in the ride, while still enjoying ourselves, most of us if not all are feeling the pull to get home.  Home:  even the word brings thoughts of safety and comfort.  As I ride, I think of the words of Charles Parkhurst, "Home interprets Heaven.  Home is heaven for beginners."  For me, I think, home is home mostly because of the memories.  I hear the voices of the children as they play within the walls and feel the warmth of my husband's embraces.  Their ghosts linger.  I think of  how I should move closer to my daughter to a smaller home, not that mine is use, but how reluctant I am to leave these things despite the fact I know I will carry my memories with me until my mind lets them go.

We stop at Ohiopyle for a bit to use the bathrooms and to see the falls.  It is rather crowded, but lovely.  We cross numerous wooden bridges across the water these days.  During the day, I think about things I have come to learn about the people who are my traveling companions.  I have known Jeff White the longest of any of them though I would never have described us as being close.  Like me, Jeff believes in God and his religion is important to him.  We have a couple of faith based talks during our journey.  Jeff is kind and obviously has restraint or he would have told the lot of us to "bugger off" when he broke his chain and we were making suggestions.  He accepted what happened in good spirits and is not a whiner.  Jeff Carpenter I don't know as nearly as well, but I see a rather wry sense of humor.  He seems to be one of those people who makes a joke and everyone doesn't catch it because he is rather unassuming.  I thank you, Jeff, for putting this trip together.  From that, I also learned that you are a planner, and a very good one.  The GPS course is unfailingly accurate.  Amelia and I have ridden together for a few years, but again I would not describe her as being a close friend.  I wondered how we would do as roommates as usually I get my own room.  We both live alone and are used to privacy.  I learn that she is very thoughtful and goes out of her way to ensure that things run smoothly.  She is kind.  She also has a good sense of humor.  When she has a mishap, she is able to laugh at herself and go on, a quality I admire.  And she is smart. Mark is funny and constantly talking.  He has an interest in history and the area he is passing.  Thank you, Mark, for the side trips that you planned. Mark takes his oldest son on bicycling trips and obviously is committed to his children and spending time with them, something I admire.  Michael is dependable and has interesting stories to tell.  He is determined to complete this ride despite having been injured during the preparation time.  It is hard to spend this much time with people that you don't know well without conflict, but we manage to do just that.

Our last night is at the Melody Lodge.  It is quite a trek from the trail on busy roads, but when we get there a smile crosses my face.  This is obviously a very old motel.  I tease about being disappointed that the beds don't have "Magic Fingers," a machine from my youth where you put in a quarter and the bed would shake.  Still, there is a bed and WI-fi and there are no bugs.  Also, per the signs on the building and the mirror in the bathroom it is protected by a detective agency.  We walk to a restaurant/bar that Michael wants to go with and find we are the only customers.  The cook had not shown up for work and the waitress had never waited tables before.   Jeff C. comments on how so many of the places we have eaten are overwhelmed when a group of six walks in and he is right:  this place is one of them.  After eating, we determine that we will get breakfast from Wal-Mart and eat at the hotel in the morning and take something for our lunch and eat along the trail.  I will miss my coffee, but I buy a coke so as to get some caffeine.  When we awaken, there is no water.  This makes me laugh.  I am laughing to the point where I almost have an accident.  Luckily, Michael had bought a jug of water the evening before, something I guess the others made fun of him for but turned out to be fortuitous.  He is nice and shares and I am able to fill my water bottles knowing that I can't ride over sixty miles, even easy miles, without water.  Without meaning to, Jeff W. has added a wonderful memory to this ride.

While I vowed I would not stop for constant photos this day, I do stop to take a few.  At one point we pass a red waterfall along the trail and then a white one.  The white one looks as if the water is frozen. Mark suggests it is salt.  I stop and cross and taste it but there is no saltiness to it.  Just beyond it, there are some men working on the path.  I stop and ask and find that it is aluminum nitrate and that the red is magnesium nitrate.  He says there is was a coal mine above them and that it gets it colors from the minerals on top and below the vein.  The intensity of the color depends upon the amount of rain.  He says this is the best it has been for three years.  I would like to stop longer, but I need to catch the others and head off.

