A Day on the Surly

"There are days when being alone is a heady

wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others 

when it is a bitter tonic, and still others 

when it is a poison that makes you 

beat your head against the wall."

Sidonie Colette

Today is one of those days where I am grateful for some time alone on the bike.  After doing some morning chores, I grab the Surly and head out looking for some gravel.  And looking for freedom.  Freedom to decide where I want to go at each intersection, freedom to ride fast or slow, freedom from any demands other than those I choose to place upon myself.  Sometimes I want to ride with others, to press myself, to mirror their pace, to have interesting conversations, but sometimes it is a treasure to be alone rather than a "poison" or "bitter tonic." 

Despite still being morning, the heat and humidity are obvious from the moment I step outside the door, so I actually am surprised to find myself enjoying the ride.  People who train warn about "junk miles" and the harm they can do, but sometimes it seems that "junk miles" fit the bill and leave me with my love of cycling renewed somehow.  There will be other days to train and push myself.  In the words of an old friend, "Do you feel the wind on your face?"  meaning that we can get so wrapped up in our rides with others straining to keep the pace, keeping a conversation, that we miss the scenery and the feeling of freedom that bicycling can bestow. Have you ever been on a ride with a group and passed a road wondering, "Where does that one go?"  By yourself, you can find out.

Despite the heat, the scenery still retains the June greenness.  We were lucky this June.  Unlike the past three Junes where we roasted in the 90's, most of June had cooler temperatures.  It also seems to have been windier than normal, but I am not a meteorologist.  The orange day lilies that appear in early June are still blooming, but I can tell that they are on the verge of leaving for another year.  It makes me rather sad.  Time passes so quickly.  I see the first of the cheerful, orange butterfly weed.  And the Black-eyed Susan continue to bloom making me think of the Laura Nyro song, "Lazy Susan," a song as beautiful as the flower.

I think about my up-coming century on Sunday and worry a bit about the predicted heat and humidity.   I used to blame my struggles with heat and humidity on advancing age, but read an article where it is tied to just not being as fit.  And I have come to believe it. I find I grow a tad lazier with age, less  able to push myself into the pain threshold, more satisfied with an easy, sustainable pace, more concerned with continuing my cycling and companionship than dropping others and/or improving my speed.  Still, I always feel as if it is hard to breath on tough climbs when the humidity is high. In my head or reality?  Does it even matter?


I find only one hard climb today, and that is when I am a tad lost and on Lick Skillet Road.   I remember the name.  I know I have been on the road before.  But was I going this direction or the other?  Where does it come out?  When you are by yourself and hit a hard climb, sometimes it is difficult not to talk yourself into not walking the hill, but today I persevere despite not knowing how long the hill is or how steep it will get.  I know it is for certain that same road when I reach the top of the climb and see a sign about the glaciers that used to be in the area.  I could use some ice and coolness after the climb, but not one glacier is to be seen.    The small store I stopped at last time I passed this way, a store some elderly couple had in their shed, is no longer there.  Why do I remember that of the small selection, I got mustard flavored pretzels? Or perhaps I am not remembering correctly and it was another ride on another day, but I don't think so. Memory is such a weird thing, and mine seems to be more so than many peoples.  Why remember this and not something truly important?

Today what keeps striking my eye are the clouds in the sky.  They just are so beautiful.  Some are flat, but some are fluffy with shades of gray.  Sometimes it seems the fluffy ones have a backdrop of flat, white clouds that bleed into a pale blue. I find I am paying more attention to the clouds than to the rest of the scenery.  They just seem different somehow.  I wish I had brought my real camera and not just my phone, but at least I am able to capture them.  When I get home, it is as I feared:  the phone just did not capture the true beauty.  Perhaps this winter I will try to paint the clouds on paper and I will remember this day, the feel of my legs churning up the hill, muscles straining and pleasantly aching,  the beads of sweat on my face and arms that grow until the weight of gravity cause them to run down my cheeks.  Perhaps this winter I will remember how green and fresh the forest was that borders both sides of the road on the climb.  And perhaps the dream of this will keep me moving forward through the icy, grey, coldness that enfolds the world and has been made colder by COVID.  As I told  people recently, at one point in isolation I was on the verge of speaking only cat. 

I descend down Rooster Hill and work my way over to Old Babe Road.  I smile thinking of Mike Kammenish and how he liked the name of the road as much as I did and as much as others must because you never know if there will be a street sign there or whether someone will have stolen it.  I begin to grow thirsty in the way that you do on hot rides even when you have water left, partly because I have not been drinking enough but partly because I long for something cold to drink, to feel the coolness course down my throat.  And so, with no stores anywhere close, I call it a day ending on paved roads that lead homeward, drunk on the day, appreciative of my freedom.  More than ready for an ice cold drink of water. 

