The Simple Things Bicycling Brings

"To find the universal elements enough;

to find the air and the water exhilarating; 

to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening

saunter....to be thrilled by the stars at  night;

to be elated over a bird's  nest or a wildflower 

in spring - these are some of the rewards

of a simple life."

John Burroughs

 

I am looking forward to today's ride.  Jon and I are riding out of Madison toward Dupont to check out a change I made to a century route and then just plan on doing my favorite thing:  wandering.  Each of us has packed a lunch to eat somewhere along the way.  We meet in Madison and are on our way quickly, starting the day with the big climb into and through Clifty Falls from the south entrance heading north. The day is sunny and already pleasant, but chill enough that I have brought a light string backpack, a Hell Week remnant,  to carry my lunch and any clothing I may decide to discard along the way. 

 

 At one point, I see a bunch of daffodils lining the roadside.  They are so bright and beautiful, almost screaming, "It's here.  Spring is here."  I exclaim, "Pretty."  Jon does not understand for he is riding next to me and on his side of the road there is a junky house.  We laugh.  I think briefly how confusing life can be since each of us has our own, unique, different perspective that can be influenced by a small change in circumstances.  No wonder the world has so many problems, particularly if people don't talk.  I have often been accused of being too blunt, and I think, perhaps, people are right:  but speaking out also has its advantages.  Still, I think that often our failure to put thoughts into words combined with the inadequacy of words when we do leads to so much misunderstanding.  But sometimes it is so hard to put thoughts and feelings into words.  And sometimes it is dangerous or injurious leading us into places that perhaps we do not want to go. The words from an Adrienne Rich poem float through my thoughts, "Our words misunderstand us."

 

Before you know it, we are in Dupont and the road I have chosen to replace the previous gravel road included in the route is paved.  Before proceeding and finding this out, however, we sit on a bench outside a closed store and enjoy our lunch in the warm sunshine.  We see a cat, black and rather lanky,  just up the road, lolling in the sun, as appreciative or more so than we are of the suns warmth.  A small boy on a blue bicycle is in a nearby yard along with other children whose laughter and childish chatter floats out a bit across the air.  A grown man calls to a neighbor asking for a bit of help.  The weather has called us all outside honed by winter with a new appreciation for sunshine and warmth. A friend of Jon's that also rides pulls up in a car and chats for a bit. It is with some difficulty that I drag my lazy self off the bench and back onto the bike.

 

The new road is rough, chip and seal pavement, but not the gravel that bothers so many.  Neither of us has ridden it before.  It is not spectacular scenery wise, particularly as it is marred by obvious poverty and neglect along the way, but it serves its purpose. We end up back on my original route in San Jacinto.  I smile inwardly remembering when I first came upon this spot.  There is now a plaque where the school used to stand.  Strangely, I don't remember if the school was still standing when I first cycled past or not.  I do remember puzzling quite frequently over the name.  One does not really expect a town in the middle of conservative Indiana to carry a Hispanic name.  After this ride, I finally look it up and find the town was named after the battle of San Jacinto.  And so, I need puzzle no longer.

That is, however, one of my favorite things about rides:  the puzzling about things.  Was this old building a store?  It looks like it may have been from the construction.  Or a church?  Who lived here? How did they make a living?  Why did this town die?  How do the people that still live here make a living?  Where are the children?  The lack of children or any other people outside on a spring day like today is an indicator of the health of a habitation for it is not a day to be indoors following winter.

After showing Jon a barn nearby that has always intrigued me because of how it is built, using stone to level it on side rather than building on flat ground or using fill dirt, we decide on a route that may or may not have gravel.  Jon knows it did in the past, but it seems, at least at first, to be paved.   I have ridden just a short way up this road before, but never the whole road.  I remember pausing and seeing a deer further up the creek pausing and dipping its head for a drink and thinking how beautiful it was. It sensed my presence somehow, turning its head toward me before bounding away.  I don't remember why, but I turned around that day.  Perhaps fate was saving this road for today. We soon come upon a creek crossing.  We decide to proceed.  Jon rides through.  I carry my bike and walk.  The water reaches my ankles in places.  It is frigidly cold water, but my wool socks are warm enough that it is not an issue once I reach the other side.  Jon pauses to wring out his socks.  I just ride ahead. At the top of the hill, the road becomes gravel, rough gravel.  I start walking but since Jon proceeds by bike, I also begin to pedal until it just becomes too rough and thick for either of us.  I suggest we just walk and enjoy the spectacular scenery.  