We stop for our picnic just short of Pittsburg.  There does not appear to be much available in this town along the trail, so we are bemoaning the fact that we are going to need to find a place to fill up bottles when a woman stops and enters the hostel next to the shelter.  She allows us not only to fill up our water bottles but to have an ice cold canned soft drink.  The cold drink is delicious in the heat, like ambrosia, but we need to move on as we want to get  to our cars for the long drive home.  She offers us cupcakes and brownies, but we have already eaten. I think how people like this give me faith:  kindness is still alive.  Alas, Jeff has yet another rear flat.  A rock has punctured his tire.  This time, the pumps work and the fix is quick. Amelia, Jeff C., and I sit in the grass in the shade while he fixes it.  Mark and Michael ride ahead, smelling the barn.

As we near Pittsburg, the trail becomes paved but uglier.  There are a few tiny climbs.  All of us are ready to be done.  It also is more crowded, but it is a holiday week-end.  I think how amazed I have been at the number of people, not just here but all along the trail, who do not wear helmets.  I suppose it is like when seat belts were first introduced. It is then that I have my last mechanical, one that nobody knows about except for Amelia who I tell in the car on the way home.  My bike stops shifting in the front and I am stuck in the small chain ring.  "Could be worse," I think, "it could have happened earlier in the ride or something far worse could have happened."  I can finish.  I've got this.

We finally reach the garage, say our good-byes, and head homewards.  It is nice to arrive home.  I am thankful that I was able to participate in this journey and for new friends that I have made and older friends who my relationship with has deepened along the road.  Here's to future journeys.  Like Van Gogh, I would rather die following my passion than from boredom. May opportunities for shared adventures continue to arise!

TMD STAGE II

"Rest and be thankful."

William Wordsworth 

Yesterday was the second TMD century of the year since mine was canceled. Originally, I had not planned to ride it because I truly prefer rural routes; but because of summer plans I decide I need to in order to get my 10 as quickly as possible.  Also, I realize that it is not all about me and the large turn out tells me that many people either like or don't mind riding on heavily trafficked roads.  It is just a personal thing for me, particularly in the spring when every day has some new present to offer:  a forsythia bush finally blooming, a new trillium in bloom, a different patch of later blooming daffodils.  Still, I am retired and there is time to ride and soak in the spring another day.  I am thankful that God has given me another spring to explore on a bicycle.  

I don't start the ride intending to ride so intensely.  Mike Crawford and I ride an easy pace, talking about summer plans and politics since our ideas are similar.  The sun is not out, but it is not cold.  Still I am glad for wool arm warmers and that I kept my vest on and light long fingered gloves over my riding gloves.   I find myself quite enjoying myself when a group passes and it hits me:  I want to ride and I want to ride hard until my thighs and lungs beg for mercy.  I want to feel my heart beating in my chest, reminding me that I am alive and not so old that I can't move down the road on a bicycle. 

I end up spending the rest of the ride with people I rarely ride with, people who normally are far ahead of me and ride at a faster pace:  Larry, Roger, and Jon.  I pull more than my share and find myself staying mainly in my big ring.  In the last quarter, my shifting becomes rough going from the middle to the big ring and I hope that it is me and not the bike. I rode for over a year without being able to shift reliably into the big ring and made many, many visits to the shop before it was fixed.  My assumption is that the newer, younger workers aren't used to working on triples.  I truly need to learn to do my own bicycle work. 

I don't start off intending to pull everyone after the first store stop, but they attach to my rear wheel and we become a group.  I actually started off with Mike, but poof....he was gone.  Roger said that he asked and he was okay, so I decide not to turn around. It is not really a ride for talking, but it is a ride to make good time.  For some reason, I just feel strong.  It must be the Pilates and Barre I think because normally I ride much more through the winter.  Whatever the reason, we end with a 16 mph average and I am more than satisfied considering the climbs and the slow start to the ride.  Towards the end I lag and tire, and Larry takes over the pull. 