Off to Bagdad

"This is a wonderful day.  I've

never seen this one before."

Maya Angelou

Today was a club 60 mile ride out of Simpsonville.  Unlike the rides earlier this week which bled sunshine and blue skies, today is supposed to be overcast and windy.  There is a fairly strong possibility of getting rained upon depending on which weatherperson you listen to.   But the rest of the week looks problematic weather-wise as well and thus I decide to go and make use of the day.  I have, I think, been wet before, and it will be so much more pleasant with warmer temperatures than it was when it was in the thirties and I had so many miles to travel. 

Most of the people I have been riding with during the week will be there, and I think that I have become quite spoiled.  I thought about Wednesday when they sang to me for my birthday and Amelia brought cookies and Paul bought my lunch afterward and a smile comes to my face.  It is nice to have friends.  During the early days of COVID, I thought that it might come to the point where I only was able to converse in meows.  Don't get me wrong:  I love my cats.  Still they are not the most scintillating of conversationalists.

As mist envelopes my car during the drive to the start, I wonder how many will show.  The parking lot is filled with people, many of whom I have not seen since last summer and a smile lights my heart as well as my face.  Some I am not close to.  Others are wrapped in memories that I hold dear to my heart.  It is hard not to hug some of them, to feel, however momentarily, the beat of a heart besides my own, but the world remains unsafe for physical contact.  I mask and hold some at arms length that want to stray too close.

Mark brings a book of bike trails in New Zealand opening a dream of a bike trip there in the future.  I know it will not happen unless COVID is conquered, that it may not happen then, but how nice it is to dream.  I had not traveled with that group until last year, but I did enjoy the trip and their company and it would be great to see that friendship grow.  And it tells me that they did not end our week long trip thinking they did not want to ask me to accompany them on a trip ever again.  I briefly think of how well planned that trip was by both Jeff and Mark.

Today was the day three of us were to begin our hiking/biking/kayaking trip in Alaska, a different group, a trip that was canceled due to COVID, this years trip.  Briefly during the ride, I think of how it distresses me to lose a summer of active vacationing because I don't know how many I have left to me.  More years are behind me than in front of me, and of those in front of me, who knows how many will hold good health and the ability to bicycle and hike and do other physical things. 

But I sweep the momentary sadness from my brain and settle into riding.  Many women and men my age would not be able to cover these miles on a bicycle and I need to be appreciative of the gifts I have been blessed with.  The group I am riding with starts at a reasonable but not fast pace.   Last year, I would have called it a slow pace, but I know I am not as strong this year, mainly because we have been doing slower rides.  But I am fine with that.  I have come to appreciate the companionship in a way that perhaps I have not before, and I think how grateful I am for the friends that I have made through the years.  I ride for a bit with Bekki and think of  how kind she has been gifting me a couple of books she had finished reading.  And then I ride with others.  I hear Jeff went back to the parking lot after slitting  a side wall and wish I had been there as I  normally carry a folding tire.

Miles pass and the earth is lush and green.  Fields stretch out before us, and at one point we stop to let a tractor pass.  I remember how Thursday I talked with Lynn about how I love this time of year when everything is no longer new but still lush, green, and growing.   Orange tiger lilies border the road in clusters and I remind myself that I need to dig some of them after I dig out the ditch in front of my house.  I am hoping they will help with erosion so that it does not require quite as much maintenance.  I smile to myself thinking of the look on Leticia's face during the Scotland trip when she asked, "You dig ditches?"  as if it were the strangest thing she had ever heard.  Of course, I try to do the chores that I can do and digging ditches is one of those. 

Toward the end of the ride, Amelia digs in and takes off.  Paul follows her and I decide to pursue.  She is so strong.  Dave King is the rabbit.  It takes awhile but he is caught.  My legs ache and my lungs hurt from panting, but it is a good hurt, one I have not been indulging in recently. Earlier in the ride, not long before the store stop, I had caught him with the intent of trying to take the green sign for Bagdad.  I ask him how far it is to the sign and he says he does not think there is a sign on this side of town.  With his new beard, I am unable to read his face to know if he is lying and he is. Dave knows every green sign this side of the Mississippi and has an excellent course memory, something I was not blessed with.  He takes the sign, but I do make him work a bit for it and we both laugh.  How I love the sound of laughter ringing through the air before, during, and after a ride.

It was a wonderful day and a wonderful ride.  After the ride, Tom has a cooler and offers me a water which I gladly accept. The kindness of people.  Never forget the kindness, particularly in the midst of what can seem like a quagmire of hate and division.  As Ms. Angelou notes, I have not seen this day before.  And of course, I will not see it again.  I am glad I made use of it and spent it with people that I like and some that I love making a memory.  Just think: with God's grace, tomorrow will be another. 