As we are walking, a car comes by, slows and stops.  A woman tells us that just up ahead, a cow has given birth.  She tells us, "The blood and everything is hanging out of her butt."  As we round the corner, we see the cow and calf.  The calf has not yet stood and nursed.  The placenta is, indeed, still visible.  The mother  licks the calf who makes an awkward attempt to stand forgetting that he/she has to use front legs as well as back.  On the second attempt, the calf awkwardly stands, teetering a bit but becoming more sure by the second.   Mom  nudges him/her in the direction he/she was already headed, toward the teat.  Umbilical cord still dangling from his/her chest, the calf nurses taking his first meal.  I am in heaven at being treated to such a show.  Another truck comes by, this time with the owner of the cow and calf who says she will tell her husband of the birth.  And we move on.  Immediately past the pasture is paved road though we were both fooled into thinking there might be much more gravel when the truck came from another direction which may have been a long drive or a different road than we were traversing. 

We stop for a snack at a small lake with a dock.  People are fishing across the way.  Frogs are calling, telling the girls that they are pretty and should be the one chosen.  The sun is hot.  The deck is warm.  I could stay here until night falls, but Jon has a chore to run and I have things I should do so after a long break, we move on.  It is hard to get back on the bike and I find I am growing tired.  I wonder if it is related to my second COVID vaccination  last Thursday.  But I am able to continue content with the day, the conversation, the company, and the sights.  Despite my fatigue, I feel satiated with all that has happened, filled to the brim with sunshine and warmth, not just that of the sun and scenery, but of friendship and conversation.  Tonight I will sleep soundly and my dreams will resound with the beauty of this day and I am glad to be alive.  

 

 

Larry's Buckner River Dance Century

 "A daffodil pushing up through the 

dark earth to the spring,

knowing somehow deep in its roots that spring

 and light

and sunshine will come, has more courage and more 

knowledge of the value of life than any human 

being I've

 met."

Madeleine L'Engle

 

I am not sure I am ready for a century as I have been hiking more than riding throughout the winter, but there it is on the newly opened ride schedule, as tempting as the apple in the Garden of Eden.  Larry "Gizmo" Preble has scheduled his "Buckner Riverdance" century, not one of the hardest but not the easiest century.  The weather, while far from ideal, does not look to be too challenging but will be cold enough to ensure that the crowd should be small.  The decision is made.  The bike and necessities such as helmet and shoes are packed the night before to try to leave a bit of extra time for sleeping.  

Of course, since it would be wise to have a good night's sleep prior to riding the (gasp) first outside century of the year, I suffer from insomnia, tossing and turning and last looking at the clock at 1:00 a.m.  This from the woman who always goes to bed early.  Oh, well, when morning does come, I awaken before the alarm to find that I really am not feeling poorly or excessively tired.  And so, I head out to the ride start hoping that I don't regret my decision.

I am the first to arrive at the start and re-check to make sure I have not made a mistake about the time, date, or starting place.  I haven't.  I am just early as I almost invariably am for any planned activity or appointment.  But cars soon begin dragging into the parking lot.  I am surprised to find there are nine of us, most of whom I have not seen in months and months.  I am super-excited when Dave pulls in and sorry to hold him at arms length when he comes to the car for a hug, but I am not fully vaccinated yet and he is not vaccinated at all. It would be the height of  irony to pick the virus up or transmit it to someone I care about when I am so close to being finished.  I have had my first shot and have warned my children to prepare for a bout of excessive hugging.  How I have missed the warmth of hugging.  

There is a new century rider at the ride today:  Wei Zhao.  It is nice to see a female face in the crowd though we really don't spend time talking.  It is just too chilly and I never do well with strangers.  When the ride starts, I ride harder than intended to warm up, and at stops I don't linger due to chilling.  I ride for a short time with Mark who I don't think I have ridden with since last spring.  Then I catch up a bit with Mike Kammenish and Thomas Nance, but of course they pick up the pace and I cannot stay with them.  Mike says he has gotten a gravel bike and talks about how much he has enjoyed the gravel rides put on by Ridenfadden, a bicycle club in Louisville.  I decide I will try a ride or two with them this coming summer, though of course not in the fast group. Jon Wineland and Tom Hurst are also  up there, both strong riders.  Jon rides off but I know it is temporary as we have dinner plans. I appreciate the others moderating their pace a bit to take a few moments to catch up.  Dave King and I ride into the first store together. Larry, of course, is riding at the back as ride captain.  

While riding, Dave and I reminisce about old memories and at one point I think that I have been riding with Dave since 2004.  Very few of the people who rode centuries then still ride them.  I try to think of those that do and come up with a blank other than Mike and Dave. I remember how Mike was one of the first people kind enough to make an effort to talk to me on my first club ride. I keep hoping that the sun will pop out and warm us a bit, but it never does.  The long climbs after lunch do warm me up, but they make me sweat which then causes me to chill again once I am back on flat ground. I become very excited, however, and warm enough upon spotting the first of the daffodils braving the gray and cold to color the world.  Jon says there were some earlier, but I missed them.  How beautiful they are!  How they brighten the day.  What promise they hold, springing up each year full of sunshine, breaking winter's hold on the earth and setting her free. 