Now, I realize, comes the hard part:  making myself rest the next day.  Experience tells me I will feel fine, even energetic in the morning.   I will want to do more than I should, maybe even go to the Y.  And then it will hit me like a sledge hammer in the late afternoon or early evening.  Even going to bed will be an effort.  "Why," I wonder, "is it so hard to rest after a hard effort?"  I don't know the answer to this question, but I know that if I don't rest, if I do too much in the morning before the hammer drops, recovery time will be extended.  So, for today, I will, as Wordsworth advises, "Rest and be thankful."  Next time, perhaps, I will ride easier, talk more, notice the scenery.  Or perhaps not.

So Spring Begins

"When the first fine spring days come, and the

earth awakes and assumes its garment of verdure,

when the perfumed warmth of the air blows on

our faces and fills our lungs, end even appears to 

penetrate our heart, we feel vague longings for

undefined happiness, a wish to run, to walk at 

random, to inhale the spring."

Guy de Maupassant

 

Finally it is growing warmer and there are bicycles in dire need of being ridden, roads that have missed me, friends who I have not seen over the winter to hug and catch up with.  Pale green is stealthily seeping into the background, leaves poking forth, asking themselves if it is time to emerge.  Daffodils shyly raise their yellow heads, daring the frost filled night to dim their glow.  Frogs drench the air with their courting calls as I ride past wet areas, puddled to excess from all the recent rain.   Squirrels grow restless, scampering across the road with wild abandon.  Oh, how I have longed for this, the warmer days, the burnished, bright blue skies, and the sun, brilliantly beaming, a proud partner  to mother earth. And I am happy.  Thankful to be here for another spring, to feel well, to be on a bicycle.  

During these rides I have been checking out my new navigation tool:  The Wahoo Element.  After much thought and conferring with Greg Smith, a friend I trust who appears to understand my technological challenges, when my Garmin broke I changed to the Wahoo Element.  (Thank you, Greg, for the time and for not making me feel stupid as others have done as I try to master electronics).  It is almost too simple to use.  I keep expecting it to be difficult, for something to pop up that I am doing incorrectly, but it  has not, at least at this point.  The battery life seems to be much better than that of my past Garmins, plus it is easier to use.  For me, the Element was a wise choice. 

That being said, there are a few things I miss from my Garmin, the most significant of which is that I miss seeing road names on my map.  If you have a route programmed in the Element (something very simple to do), when a turn nears it tells you the name of the road you will be turning on, but otherwise not.  I also miss the louder noise the Garmin made alerting me to turns. In wind or when busy talking, this could be an issue, particularly on a brevet.  The map also does not pan out as my Garmin did, but that was not a feature that I really used much.  Lastly, with the Garmin you could get estimated calories on the ride.  The Element has this feature, but it does not appear to work.  I suspect it requires that you buy the heart monitor, but I have not yet contacted support to find out.  It is not important enough to me to buy a heart monitor.  As I tell friends, as long as it is beating, I suppose I am okay.  And there is the feature I think will be valuable but that I have not used that allows me to share the ride with people that I want to share with.  I need to experiment with this feature, but I think it would allow me to have my daughter or a friend come rescue me if riding alone and having a mechanical that I cannot resolve.

On climbs, as always in the spring, I find my heart beating quite strongly and my lungs working overtime to try to fill themselves.  But how glorious it feels to put these demands upon them.   There is a certain satisfaction in sharing this with others because truly nobody is in the best of cycling shape this time of year.  It helps that it is spring, that friends are present, that we laugh and talk and sweat.  At the end of my last ride, as I bathed, I noticed a slender red streak encircling my arm where my arm warmers had not quite met the bottom of my sleeve and I smile, content and sated, but longing for another warm, sunny spring day with my bicycle.  Soon there will be tulips and other flowers as color once again embraces the earth, all waiting for us to appreciate them.  How fortunate we are to be given the gift of yet another spring. 

 

 

 

 

 

Solo Century March 2019

"Behold, my friends, the spring is come;

the earth has gladly received the embraces 

of the sun, and we shall soon see the results 

of their love."

Sitting Bull

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The First TMD Century Stage: 2019

"One thing about the cold weather:

it brings out the statistician in everyone."