Red Barn Ride: June 2020

"True friendship comes when the 

silence between two people

is comfortable."

David Tyson

As I head out on my bike this late morning, I think quite a bit about the ride I put on yesterday.  I was surprised that eight people showed though I know it is a lovely course with little traffic.  It is a long drive to the ride start for my friends from Louisville, but then there was nothing else on the schedule.  And some are close friends, friends whose company I enjoy and who must enjoy mine.  As the bike club re-opens from COVID, I suspect some captains and some riders will not return and others will wait to see how the rides go.  But most of us that ride will continue to ride because riding is about more than the bike. Riding is about the jokes, the surprises, the friendship, the beauty, the trials and tribulations, the triumphs, the sweat and the chills, and so much more. 

Today I have decided to ride to Borden and get a couple of tough climbs in, something I have been avoiding lately.  It does me no good to avoid the climbs because that is the only way to truly build strength.  It would be better to have others to climb with to push my speed a bit as I tend to be lazy, but it is what it is.   I think I am fortunate that the weather today is moderate.  Climbing is so much easier when it is not in the nineties where the heat brings the sweat that drips in the eyes causing them to burn as if they were on fire despite one's headband.  Over the years I have learned to carry an extra bandana for such moments and keep it handy, tucked in my shorts.  People have laughed at the "tumor" on my thigh, but it serves its purpose.  Today, however, I should not need it.  Thinking of this makes me giggle about a sweat band  that I bought at Texas Hell Week, a rubber "gutter" that went around my head.  The guys laughed.  They were right.  Not only did it not stop the sweat from getting in my eyes, it gave me a headache. 

Interestingly, perhaps even Freudian  or because I am lost in my own head, I miss the turn to Bartle's Knob, but this does not save me, it only adds miles as it is a dead end road.  I have never ridden down this way and it is a nice road, secluded with attractive homes.  One lady is out spraying the weeds in the ditch by the road.  I always hate riding by anyone spraying weed killer or pesticides because I suspect it is decidedly unhealthy.  I never know whether to try to hold my breath or breathe shallowly and rapidly to try to keep it from reaching deep in my lungs.  This time I hold my breath.  On the way back, I breath shallowly.  I am halfway up the road before recognizing my mistake and understanding that somehow I am not on the right road, but I ride to where it dead ends with no trespassing signs before turning around. 

Before you know it, I am passing Wiley's Chapel on the way up the first climb:  Bartle's Knob.  The climb is long and for one short moment, my Wahoo tells me the grade is 18 per cent, but since I am not hurrying not really painful.  I should be pushing myself to go faster, but instead just go at my own, slow, steady pace.  I think of how I used this hill and the next to help train for the hills in the Virginia 1000 K a few years ago.  It seems so long ago, and yet not.  Sometimes things are like that. 

I crest the hill and debate how to get to Borden. I know that Daisy Hill Road will take me to Borden, but I am pretty sure that Jackson Road also leads there and is the other hill I am looking for.  I am right.  I "thought" I was right, but I could as easily have been wrong.  When I turn onto Jackson, I tell myself if I am not descending within six miles, I will turn around.  But descending I am, and at quite a clip at one point.  I think yet again to myself that I need to get new brake pads in front. The back are fine, but the front definitely need replacement.  I think about what type of brakes I will get if I get a new bike.  So many of the new bikes have disc brakes.  The guys said it is overkill on a regular road bike, but the people that have them seem to like them.  Oh, well, it will be awhile before a new bike comes my way.  I remain glad I bought titanium.  It  lasts. In fact, the only thing new on it since I bought it in 2011 is chain, cassette, cables, bar tape, and saddle.  Oh, and one shifter, one that Steve Rice helped locate for me on line. Everything else is what came with the bike.  I did buy new wheels this year, but I have not yet put them on. 

That leads me to think of how I feel  like  I upset the bike shop by wanting high spoke count wheels.  I don't think he understands how I ride, that I may be one hundred miles out from my daughter or may run into gravel that I don't want to take the time to go around despite it being a road bike.  That bike has been on some pretty rough roads in its time.  "Why," I ask myself, "do I sometimes feel guilty getting what I want for myself when someone else thinks I should want something different but don't."  I have no answer for this.  Of course, as long as he makes money, it should not matter to the bike shop, but it either does or it is my imagination that it does.

Soon, I am sitting eating a small twist cone that seems pretty large but tastes pretty darned good.  I don't know how it will sit with the big climb up Jackson, but for now it is fine.  The biggest problem on the return is getting across the road.  Cars zoom and those that turn seem not to use turn signals, but finally I am across and ready to climb.  As I pass the elementary school, I giggle to myself remembering the look on the faces of the kids at recess when they realized that I was about to climb that huge hill on my bike a few years ago. 