When we near the end, Jon makes a sudden turn around and heads back in the direction we came from.  I ride ahead knowing that he will catch me and having a pretty good idea what he is doing because I am getting to know him.  The next thing I know he has caught me and has a large, shovel sized tool strapped to the back of his bike on the rack he always has attached.  He says it is a edging tool.  I am pretty sure I have one out in the shed that was my husbands unless I donated it, but I did not know what it was.  Dave is surprised.  I am not.  On an earlier ride this year, Jon found and polished and gave me a pair of wire cutters  he found lying along the side of the road.  There are treasures, including daffodils, for those with the eyes to see them. By then Dave has caught back up with us and the three of us ride to the finish.  Dave makes a change to the route that allows us to miss a few traffic filled roads and we all agree that is a wonderful change and that it has been a delightful day and a good course.  

 

I am pleased and thankful for how my body serves me today.  I am tired, but not exhausted.  The last ten miles are a bit of a push, but I also know that, if necessary, I could ride a hundred more.  Not too bad for a woman who shortly begins her eligibility for Medicare.  Hopefully like the daffodils I have many years left to roam the roads by bicycle, to watch spring take hold, and to enjoy friendships that the miles have forged.  The future is dark in that I cannot see or predict it, but I hope I continue to push stalwartly upward toward light. Hopefully others had a slightly brighter day because I was along on the ride and they enjoyed my companionship and chatter as much as I did theirs. It takes courage to continue, to fight the years and time, just as the daffodil needs courage to continue to bloom each spring, to struggle and push upward toward light, and to make promises.  I suppose one day it will take courage to quit, to recognize an ending. And I hope that I realize that the ending is also a journey toward light.  Until then, ride on.  Keep riding on.  Keep blooming. 

Spring Approaches

 Well the road rolls out like a welcome mat,

to a better place than the one we're at...."

Chris Stapleton

 

This song caught me with the first line......how true it feels on a bicycle when the last of the winter days speak of spring with a kiss of unseasonable warmth and the road is so welcoming, teasing of adventure.  And today is such a day.  How welcome it is to be on a bike.  

The day begins shrouded in grayness that  could speak of winter, but it lacks that cold shrillness that often haunts winter days, perhaps because the wind is mild:  enough that you know it is there, but not strong enough to leave you cursing and despairing.  Additionally,  I know that the skies are predicted to clear before growing heavy with clouds again and issuing in rain, and the thought of sun is joyful.  From what the weathermen say, lots of rain.  Three of us roll out of Bicentennial Park in  Madison toward Pleasant.  Almost immediately, Ken notices a brake rub.  He stops and it is a quick and easy fix, but bicycle problems will haunt him throughout the day afterward ushered in with a flat.

Rural Indiana has had snow this year, something we were spared the past couple of years, and cinders are thick on the road.  If you have ridden much in cinders, flats are expected, not a surprise.  The surprise of the day is that Ken not only  has but one flat, but also is the only one who has a flat.  When we first take off, I attempt to use my glove to clear the cinders after riding through a particularly heavy spot, but the roads are wet from the prior evenings rain and it is too cold to have water soaked gloves so I just accept my fate.  If I flat, I flat and will fix it.  There are worse things.  The other curse of cinders is that they easily can cause a wheel skid that results in a loss of control and a crash.  Between luck and easing down descents that we would otherwise let loose on, all of us avoid this unpleasantness.  

 

When Ken has his flat, he is never again able to get his back wheel exactly right and there is an audible sound  when the tire turns.  He has tried loosening the brakes, re-seating the tire, and other tricks to no avail.   Yet he never complains despite the fact that it must take lots of additional effort, and while this is not the hilliest ride I have ever completed, it is not the flattest either.   As I later tell him, I would have milked it for all it is worth.  I don't know him well, but it says a lot about his character that he does not. 

I shed my jacket after the first climb and then chill as the sweat dries, but once the wind has dried my wool jersey and base layer, I am comfortable.  I smile inwardly knowing that I have hot soup on my bike for my lunch.  Hiking with a thermos of coffee this winter has taught me how fortifying a hot beverage can be when there is chill in the air.  The trick was getting my thermos to fit my bottle cage.  I accomplished this by taping newspaper around the outside.  The other trick was getting the vegetables inside the narrow stem.  This morning while preparing I decided that next time I will bring a soup that does not present this issue.  The guys tease me about the soup until after we stop in Pleasant for lunch.  It is a friendly teasing, that kind that has no malice or meanness in it, so it makes me smile.  For just a moment I think about life when I used to eat inside restaurants or stores.  It seems a lifetime ago.  

The climbing feels wonderful though I obviously am not cycling fit.  The skies clear and we have some time with a wonderfully blue sky.  Again and again I delight at how magnificient it feels to be outside and on a bicycle, particularly on the lovely roads that Jon has chosen and with people.  How I have missed people in my isolation.  Often there are creeks, gurgling and shining, at the side of the road.  At one point I wonder what it will look like here when the spring wildflowers arrive.  It must be soon. My early flowering daffodils are pressing up through the ground at home, promising me beauty and color. 