Paul Theroux

The first Tour De Mad Dog Century stage of 2019 and I am in terrible shape.  Yes, I have gone to the gym.  I have done Pilates and Barre classes faithfully other than the months a couple of broken toes were healing.  I have squatted and lunged and crunched until my squatters, lungers, and crunchers were sore, but I have not really ridden my bicycle much and I know it will show on a 100 mile ride.  Once, I think with disgust at myself, I have been on my old stationary trainer once this winter. So I actually go back and check to ensure that it was not a dream, that I did receive an e-mail saying the course is changed due to flooding and will be a much flatter course than the course originally scheduled.  I intended to ride anyway, and even with the change I know it will be painful, but I also know this course, one I normally will not ride due to the danger of high traffic volume and the lack of any significant scenery, will be less painful by far. I'm in.

The ride will go from the Outer Loop down to Lincoln's boyhood home and then return along the same route.  I know there will be memories, but I am unprepared for how they haunt me throughout the ride.  Many of my friends from those first years have given up the century rides for shorter, less demanding rides, but here I am.  Newer friends are not returning opting for shorter rides, but I am here.  And I decide it is time to evaluate why I am here and if I truly want to be here. Dave is the only one present today from the original group that rode the series starting 2004.  We were really not friends that first year, at least not in the way we later became friends, a friendship forged through countless miles on countless century and brevet courses.   Still, I doubt we will ride together and I am surprised to find we spend quite a bit of the day together.  Gayle is the only other woman present.  Again I think how last year there were, I don't believe, any new women to finish the tour.  But things lose their popularity, and the numbers definitely seem to grow smaller.  And it is hard.  Riding all these centuries is hard and seems to become harder.

I think about the brevets and how I purposefully did not do the Kentucky 200 this year.  The decision was abetted by a wedding I needed to attend the evening before that kept me out until midnight, but one I perhaps would have made anyway.  I keep hoping my desire to ride the long brevets will return, but just the thought of being that tired makes me tired.  Still, I am glad that I was that tired.  Personally, I don't believe that until you have ridden a 1200 K, you really to know what it means to be truly exhausted. 

I know how to dress for this ride, but I shiver at the thought.  This is one of those days that, while not really cold, will be one where you sweat and are chilly at the same time.  To prevent that, I would have to overdress which would not only mean a slower pace than the snail's pace I anticipate, but greater dehydration.  It is supposed to be in the low forties all day with a mild wind, and so I bite the bullet: thin wool base layer topped with a wool jersey, vest, and very light jacket, booties and my bar mitts, something I left on only because of the cold weather prediction for next week, a decision I am exceedingly grateful for throughout the ride.  Age, it seems, whether mental or physical, has lessened my tolerance for discomfort.  As my friend, Lynn, has told me, it does get harder to be mean to yourself as you age. 

Dave heads off before me, and I leave the parking lot in the middle of the fast group chasing him, for he pulled out on his own.  I hang for a few miles before dropping back knowing that I do not have the endurance to hang there the entire ride but pleased to keep up for as long as I do.  As with running, one thing I am good at is pacing myself, a valuable skill for anyone who does endurance activities. Indeed, it turns out only three riders do, but that happens further down the road.  When I drop, I am ride by myself for a number of miles before being caught by John and a rider I don't know when I stop to adjust the cue sheet.  I giggle to myself as I hear them chatting behind me expressing their gratefulness for the flooding because it caused the route change.  It is good to know that I am not the only wimp in the group.  But then, I think, other than Larry, I probably am the oldest of the group.  As I thought to myself last year, "You old fool.   You're 62 (now almost 63) and can't expect to keep up with 40 to 50 year old men." But today, for the most part, I do. 