Halfway up the steepest part of the climb, a bug flies into my open, gasping mouth and rather than being swallowed, it lodges in my throat.  I try to ride through it, but end up stopping and taking a few swigs all the while wondering if I will be able to turn the pedals and start back up or will have to walk. The road is wide enough to allow me to go sideways, much stronger because of the additional protein I just unwittingly downed, and finish the climb.  The grass alongside the road is still green despite the fact that we are starting to need rain.  Daisies, black eyed Susan, and lilies line the road in places. Later on, I see bales of hay lay waiting to be dragged to barns. Last year there was such a shortage of hay due to the drought. 

On the ride home I think about the company yesterday and find myself with a wide grin on my face.  I have blessed with many friends in my lifetime.  How much poorer would my life be without them?  How much richer are experiences when shared?  Sometimes we talk, usually we talk or at least I talk, but sometimes it is enough to ride in companionable silence.  It is nice to have friends like that.  It is nice to have friends that will drive quite a distance just to be with you and to share a course that you put together. I am truly blessed.  They listen at times when I feel they must think, "Will she never shut up?"  They bear with me at times when I have nothing to say but feel the warmth of their company.  Thanks to those that came.  It was a good ride.  And today is a good ride today.  Life is good despite COVID, at least at this point. 

Hardinsburg: The Closing of the Dutch Barn

"Not til June can the grass be said to be

waving in the fields.  When the frogs

dream, and the grass waves, and the

buttercups toss their heads, and the heat

disposes to bathe in the ponds and streams,

then is summer begun."

Henry David Thoreau

The weather is supposed to be perfect, not so hot as it has been, and I decide to head out on a solo century.  Despite lots of foam rolling yesterday and a gentle walk to get blood moving along, my legs still ache from a tough Tabata session a couple days before. But I thoroughly expect them to meet the challenge and to perk up.  Unfortunately, they don't cooperate with my expectations.  Rather they complain and gripe the entire day, particularly on hills, but still I move forward.  In retrospect, this was not particularly wise as I could have easily cut the ride short fairly early in the ride and still gotten a nice sixty miler in, but I plunge onward.  I think that this is the type of day that  used to upset me when I was working because I could not make good use of it by bicycling.  So even a bad day on the bike is, perhaps, a good day.  My legs, however, never do agree with my mind on this particular day.

Later I will ask myself why, and I have no answer other than it seemed too perfect of a day to waste and I have been interested in seeing how I do on a century with COVID and trying to keep store stops minimal.  I have only done one so far, and the weather was much cooler. Prior to heading out, I pack my lunch and some snacks.  I have tried making and freezing a turkey sandwich with cheese on whole wheat.  As there is no mayo or condiment on it, I expect it to be fine, but just in case I have a mix of walnuts, almonds, and raisins as well as peanut butter crackers to fall back on. 

I debate between the Story Century and the Hardinsburg Century, but settle on Hardinsburg despite the additional climbing involved. I have not been climbing enough.  Also,  I have heard that the Dutch Barn, one of my favorite stops, has closed it's doors, but I want to verify that and see, if it is true, if Little Twirl remains open. 

What interests me on this ride are the different fields I pass.  I see wheat that obviously will be ready about the time it normally is ready:  late June or early July.  The green is just starting to hint of gold.  The wind, stronger than I expected, whispers as it dances with the wheat.  Briefly I wonder if they will also use the wheat stalks as straw. They used to, but often they don't bother anymore, plowing it under. Truly, we have become a country used to waste.  It was on this century when a rider from another country showed to ride.  It was the fall of the year and black walnuts were on the ground everywhere.  She was amazed and let me know that in her country people would have been fighting to harvest them to have food put back for the lean times.  That being said, having harvested them, it is a arduous chore. 

The corn is a different matter.  Some of it looks great and is about mid calf to knee high.  Other is barely above the ground.  I don't see may soy beans, and what I do see is just peeking through the soil.  It seems to me that normally they are farther along this time of year, but perhaps my memory is incorrect. I pass barren fields that  normally scream of life this time of year.  I assume from  spring rains yet again interfered with planting. And I see hay, some of it freshly baled and some cut and drying.  I pass a field where the farmer is turning the hay, bottom to top, so the bottom will dry.  There seems to be more hay than last year and I wonder to myself if that has anything to do with the drought last year and the sparsity of hay.  I think of the years Lloyd and I put up straw and hay that I would then sell at the track.  It was hot and sweaty work, but I loved the smell and I loved working with him and the way my body felt at the end of the day, soreness promising new strength.