 

The ride seems to end all too quickly, but 45 miles is really the perfect distance for my current fitness level. I tell Jon I want to ride Telegraph Hill, just not today.  I think he is, perhaps, disappointed, but my legs are feeling the climbs we have done.  I end knowing I could have ridden farther, feeling as if I got a workout without feeling absolutely exhausted.  Ken split off for home prior to the last descent, so the ride ends just Jon and I and after putting up our bikes, we walk up to Main Street to find drinks:  coffee for him and hot chocolate for me.   But  the road will call again soon, shouting its welcome.  Of that I have no  doubt.

Hiking in January

"Me thinks that the moment my 

legs begin to move, my thoughts

begin to flow."

Henry David Thoreau

 

Today as I look outside, my window is a doorway to a wonderland.  Snow is dancing downward, condemned by gravity toward the ground as are we all, muting the sound of traffic, delighting children, creating a world different than that which existed a mere hour before.  How is that snow outside makes the world inside the house seem warmer?  Makes blankets seem thicker and more snuggly?  Speaks of hot chocolate or a cup of tea and how each warms the soul as well as the body?  Despite the snow, the world outside seems cozier than it did yesterday when the sun would not shine and the damp from the rain hazed the earth in varying shadows void of color. Tomorrow I will be as a child, eager to get outside to see the changes that have been wrought, but for today, I am content to stay inside, a spectator rather than a participant.

Yesterday there was a decision to be made.  I knew I was going outside, that I would be by myself, but did I want to bike or hike?  I have been doing a bit of both recently ramping up mileage.  A week ago I did the Millennium Trail at Bernheim,   13.75 miles and Jon and I hiked approximately 15 miles at Versailles a few days afterward.  

I have grown to love my hikes, mostly solitary excursions into the forest.  The sound of leaves rustling as I walk.  The pumping of my heart as I struggle up a steep hill, much as it pounds during a hard climb while cycling. The isolation that somehow reminds me of lonely nights riding alone or with a small, intimate group on brevets.   Perhaps because of knowing, deep down, that it isn't real, that the outside world  does exist and is merely suspended, it is special.  It seems momentous somehow, something to be cherished, this freedom. Hiking is something that I won't do in the summer, or rarely, so I head to the Elk Creek Trail Head.  Fortunately for me, I live quite near four of the Knobstone Trail trailheads. 

I am concerned about how muddy the parking might be, so I head for the Elk Creek trail head which is paved.  Putting on my hiking boots and grabbing my sticks, I  head out.  There is a thin layer of water on top of the grass and leaves at the first, but it has not yet caused the ground to grow muddy they way it does sometimes,  mud that makes each foot seem to weigh 10 pounds.  Again I am reminded of brevets and how heavy each pedal stroke can seem near the end of a 1200 K.  Instead, the wet  cleans the mud off my boots from my prior hike.  I think of a particular tree when I was a child that grew along the main avenue.  It was a huge tree.  When I would hug it, my arms would not even go half way around it.  I remember thinking how old it must be, that it was probably there when the Pilgrims arrived on the Mayflower.  There are no trees that old on this hike.   Our greed, justified by alleged good foresting practice, has robbed us and our offspring of that.  And for a moment, I grieve. 

Nobody is here and I encounter nobody during my short five miles.  I worry about creek crossings, but I am able to maneuver over all but one.  Shifting a few stones into the waterway makes a path across to the other side, a path that will shift and disappear with the next strong rain.  All around me is blessed silence other than those times when I choose to fill the air with my song, a gift I received from God and give back to him.  Oh, I am not a good singer.  I was not blessed with a voice that people would pay to hear, but God filled my heart with song.  I remember singing as I hiked as a child, even then often alone.  

 

Our home was not filled with song as some are, but my brother, Chris, shared his music with me despite our age difference:  Beatles, Simon and  Garfunkle, Bob Dylan, and West Side Story to mention a few.  Looking back, I think he shared a part of himself with  me that he dared not share with the outside world because it interfered with his image of what it meant to be a man.  Deep down, are we all romantics?  I remember my husband confessing to me how much he loved it in the westerns he read when the guy gets the girl. 

 

 

 

And that is the thing about hiking or biking.  It was the thing about running back when I used to run and continues with walking.  Thoreau was right.  When my legs are working, particularly if I am alone, the thoughts are flowing. Sometimes they are silly thoughts, sometimes memories, sometimes problem solving, but they are thoughts I would not have if I were sitting on the couch.   Not all of them are pleasant thoughts.  Some memories hurt and cause repentance.  Some uplift.  Some cause a desire for a new day so that something can being.  But each is a part of me.  And I cannot, at the end of the day, regret that except to wish that I were a better person, should be a better person with all I have been blessed with.  But, as Popeye wisely noted, "I yam what I yam." 

