“Life should not be a journey to the grave
with the intention of
arriving safely in a pretty
and well-preserved body, but rather
to skid
in broadside in a cloud of smoke,
thoroughly used up, totally worn out,
and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”
Hunter S. Thompson
Or in the words of Tennyson:
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
I have put a back to back century overnight on the schedule. I have done the course twice by myself: once on a road bike (mistake but one I am glad I made) and once on my Surly Straggler (a much better choice particularly since the purchase of the Surly was inspired by the first journey). When I put the route together, I was not sure what I would get into planning it with just maps. But it worked, and not only worked but was beautiful with the majority of the roads low traffic and many heavily wooded. Not the kind of woods you see along many roads where the trees are cut back from the roadside and there is no canopy overhead, but the kind that creep right next to the road and whose low hanging branches arch over the road creating texture and dapples that dance with the breeze on the road, shading you from the sun.
That is if there is sun. As it turns out, the first day is overcast and the sun turns his face away from us, ignoring us. Anyway, despite the ride being on the schedule, there are only two others interested and in the end only one who actually rides with me: Jon Wineland. Even that is a surprise as when I put it on the schedule after having done my initial solo ride to scout the course, nobody was interested. I suppose I will never know what scares them off: distance, course difficulty, the possibility of getting lost, gravel, carrying your gear, me....it remains and probably will always remain a mystery.
I do worry about my physical fitness for the ride as is my wont. I have not done any back to back centuries this year, and knobby tires and panniers weighted with belongings do make a difference, but I decide to give it a go. After all, I am not getting any younger. As I age, however, I seem to find that many regrets seem to center more about what I didn't do (because of fear, because of money, etc.) rather than something I actually did. Of course, there are regrets on both sides of the fence. I think of a friend who wanted to ride at least part of the Continental Divide Trail and asked for my company. We did not go. Now we will never go and it is sad, not just for me but for him as well. We both lost. Still not sure what happened to the plan, but I think his wife objected. If that was the case, good decision. I have no desire to cause problems for anyone and family should come first.
In the end, I am not really afraid of not being able to complete the ride so much as how quickly I can complete it. But I have warned Jon that I will be slow and he says he is fine with that. How easy it is to talk ourselves out of effort: we are too slow, too old, too out of shape, too fat, too busy, too whatever so long as it serves as an excuse we can use to justify not doing it. And unfortunately, it often is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Someone once said something to the effect of if you don't think you can do something, you can't. As we age, the body begins to comply even more with our mind. Or so it seems to me. Anyone who has ridden a long and/or difficult brevet knows that in the end, there is as much or more mental preparation as there is physical. Yes, there is the reality that we do age, and that one day our bodies won't allow us to do the things we do now no matter how avid our attempts to maintain them. But most of us could stave that off a bit longer than we do. Once again, the words of my friend Lynn Roberts come to mind: "As you get older it just gets harder to be mean to yourself."
We head out at first light unsure of the weather and knowing it is likely we will get wet. The sunrise is spectacular. We both notice it. Jon stops before our first turn to take a photo. Originally I intended to cancel if there were rain predictions, but by the time the date arrives I know that I won't. Having just lost my sister a couple of days before following trip after trip to Ohio and back, I need this ride. And I know Pam would want me to take the trip. In a sense, she will be with me on this trip as she has always been: in my heart. Despite the loss being so recent, I smile at the thought of her excitement the first time I completed PBP in 2007. I can still hear her staying in awe, "You did it." The rest of my family, other than my husband, were unimpressed by my achievement.
The first of the ride is on familiar roads as the route leaves from my house. I have only done one re-route and that is in Medora. The gas station there has closed. Originally I intended to stop in Leesville at the store there, however, looking on-line find that sometime during the pandemic it closed, so it is important to visit the Dollar General now in Medora for something to drink. I have brought my homemade oatmeal walnut blueberry bars for the ride and Jon and I both indulge along with a trip, ready for new roads (for him) or less familiar roads (for me since I have traveled this way before). I don't know if he really likes it, but he is kind enough to say he does even if he doesn't.
After the turn onto Brick Plant Road, the climbing begins. In the past I used my carradice, but this trip put on my panniers and they seem easier to climb with, but perhaps it is my imagination combined with weight shed since I retired. Still, despite the steep grade, I really never have one moment when I wonder if I can make it. Strange how it is easier to climb a difficult climb with company so long as you are not attempting to climb quickly. The question of being able to climb a certain hill will come later on a steep, gravel climb after Shoals where despite my knobby tires and trying to keep my weight toward the back of the bike, my wheel shifts and shimmies all over the road as rain drizzles gently on my head, the only diversion being the lovely sound of the rain whispering its secrets to the leaves on the trees that line the road.
It seems but the blink of an eye when we reach Buddha. I briefly mention to Jon my past speculations on why a town in the middle of Indiana would be named Buddha. I told him that at one point I looked it up, but I could not remember the reason though I do remember that it is not pronounced the way Buddha is pronounced in the religion. Another thing about aging. My memory is not what it once was. As I once heard someone say, "The hard drive is full and I'm working on disc space."
We arrive at Mitchell and despite the disparity in our riding abilities, it appears we are going to be good traveling companions. Jon has brought his famous vegetarian spinach lasagna. We find the gas station has a picnic table, purchase drinks, and sit down to a fine feast. I tease him because normally I am a very fast eater, just gobbling food done, while he often lingers and actually chews his food. But today, relaxed, I am the last to finish. We both feel there is an odor from the place, however, so we don't linger overly long. Heading out, we are on the busiest road on the route. But it is not for a long distance and soon we are back on lazy, isolated roads. My only regret is that there is not time to ride some of the interesting roads that peel off to the sides of our route. It just feels good to be on roads that I have not ridden enough to be familiar with. And I am thankful for a GPS unit so that I don't have to depend upon a cue sheet.