The Dutch Barn, one of my old favorite lunch stops, looks forlorn as I pass.  At first I think perhaps someone has bought it and re-opened as there are cars in the lot, but it is not.  I go up the street to Little Twirl and find that not only is it open, but it appears to be thriving.  I am not feeling strong at all and decide that while I have avoided stores, I will get a coke to go with my sandwich and an ice cream cone.  I order and wait.  People come and go.  I am the only one in a mask.  Finally I ask if I have gotten lost in the shuffle.  She apologizes and quickly fixes it. 

The sandwich is fine.  Needless to say, with the heat it is no longer frozen.  The turkey is not hot or cold to the touch.  The cheese, provolone, is a bit soft.  But it tastes fine though not as good as the ice cream. 

When I reach the bottom of the steep hill, the one that has brought so many riders to their knees and the one where Paul fell over, my way is blocked  by a road closed sign.  I decide to  ignore it praying that I can get through.   If I can't, today's century will turn into probably 110 miles and two major climbs will be added.  I have no doubt that I CAN do them if I need to, but my legs remind me that I sure don't WANT to.  I ride for a few miles seeing no road construction, but as I reach the very end of the road, I see a back hoe parked across the road and store piled up in front of it.  It appears that  nobody is working so I decide to see if I can get through.  The bridge is torn out, but the creek bed is not so far that I can't walk through.  Feeling smug, I step on rock crossing the creek only to find that when I hit the mud, I sink in to over the top of my shoes.  Luckily, my shoes don't come off, but they and my socks are covered with thick mud. 

I laugh thinking that some people pay for mud baths and here I got mine free.  The lengths people will go to in order to avoid a few hills and extra miles;-)  Wimp.  I remember a time when I was little and my mom had just bought me a new pair of red Keds, the kind that had the white half circle of rubber on the toe.  The guys and I were playing in a mud pile at the gardening center, a place we weren't supposed to be, and I sank in so deeply it pulled my shoes off.  I thought for sure I was in for a beating when I reached home, but my Mom just took me and bought me another pair of shoes.

Up the road a bit, I find a place where a field is across from a creek so there is a road directly to the creek.  I stop and clean up a bit.  The mud has dried around the circle that tightens my Boa closures to where they won't turn until I stand in the water for a minute.  I realize that in some strange sort of way, I am enjoying this difficulty.  These troubles are the things that make rides more memorable.  My favorite riding companions have always been those that just roll with the punches without getting upset or angry at these types of obstacles. Chris Quirey, throwing the thin board across a deep ravine for us to cross over on.  Steve Rice and Steve Meredith wading thigh high waters to get back from Medora and avoid having to retrace miles.  The Wacky Tacky group with Duc Do who arrived at Mammoth Cave to find there no longer was a road where one used to be.  The power cut climb on Tokyo.  I remember these rides partially because of the obstacles.

The first of the orange day lilies are blooming and the Black Eyed Susan flowers are scattered here and there.  The white daisies are still blooming but already wilting in places.  Summer goes so quickly. 

It doesn't cross my mind that this route will allow me to see if the Red Barn store is still open when I near Salem as I have a ride scheduled to go by there on Tuesday, but it does.  The Red Barn is open, but unlike Little Twirl, no customers are there.  As I enter, well masked, I caution Amos that it is me and not to shoot.  That is just how it is when a store stop is also a gun store. You use precautions if you are entering with a mask covering your face.  I don't know what being shot would feel like, but it is one of those feelings that I could live my entire life without finding out and would have no regrets. While my legs definitely would not agree today, I am not at all into pain.

Amos is glad to see me and asks if there are others.  I tell him no, grab a drink, and sit by myself out side before heading  out to finish out the century.  The rest of the way back is on one of my favorite roads.  Best of all, at least for today, most of the climbing is done.  The last major climb is right before the Red Barn.  All that is left are rollers.  My legs are thankful.  I am thankful because for some reason, I am unusually tired.  My house is a welcome sight and I am glad I don't have the drive home to contend with.  And while I am tired, I am glad that I did not waste the day.  The extreme heat and then the cold will arrive soon enough.

The Pandemic Continues: May 2020

"It's hard when you miss people.

But you know that if you miss them, 

that means you are lucky. It means you

had someone special in your life,

someone worth missing."

Nikki Schiefelbein

Memorial Day Week-end.   Traditionally on this week-end, I pack up a picnic and my daughter and I rent a kayak and go on a 9 mile kayaking journey.  Sometimes we use the paddle, sometimes we drift.  We inevitably have fun.  This year, with COVID, it is not to be, but then the weather  may have prevented it anyway.  Each day recently has been peppered by hard, pelting rain and bold streaks of lightening. Dark ominous clouds interspersed with brilliant sunshine blue skies seem to be the norm.  The storms blow up quickly and unexpectedly fueled by the afternoon heat. The forecasters change their prediction overnight and it is hard to know what to do and what not to do.