New Years Eve 2020: Not Bicycling Related (random thoughts from a slightly inebriated brain;-)

"In the New Year, never forget to

thank your past years because they 

enabled you to reach today!

Without the stairs of the past you 

cannot arrive at the future."

Mehmet Murat Ildan

Another New Year, and I find that age has changed me.  Yes, I still look forward and anticipate  new and delightful experiences, but I pay tribute to the past and those that I held dear but who are no longer here with me.  I pay tribute to my failures and my successes. I struggle to understand the role that each played in my becoming who I am today. Sometimes I think that given the state of the world today, 1 lost in every 1,000 here in America so far and over a million worldwide, that it may be good they are not here to see this and for me to worry about; but I am glad to be here so perhaps, probably even, they would be too.  Regardless, many of the people who molded and who shaped me, the animals who comforted and taught me, are gone. Yet I am grateful to them.  They not only did but continue to influence me, to chastise me, to comfort me, to guide me. 

 

I miss my husband.  People think it odd when I try to explain that one of the things that I miss about him is the smell of him.  For months after he passed I would pick up his hat and cover my nose with it while inhaling as deeply as possible, feeling my body relax and luxuriate in that beloved scent.  I have never had an overly sensitive nose and before him, I don't know that I realized that each of us has a unique aroma.  And maybe we don't.  But he did.  And to me, combined with his arms, it spoke of home. I miss his touch and the shivers it would send up and down my spine.  I miss the sound of his footsteps, unique in all the world. I miss his laughter and the funny things he would say.  I miss how he cared if someone hurt me or I was upset about something, his advice that I often didn't listen to but still needed to hear.  My world is emptier without him but paradoxically richer because of him. My future would undoubtedly have been quite different had he not been in my past.

I miss my mother: not so much the tired shadow that gradually replaced the mother I knew though she too had her role, but the mother of my youth, the one who held me and rocked me, the one that took me to Cincinnati shopping and to have an ice cream clown.  I remember falling one year as I ran down the street, skinning my knee.  It was a rather nasty fall taking lots of skin with it and blood poured.  But I did not cry until I reached home and my mother's arms because she would care and somehow, her very caring so much, would make it better.  Such a strong woman, certainly not a perfect woman, molded and shackled by a childhood of deprivation and hardship and unkindness, condemned to growing blindness as she aged,  but a strong woman.  Sometimes I feel shame in my own weaknesses, particularly in the light of comparison.  But I miss her.  I miss her wry humor.  I miss her hands.  My mother had the most beautiful hands, capable of being so gentle, a trait she did not pass on.  And I owe what strength I do have, if indeed I have any, partially to her and the example she set.

I miss my big brother.  In my mind's eye, I have a picture of him near the time when I realized he really was going to die, that there was no cure and God was not going to perform a miracle but was calling him home.  I worry that I will lose the image as my mind and memory weaken with age.  Verizon would not help me, but my son helped me find a program to preserve the sound of his voice.  During my lunch on a recent solitary 13 mile hike on the Knobstone, I listened to it remembering how he loved the woods while growing up.  I remember snuggling in his arms while we watched "Bonanza" on television or listened to Bob Dylan, "West Side Story," Simon and Garfunkel, and the Beatles on his record player.  I remember how he could pick on me, but let anyone else pick on me and they would answer to him.  I loved Chris.  I will always love Chris.  And I miss him.  But I am who I am partially due to his being in my life.

I miss Becky Moore, her life cut short despite her beauty and her vivaciousness.  I was, perhaps, one of the few that knew the difficulties that she smiled through, that knew that her searching probably played a role in her demise.  Despite that and being a friend, I can't say I was never jealous.  Being a plain Jane, it was not easy having a friend  who had that certain something that drew every man within her radius toward the flame.  But I loved her and the friendship that bloomed between us.   Despite the years, I keep a gift she made me all those years ago and hold it close.  It makes me smile.   And I learned from her, from her life and from her death. There have been times when I have tried to live my life more fruitfully since hers was taken from her.

I miss my pets.  I miss Kitti and Pupik and Pooh and all the rest of them.  I hope they forgive me for the times I failed them, when my patience grew short or my knowledge was limited or flawed.  So many pets throughout the years for I love animals much as I love small children.  Unlike dealing with adults, with children and animals you don't have to wonder so much what they are feeling, if they have some hidden agenda.  What you see is generally pretty much what you get. Somewhere along the line, children grow and learn subterfuge, but that comes later.  Animals never or rarely do.  What you see if what you get. Kindness lights their day.  A harsh word breaks their hearts. Always giving more than they take. Yet each had an effect.  Each played a role in making me who I am today.  And I am grateful for their love and guidance.