While I am by myself, I ride a road where I remember Mike Pitt having a flat 14 or 15 years ago.  I remember how we lazed at the side of the road while he changed it, laughing and joking, easy in our friendship.  I remember the warmth of the sun beating down on us, the greenness of the grass, the sweetness of the air.  I pass the gas station where Mike stole Tim's wheel and hid it. I remember Vickie, camera ready and then stealthily put away, no photo taken, when Tim became incensed and rode off by himself leaving everyone stunned by his unexpected reaction.  I remember another time, all of us sitting at the picnic tables, warm and sweaty in the summer sun, eating sandwiches,  and Mike Kammenish lying on the pavement easing an aching back prior to his spinal surgery.  Across the street is the restaurant we used to eat in where a toy train ran along a shelf at the top of the room near the ceiling, the restaurant where I got my first Mad Dog (removable) tattoo.  "Where," I think,"did the time go?"  "Where did the people go?" Yet still I ride.  "Is there," I think,"something wrong with me that I have not moved on as others do?"  But even on this cold day, a day where I chill and am uncomfortable any time I slow or stop, there is no place else I would rather be or any other activity that I would rather be in engaged in than riding my bike.  Curse or gift?  I don't know.  Perhaps a bit of both. But thank God for the health that allows me to continue to participate.

At the first store stop, Gayle and Dave are waiting and we share the road until Dave needs to make a pit stop.  Gayle thinks it is morbid when I am talking about the divorce of a friend and lamenting that he had not found the woman to live out his days with as I had hoped. My daughter tells me I talk of death too openly, and I can't say I am not afraid of death or that I look forward to death, but I also am not afraid to talk about it and have accepted that it is inevitable.  But she is right and people do find it unsettling. Still, I did not look at my statement as morbid.  I envy those who have life partners and I miss my own. And it is something that I wish for my friends:  loving and being loved. Even now, when I see something Lloyd would have liked, I think how I miss telling him about it or buying it for him.  I miss fixing his favorite dinner for his birthday.  I miss having a life partner.  I miss loving and being loved, and if I have another romantic relationship, I will wish for an enduring one. The words of a favorite song by James Arthur come to mind, "I want to stay with you until we're gray and old......I want to live with you even when we're ghosts."

The man I don't know behind me  has been complaining about his toes.  Sympathizing,  I give him the toe warmers I have stowed in my handlebar bag and he is hesitant but grateful. I ride with John and this fellow until the turn around. They stop but I roll onward.  I decide not to stop at the Subway that is the traditional lunch stop but to ride on until the third stop as it is still early.  At the turnaround, John asked the fellow riding with us our average.  He replies in kilometers, but that is not what John wanted, so I tell him we are at 16 mph.  Not fast, certainly, but not too bad after months without any serious riding.  As stated above, the cold has turned me into a statistician.  Throughout the ride, whenever I notice my discomfort, I calculate the anticipated finish time. 

Dave and I stop to eat at the third store stop.  As we sit there for what seems like forever, I realize I had forgotten how slowly Dave eats.  Never have I seen anyone who enjoys his food as thoroughly as Dave. It is a source of amusement, delight, and frustration. Though I enjoy hearing about the new bicycles he has bought (and have been lusting after the one he is riding), it seems an eternity as the statistician again takes over calculating the additional time it will take to finish.  My thigh muscles are tightening and I am chilling by the time we leave.  As often is the case after a stop, especially a prolonged stop during a colder ride, it seems colder than it did prior to the stop.   I wonder if I have another thirty miles left in my legs and realize I better have as I have no sag wagon.  Dave said the sun was supposed to pop out, but it never does.  Everything is dark and gray and chill, a chill and grayness made worse by the previous taste of spring.

Dave tells me about the brevet, about who rode, about the challenges of the course.  I ask if he is going to ride his new bike at PBP and he says he is not:  he is going to ride his green Kirk.  I ask if he rode with Steve and he says he rode mostly alone.  A part of me wishes I had ridden, but as much of me or more is glad that I didn't, particularly after feeling how tired my legs are after 100 basically flat miles. And then we are pulling into the parking lot, a lot that holds my car that has seat warmers that will be on high all the way home.  Unlike in the warmer months, we only hug briefly and don't hang out long afterwards before heading home.   I grin as I pull out calculating how long it will be before I am submerged in a tub full of hot water.  But I am glad that I rode. I am grateful for the time alone and the memories that surfaced.  I am grateful for the time with Dave.  Life is good and so is bicycling.  And spring will come.