So on Monday morning, rather than kayaking, I head out on my bike into the sunshine hoping that it lasts long enough to allow me to get a good ride in and return home before the daily pummeling. I don't mind riding in a soft, warm rain, but the rain we have been getting has not been soft and would not be safe to ride in.  I have been caught out in such rains before, and I am think specifically of one time when a tree was blown over in front of me and branches as thick as my thigh blew across the road.   I was afraid, but that fear was tinged with and odd sense of exhilaration.  Still, I am not a thrill seeker and would not chase that feeling.

I decide to do a new loop I developed that goes through Pekin and Salem if I find my legs are not tired from yesterdays ride.  I have found that it takes a few miles to know how your legs will feel, and that if you must ride, they normally give in and quit complaining.  But if you aren't on a brevet or an overnight trip, sometimes it is easier to give in to their complaining and head home.  Today, however, they ease quickly, probably due to yesterday's relaxed pace and the fact that I am not pushing for speed.

I first notice how everything has leafed out climbing Leota Hill.  It is shadowed by the branches overhead. Sunlight laces through the leaves in intricate patterns on the ground.  Right outside the trail head, where the trail crosses the hill, I once again come across hikers, this time two rather than one.  It is a young couple who are doing a through hike.  I think to myself that perhaps this is something I should do again this fall depending on what happens with the virus. For being away overnight for a few days requires a cat sitter, and thus far I have not allowed anyone into my home.  It is my safe place.  Additionally, I have a responsibility to the feline members of my household who, despite their ferocious claws, cannot defend themselves.  I think of how responsibility is a good and bad thing, but on the whole helps to give meaning to life, perhaps because it gives us at least an illusion of being important and needed.  It is a pleasant feeling to be needed, to feel that we can contribute to something other than ourselves.

I think about how I have questioned if I am over-reacting to the virus and depriving myself of fun I might otherwise have.  I miss people.  I miss hugs.  In fact, I recently e-mailed someone I respect with that very question only to be reassured that it is very real and encouraged to remain vigilant for now.  I think of what another friend said earlier, about the virus being patient while people are not.  I concede to their intelligence as both are far smarter than me.  And I suppose it is best to remain safe rather than sorry.  The pleasure of breathing can't be overestimated. I watched as my husband struggled for air and remember how he told me that it was much worse than gasping for air on a tough climb on the bike.

 I also would be loathe to have on my conscience that I passed the disease to someone who became ill.  All I can do is my part, but I can do that. No safety device is one hundred percent, not seat belts, not bike helmets, etc. but I use them.  Yes, I know God forgives us if we only ask for forgiveness, but I also believe he expects us to act with consideration and thoughtfulness for others and not to just blindly blunder ahead in our bullheaded stupidity, convinced of our own wisdom, without trying due to an expectation of forgiveness. In other words, without our making an effort to do better, is it truly forgiveness we are asking or permission to do as we desire.  So I will  proceed as I would if I were diagnosed with cancer.  I will heed the experts in the field rather than others whose background is not in this area just as I would go to an oncologist and not a friend for cancer treatment. 


I crest the hill into brilliant sunshine and think how wonderful it is to have sun despite the sweat that is beginning to drench my body.  I hope that the two water bottles I have on the bike will be enough.  I can't recall passing any churches on this route that might have spigots I could use to refill and I still avoid stores as much as possible.  Now that it is getting hot, I need to reattach my carradice so that I can bring extra water since camel baks hurt my neck.  Mentally I add this to my "to do" list along with washing all my bikes.

The daisies are starting to bloom, but thus far the orange day lilies are not noticeable.  It should be soon.  I know they show themselves in early June, their cheerful faces turning to face the sun head on.  The daisies yet again remind me of the early days of my marriage when I would gather wildflowers for our home.  I think about club rides hopefully re-opening in June and wonder if it will happen, what they will look like, and if I will be comfortable attending them.  I wonder when brevets will re-start.  I doubt Kentucky will have any this year with the spring not working out, but I think I remember seeing that Indiana will still have rides this year.  All this riding alone makes me wonder if I should resume randoneurring.

It is an odd year, with things that change, like my kayaking trip and spending time with my daughter, with being able to hug my daughter in juxtaposition with daisies and orange day lilies and seasons.  I am lucky.  I have people to miss, my daughter, my son, his wife, my granddaughter. I have friends.  I have people who are special to me.  And though this separation seems interminable, this too shall pass.  And when it is finally safe to be around them and to hug them, I will remember to never take hugs for granted again, to notice their warmth, inside and out, and draw it close to my heart where it can reside forever, an eternal springtime to be drawn upon in times of cold and darkness. 