And this leads me to my biggest blessings: my children and grandchildren.  I had hoped my daughter would find someone special, fall in love, marry, and have children.  I still hope she finds someone, but she is reaching the age where there would most likely be no children.  This does not seem important to her and I accept that, but I can't help but to think what a wonderful mother she would have been. My daughter has given me far more than she has taken, and I am thankful.  She also played a huge role in shaping the person that is now me.

 

 

 My son and his wife gave me two, beautiful granddaughters and in them I see my youth and my children's youth and their own precious youth.  Since COVID, I have not had much contact.  As something I read by someone I can't remember pointed out, in this new world NOT seeing family and friends has become the true act of love, but we did have a Christmas visit, the first physical contact I have had with them since last January.  Ivy and I had a dance party, the other adults looking on as if we were quite unhinged as we danced and smiled together, sharing a moment, a moment it is unlikely that she will remember due to her age and the insignificance of the dance,  but quite likely that I will.  It always has interested me how moments that may be of primary importance to one person are not recalled at all by the other, as if their world was not the same one and if that moment in time was not shared. I briefly held my newborn granddaughter, searching her face for a hint of who she is to become, looking for my husband in her, knowing that I would love this tiny, little person no matter who or what she is.

I have been blessed with all of these wonderful people and animals now gone, waiting for me when my time arrives. What a joyous reunion it will be. I am blessed with new pets who comfort me in times of sadness and make me laugh.  I am blessed with friends, old and new,  who accept me for who I am and who like to spend time with me, who accept my bad traits and cherish my good traits.  Friends who I can call upon to join me on a hike, or a walk, or a bike ride.

I am blessed with good health.  I am blessed with enough income to meet my needs, to keep a roof over my head and food on the table, a car in the driveway, and a bike in the garage. (Okay, kitchen or basement.  I don't have a garage;-)  I am blessed with eyes that while dimming, are not yet giving way to blindness through macular degeneration.  I am blessed with a mind that may be a bit foggier than it used to be, but still functions well enough to allow me to go about my daily business. And I am blessed with people in my past, now gone, that I loved and who loved me, who molded and shaped me, giving me the strength to move forward and to possibly love again.  Hopefully they have forgiven me for the times I let them down, when I did not cherish or use the gifts that they gave me as they should have been used.  I do realize that they gave me "the stairs" to climb to where I am today, and while it is not perfect, it is okay.  So long as I hold on to my memory, they are here with me, in the wind as it whispers and kisses my cheek, in the road as it changes while my bicycle wheels lead me forward, in my mind as I recall them and smile rather than cry, as a song bursts forth from my heart into the open air.  To them and to those that are still with me, who remain important to me, I say thank you.  And since I cannot do more, that must be enough.  

I wish you all a Happy New Year.  I hope that you have people that you love and people who love you.   I wish you an appreciation of those who have gone but who played a role in your development. I wish  you the ability to be appreciative of what they gave you, of the role they played in your life, in making you who you are today.  I hope you had the strength and wisdom to tell them what they meant to you while you could.  I wish you the strength to continue to hold strong and stay safe until the worst of the pandemic is over, and that you have the wisdom to dwell upon the things it has taught you about what and who is most important to you and to your world.  Happy 2021!   As Dicken's Tiny Tim wisely said, "God bless us every one."

 

 

A December Century

"In the sweetness of friendship let

there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things, the heart 

finds its morning and is refreshed."

Khalil Gibran

 

 When Jon asks if I am interested in riding a century with him on Friday, I am hesitant to answer.  It has been quite a while since I have ridden a longer ride, no less a century.  He "says" the course is an easy one, but easy to one person may be hard to another.  It reminds me of people would call to ask about one of my rides and ask if there are hills.  I quickly learned that what was a mountain to one rider was only a bump in the road to another.  And Jon is a stronger rider than I am. Still, he has ridden with me numerous times before and should know my pace. Will it be an imposition if it is a choice?  As usual, I don't want to be a bother.

 

  I ask myself if he truly wants to ride as slowly as I am likely to go.   I ask myself if I will be able to finish without feeling as if I want to die.  I ask myself if I will be able to get in before dark as if I have not ridden miles and miles in the dark.  I no longer ask myself if it is the smart thing to do as the answer to that question really doesn't seem to matter;-) I chide myself for getting so out of shape and think again how I miss the encouragement of the Big Dogs. When I answer I tell him yes, but that he can back out if he is not okay with going slowly and that I intend to have a working light on my bike for "just in case."  Things happen.  People bonk.  Mechanicals eat time.  Snack stops need to be made.  You just can't ride one hundred miles easily without eating and while I have done centuries eating on the bike, I prefer to have a bit of a rest. 