Orleans: May 7, 2000 (Date on photos is wrong)

"While getting lost in all those

little things that seem so important,

don't forget the little things that 

matter..."

Virginia Alison

 I get up to find that the weather is nice, though windy as appears to be the weather's wont this year.  I decide that I will ride a century.  I can't say I am entirely comfortable with this decision.  While I have not let myself completely go to pot, I have definitely put on weight and have shortened the length of my rides.  Part of this was due to concern about having a mechanical and needing to call a sag because I don't want to infect anyone if  I would happen to be ill but asymptomatic, but then I realize my daughter has a truck and my bike and I could be hauled in the back.  It would mean a long wait for rescue, but the chances of needing her seem slim.  And it might mean "the look," the look that asks why her mom can't just be normal like other mothers and drive a car or take up knitting.


 I can't remember ever calling for sag other than when I was bitten by the pit bull.  Even then, I could have limped home if it had been necessary.  I did refuse the ambulance that someone had called though nobody would ever fess up to it. My husband came.  When I am hurt, I always want my husband, at least I did once I gave up wanting my mom. Anyway, if I am hurt that badly by a fall, a bite, being hit by a car, or something else, I'll probably need an ambulance anyway.

I decide on one of my easier centuries.  I have not been to Orleans for quite some time.  I have two century routes there.  I pick the easier of the two.  I  also consider the wind and pick a route where the wind will be at my back most of the return journey. Before I leave, I pack snacks and a sandwich and hope that my water supply holds as I do not intend to stop at any stores along the way.  

I question my choice the first few miles as the route goes through Medora and I have recently visited there, but after passing Medora my doubts melt as I come across a bonanza of late spring flowers.  The river is to my left and the railroad to my right for a number of miles.  Traffic is sparse.  I stop to eat a snack at an old abandoned bridge.

Despite the beauty, I find I wish for some companionship on my journey.  I have spent so much time alone recently.  I suppose that will continue for awhile as I have no notion of returning to going shopping or the gym or a restaurant until I see where this virus goes.  I try to stay away from politics in my blog, so I will only say that I do  not trust our government to care about me or those I love anymore.  

During my ride, I think about what is important to me: God, family, friends, home, stability, love, children, safety, bicycles, pets.  A friend recently let me know he has been ill and I think how I would not know unless he was well enough to let me know.  These people are important to me, they make my life richer and help to give it meaning.  They have made me laugh and cry.  They have accepted me, warts and all, into their lives and hearts.  It is so damned hard to be so isolated from them.  And I pray that each of them knows that they are special to me, that I love them.  For this virus has magnified what is important, truly important.  It reinforces the lesson on what means the most. 

The wind picks up as the day goes on and I begin to despair of my ability to finish out this ride, but still I know I will go on, turning one pedal and then the other because that is what distance cyclists do and that is how goals are accomplished. Distance riding is largely a mental exercise and a exercise of the will and refusal to quit.  The mind tires long before the body has to stop, but the mind is a liar and tells those lies to the body.  It wants you to quit long before you really need to. I think, perhaps, it used to be easier in some ways because I needed these rides to keep up with others, to build my base for brevets, etc.  Now my main reason is that I know how easily it can be taken from me unless I continue to push and not to yield. Most of my friends no longer ride centuries, at least unless it is a tour stage, and there is no Tour de Mad Dog this year. 

Clouds begin to to fill the sky and I find I am chilly with my arm warmers down when they block the sun and too warm when the sun is out.  The words of a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter come to mind, "Sometimes its hard to remember how tough we are to please." I stop for a quick sandwich at a bridge that seems perfect.  One side has a concrete wall that is perfect for sitting.  The other side has a concrete wall that is taller and perfect for leaning a bicycle on. 

The wind is now at my back pushing me home and even Bee Line Road does not slow me down.  Indeed, after the last climb I keep thinking there is another that never appears.  I am cautious on the descent after crossing the highway remembering that there is a rough railroad track at the bottom.  I smile thinking of the time I flew and it caused me to go airborne.  Luckily I landed the bike and all was well.  The feeling was exhilarating.

Soon I am on Quaker Road and home draws near.  Home.  Even the word is a siren song.  My pedal strokes grow stronger rather than weaker as the end nears and I know I don't have to conserve any more strength to be there.  This ride, a  little thing, but also something that matters. 

Canceled Trips: Regret

"Maybe all one can do is hope to

 end up with the right regrets."

Arthur Miller

A nice, albeit windy, day for a ride.  I am tired from a Zwift session yesterday, and look forward to a leisurely, rather flat ride today on a real bike in a real world, even though with Corona it sometimes seems as if I am looking through a store window the way I used to do at Christmas time when my mother would take me to Cincinnati to see the  windows.  How beautiful those windows were, decorated with glistening snow and mechanical whimsical figures, evergreen and holly in deep greens accentuated by red, brilliant and cheerful matching my excitement about the holiday to come.  One year I remember a real deer in the window. A magical world, but one that excluded me.  Look, but no touching allowed.

I think of how last night I turned my calendar to May and saw where, before Corona, I had marked my much anticipated bicycle trip to Wisconsin this month.  A hoped for trip to see my granddaughter. The TMD centuries that I had hoped to ride were marked as well.  My canceled bicycling trip in Alaska that was supposed to happen this summer  also marked, though not in the month of May.  Dreams that are not to happen, at least anytime in the near future.  The words of a Joni  Mitchell song ring through my brain as they have so often lately:  "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got til its gone."

How things have changed. Life is determined to teach me that I must flow with the tide.  I think how grateful I am that I got to ride with Greg Z. and Steve R. last fall.  I recall the delightful lunch that Steve's wife provided for us in the midst of a ride, the laughter, the beauty of the table setting, the comfort that comes from being with friends.  I miss meal sharing.   How glad I am that Amelia and I got our bicycle trip from Inverness to Edinburgh in last summer before reality changed.  A lucky decision, the one I made to retire a bit early, at least as far as travel.  What Corona will ultimately mean for all of us, nobody really yet knows.   Or for how long.  I try to be grateful I am that so far I am okay, physically and financially, at least thus far.  

I decide that I should probably think for a bit about my Mom.  She is gone, but Mother's Day approaches rapidly and I like to take some time to think about her.  I miss my Mom, but I am glad that she does not have to go through this as she did so many things in her lifetime. 

For some reason, I think of one day that she and I were on the swing set in the back yard.  We are taking turns reciting "One, two buckle my shoe."  I remember how much fun it was, just  my mother and me, swinging in the sunshine.  My mom read to me when I was young, but I don't have any other memories of her actually playing with me outdoors other than that day.  Do I not remember or did it not happen?  I know she was busy.  With five children and a busy social life, my mom had little time to sleep and less to  play.  

I think about one time when she and my father were getting ready to go out.  Mom was at her dresser and had on her mink.  She wore Chanel Number 5, elegant and classy. I remember stroking the mink covering her arm and thinking that I must have the prettiest Mom in the world.  

This leads me to wonder about what memories my children will have of me.  I know this Mother's Day will be the first that I remember since having children that I will, in all likelihood, be alone.

The road calls my attention back as a woman with a child in the passenger seat passes me only to brake and turn right in front of me to get to the covered bridge at Medora.  She obviously has no idea that bicycles don't brake as cars do, and I have to apply both brakes quickly and with force.  Shaking my head at her thoughtlessness, I move onward.

At Medora, the store is now officially closed.  Windows are draped in black plastic.  Next to it sits the long defunct ice cream store. But I do find a bait shop that has opened since I last rode through and advertises that they have chips.  I don't enter.  During this time of Corona, I am self-supported with water and a snack.  But it is good to know for the future assuming the store makes it.  My history with the town tells me that it is difficult for any business to survive.

Facing the wind, I head home picking the longer route despite tired legs.  The sun in shining and the next two days don't look promising weather wise.  Since I am not worried about pace, the wind is not a huge issue since I am not actively fighting it to reach a goal pace.  I think of how days are running into each other with appointments being canceled and not kept.  I am still adjusting to the new reality.

I think of my sister-in-law, for the 5th will be the first anniversary of the loss of my brother, Chris. How I miss him.  How hard it will be for her.  As I told her this morning, there is not a day that goes by that I don't miss my husband, but it does get better.  It is no longer accompanied by a pain as sharp as being cut by knife.

Thoughts of my husband bring me back to gratefulness that once, out of the blue, he bought me a bicycle, a gift I wondered what I would do with but have come to love.  Sometimes it seems as if it were part of a plan, as if he knew where I would go with it and the strength, both mental and physical, that it would bestow upon me.  The comfort that I would find there.  How many times during a longer brevet, being 600 kilometers in, I wanted to throw in the towel?  But I learned patience and endurance and that dark moments pass to be replaced by moments made more sweet by that very darkness.

I am home.  I greet the cats, park my bike, get the mail, and begin to prepare a recovery meal.  Counting blessings.  Yes, I had to cancel trips that I was looking forward to and I will always regret that, but at least it is the right kind of regret.