 

One lesson you learn from riding brevets is how to inhale food or gulp it down with minimal chewing.  As a friend told me about brevets, if you aren't eating, riding, or sleeping you are doing it wrong.  But in all truthfulness, I have always gobbled down my food.  With four siblings, it became a right of survival. And it always seemed there were more interesting things to do than to sit and eat. While we always sat at the dinner table for the evening meal unless mom and dad were going out, I don't really remember that there was much conversation.  

 

I do remember that Mom would, for some reason, fix only one small box of spinach, one of our favorite foods courtesy of Popeye the sailor man, and you never got to eat as much of it as you would have liked.  And so you ate fast, in hopes of snagging seconds. As I write this, a Popeye ditty that my husband learned in the army and used to sing comes to mind and causes a smile to flit across my face.  I do miss him.  He was not silly often, but when he was oh how it made me laugh.  I then remember my brother, Chris, now gone.  When I would ask him to pass a bowl of food, he would always ask me, "High or low?  Fast or slow?"  How I miss them, these people who loved me and that I loved.

Anyway, Jon shares the starting place and does not take the out I provided him with, so at 8:00 a.m. my bike and I are at the start in Madison, Indiana.  The morning is chilly, but there is sunshine and it is really not cold for the time of year.   Jon has a cue sheet. He is one of the few people I know that rides with no GPS.  I am riding blind. But Jon has no light, so perhaps we are equal.  He sent me the cue sheet, but I found myself unable to make the connections on the map to program the route.  It reminds me of when I first started riding with groups, prior to anyone having a GPS, and how dependent we were on sheets of paper.  I have read that GPS units actually are not good for brain function (mine never functioned that well anyway), but I look at them as being safer.  Two accidents I had while cycling were caused by one person turning while the other was not or vice versa.  Regardless, like cell phones, they have their good and bad and they are not going away. Had I been able to program the route in, I would have been using mine.  

 

 

The miles pass quickly and we are at or close to 40 miles when we make our first stop.  Jon suggests stopping besides a lake.  It is pretty, the water shimmering in the sunlight, the wind playfully nipping the surface, and the buildings around it are decorated for Christmas.  I would love to see it at night, lit up. I worry a bit about how the people who own the land will feel if they see us here, on their property, resting, but as Jon points out they would probably just ask us to move on down the road.  Jon is surprised when I say I am going to have my lunch sandwich, but I am hungry and know I need the fuel for the ride.  I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.  Instead I had an apple and some low sodium V-8 juice.....and coffee......lots and lots of coffee.  Jon, as he often does, brought lasagna.  Despite the early hour, he decides to join me in making the stop lunch and eats at least part of it intending to finish it at a stop down the road. 

Most of the fields we pass are now brown, barren, and littered with stubble, though we do run across a few farmers still harvesting.  Most of the farmers in this area have other jobs.  Their farms are not large enough to support themselves and their families on and so they work the land when they can, often using their vacation time and hoping that the weather cooperates. I think how there is something special in people working to provide for those that they love and even more special when they give to those that they don't. There is beauty here along the route if a different kind of beauty than is to be found in the other seasons, starker and more demanding, like the faces of old people that are etched with wisdom and experience lacking the smooth, soft innocence of youth.   Beauty surrounds us in different forms and sizes and ways.  Perhaps the realization that life goes on and is renewed, with or without us, is part of the plan.  Acceptance.

 

There is an allure in the developing friendship that Jon and I share as we travel these roads.  We are beginning to reach the point in our friendship where there are shared jokes based on history. How I love laughter, the way it makes me feel, the smile it brings to my face, the way it feeds my soul. We are getting to know each others likes and dislikes, the ways we are similar and the ways we are different.   There is beauty in our love of the bike and the freedom it brings, the hum of pedals and chains spinning.  Despite COVID, I have much to be grateful for, this new and still fragile friendship being of those things,  and finally, the Calvary appears to be one the way with a vaccine how being approved though not yet available. I still have hopes of being able to cash in on the cycling trip I won to Scotland over the winter.

 

  

As we ride, I notice a shoe in the road and joke that Cinderella must have left it behind.  And then there is another, different shoe down the road.  Jon spots its mate.  And then a sock.  Jon teases that if we ride long enough we will begin to find underwear and tells me the story of riding this course with its designers, Dave Fleming, and coming across a man clad ONLY in boots, no clothing, walking between his barn and his house.  Not long after he points out the house, we come across a group working outside and I notice that the one man has his underwear showing as he bends over doing whatever it is he is doing:  a lot of his underwear.  If my eyes were better, I could have told you the brand for it is written in large letters across the waist band. I crack up and ask Jon if he saw the man. He did not but we both giggle over my sighting.  Jon later says that if we had ridden a double century, we surely would  have come across someone completely unclothed.  Life has such humor in it if we open our eyes and our hearts, but it is much better when that humor is shared with a friend.

I complete the ride tired but in better shape than I expected.  While neither of us eat inside of restaurants anymore due to COVID, Jon suggests getting barbecue and eating outside.  We go to a most unusual place:  Hoboken Eddie's.  As it turns out, not only is the barbecue good, but Eddie tells us how he ran Alaska Iditarod Run.   An interesting place and an interesting man with excellent food though the hygiene reminds me a bit of Varnderpohl. But despite the warmth in my heart and soul,  it grows cold outside so we eat our sandwiches and  part ways sated by a day of friendship, laughter, and bicycles.  I am so glad I said yes and did not let my doubts define me.  I am glad for friendship and the pleasures it bestows.  And I am glad for bicycles.  What a sad world it would be without them.  Gibran is right:  it is in the dew of these little things that I am refreshed.

Early December 2020

"For everything you have missed, 

you have gained something else; 

and for everything you gain, you lose something."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

It has been quite awhile since I have blogged about a ride or a hike or pretty much anything.  It is not that I have been injured or sitting idle in my house, but for some reason the urge has not hit me to put hand to keyboard and share thoughts.  And I have had quite a few memorable and enjoyable moments. All in all, despite the pandemic, I am blessed. I have my health, my house, my bike, and enough money coming in to get by.  The weather thus far has been more to the good side than the bad.  Some days have been colder than normal, but not the majority.  Some have been cloudy or windy, but many have had at least some sunshine and quieter gusts.  So I can't blame the weather, just me.

 

As I rode recently on a sunny day where the day had started in the low thirties but warmed up to at least the high thirties if not the forties, I thought about how a number of years ago, there would have been a group of us riding together, probably on a century ride, enjoying the day, laughing and joking, but that just is no longer the case.  At first I thought perhaps that they were riding, but without including me as I have slowed with age and there has been a gap caused by different political beliefs and I was sad but okay with that, but my phone reveals that while a few of my old companions are riding, and riding at the same time, they are  not together and not outside.  They are on Zwift. And it struck me as sad, deeply sad, and I wondered if they realize yet what we have left behind. Was it a conscious choice or did it just happen, aided by the indisputable fact that it is harder to motivate in the winter? I almost inevitably enjoy it once I am out and doing something, but it is just harder to get out the door.  Or perhaps I ride for a different reason than do they? 

 

Don't get me wrong.  I liked Zwift when I was able to play it on my computer.  It was nice to have on cold, windy days when going outside held absolutely no appeal, particularly if one is riding alone, or when snow and ice cover the ground making riding dangerous.  Following a Zwift update, however, my computer, while only about three years old, would no longer handle Zwift.   My daughter is on a quest to help me with this, but thus far no luck. Up to that point, I tried all their suggestions to the best of my non-computer minded ability.  My daughter tried all their suggestions to no avail and she is quite proficient with computers. And I have not given up.  She is going to try something new this week-end, hooking me up through another avenue.  But despite that, even if she is successful, I think it is sad. Not that we  have Zwift and other such programs, but that it zapped the time we had riding outside in a group with others.  And of course, the pandemic has weighed in, but this began happening before we were cursed with that particular blight.

 

It reminds me of when cell phones first became popular and people no longer chatted with each other at store stops during rides sharing their recent happenings and jokes and stories, but glued themselves and their attention to their cell phones.  And I am not saying I am better or different.  Once I finally gave in and acquired a smart phone, I often found myself doing the same thing.  But I do realize there has been something lost, something precious.  And it saddens me at times, even if the gains are as great as the loss. I suppose everything in life has a cost.

Today as I rode, I thought about the St. Nick's Hick Ride I did on Saturday this week and how much I enjoyed myself.  (Link to video composed by Rich Ries:)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvSUjXaF3ps&feature=youtu.be  It was good to see everyone.  It is not that we are emotionally close to each other or even what I would even consider close friends, but we are bonded by the enjoyment of this yearly ride, by Rich Ries who is kind enough to organize the ride each year and include me, and by our love of cycling though they lean more toward mountain biking and I suck at mountain biking.  The weather was unusually good for a Hick ride.  Indeed, at one point, I joke about it telling Rich I wondered if something was wrong with him when I saw it was not supposed be zero degrees or colder.  The sun was shining and the wind was light.  The pace was relaxed and the only goal seemed to be to enjoy the world that God has bestowed upon us and each other. It was made more special by the lack of club rides due to COVID and because I know I must isolate as much as possible between then and when I go to see my new granddaughter, Lia.  I also enjoyed the short stretch of single track, something new to me and that actually did not kill me or cause me to break any bones;-)

 

If things never changed, however, there would be no Lia, there would be no Ivy.   Life has a habit of moving onward.   Some people remain in our lives and others don't.  Some people continue to bicycle and others don't.  I suppose the trick is, as Adrienne Rich pointed out, to love what you do and not what you have done, and to be thankful for those that remain dear to  you.  To appreciate what you had, but to concentrate on the gains rather than the losses.  To remain aware of your blessings.  And to move forward enjoying the ride.