Somewhere either right before or after lunch, I pull over in the midst of a climb to take a photo, struck by the beauty around me. As I begin to try to restart my climb, a car pulls alongside me, rolls down the window, and stop. Without thinking, though their window is half rolled down, I say, "Damn it," as they are impeding my ability to start pedaling. The woman smiles uncertainly and asks me for directions to French Lick. Of course, I have no idea how to get there from here in the middle of nowhere and suggest using her phone and googling it not even thinking they have no service. The man with her asks if I am okay and I say yes wondering if the delay combined with a hill will allow me ever to catch up with Jon. But he is waiting at the top. At least I think this was on the first day. My failure to take notes and my failing memory means I know it happened, but I am not sure exactly when.
We hit our first gravel outside of Shoals and the worst gravel after leaving Shoals. Don't get me wrong. There is gravel that I truly enjoy riding on, but not thick, large gravel. I had remembered that there was gravel after Shoals, but I did not remember it having such large rocks and the huge hill. What I remembered was the shrine and the rock with spray paint on it. And being tired, ready to reach my motel. But then, when you ride alone you notice more or maybe different things than you notice with a companion. It certainly is nice to have a companion to share things with along the route: a thought, scenery, etc. It is at this point in the ride that it begins to drizzle a bit. It never truly rains, but it drizzles enough that we are damp. We both have rain jackets, but it is warm enough that neither of us chooses to don them. I take the time to enjoy the sound of the rain dancing in the tree tops and pattering on my helmet. I am thankful it is not a downpour but one of those light rains that can actually be pleasant at times. We both end up walking a good part of the hill. I am fine with that, more used to it than Jon who is so strong on climbs.
As we near the end of the first day, I find that the long, gravel road from the past, the one where I saw so many Amish residents but had to wear a bandana to shield myself from the dust has now been paved. It is both a relief and a disappointment. I also briefly confuses me. Every time I have ridden this route, a road that was once gravel is now paved. But it also means we get to the motel more quickly, and I am ravenous. We pull into the Gastof Amish Inn only to find a large group congregated outside the entrance. Luckily for us, they are already checked in because as I wait for what seems an eternity for the receptionist to finish a phone call, I begin to chill a bit from being damp and standing still. Jon and I share room numbers and a plan to text so that we can have dinner together after showering.
We meet and walk to the restaurant only to find there is a long line. We ask the receptionist if she thinks it will be less crowded if we wait an hour and return. She obviously has no idea, so we decide to wait. Or perhaps I decide to wait and Jon follows suit as I am ravenous. While much of the food is decidedly unhealthy (think fried chicken), the buffet is a delight to the eyes and the tummy. It is nice to have company at dinner as well. My eyes, however, eat more than my tummy and I do waste a bit of food, something I don't like to do. We leave the restaurant after again standing in a long line to pay. My only complaint would be that the woman handling the receipts had a cash register and could have jumped in and helped but chose not to. Or perhaps she is not supposed to do that. Regardless, it is as long of a wait getting out as it was getting in. The food, however, was delicious and I suppose, if I had it to do again, I would wait again.
Jon says he has brought some wine and invites me to share a glass with him in one of the many gazebos about the grounds. On our way there, after returning from the dinner, we come upon a rather raucous group that is obviously having a wonderful time. They are playing some game and there are three men hiding right outside the side door, one wearing a hat that has two beer cans attached to the side like ears. We do determine that each of the men is representative of someone well known, but never figure out the game. Still, I enjoy the bursts of laughter from the group that float in the air occasionally until their gathering ends. How pleasant it is to have people we can share a giggle or a smile with. How fortunate to have family and friends with whom to forge shared memories. And here sit Jon and I, forging a memory of our own, the sweetness of wine mixed with the night sounds and the comfort of a hard ride behind us and another to look forward to.....well, it doesn't get much better than that.
In the morning, we meet for breakfast and a rather late start that will haunt me a bit later in the ride as evening draws near and there are still miles to traverse. I had slapped an emergency light on my bike, but it is not the kind of light to do much night riding with. There is no doubt that in a downhill I would outrun the light and be riding blind. The breakfast is much better than when I have stayed there in the past with a large selection of foods. We both pack some of the homemade bread and apple butter to take with us on our journey. As we are getting ready to leave the morning room, I say something about the current division in this country and one man joins our conversation saying that there surely is. Wisely, neither of us ask the other's political beliefs though I must admit to curiosity.
On my way to check out I am interviewed by an elderly couple in the elevator who want to know a bit about our journey. They are surprised at the distance we are going. Jon is interviewed by the desk clerk, and we smile a bit at people's curiosity. Since we end up getting lost, I also will be surprised at the distance later in the day;-) I check out and take my bike outside awaiting Jon who has not yet come down or checked out. I load the new, untried course into my GPS thinking that the worst that can happen is we run into some gravel difficult to ride. Hah! Adventure and new sights await, always a treat on a ride so long as they don't involve a fall, injury, illness, or some other bad thing.
When I rerouted today's ride, I did not reroute until after Brooks Bridge because I so enjoy it. Yes, it is covered with graffiti. Yes, you must ride gravel to get there. Yes it is old. All part of the charm. It also is one of the few bridges over the White river in this area. I also find I am enjoying having knobby tires that allow me to ride faster and descend faster than Jon while on gravel. It reminds me of being Scott Kuchenbrod in a time trial. Yes, it was because he got lost. But the fact remains that my time was faster. I tease Jon about this relentlessly. Toward the end of the gravel part of our ride, he is obviously getting faster on the gravel so my bragging is probably short lived.
Brooks Bridge is at the end of a gravel road, and we fail to see the ghost that allegedly haunts it. I do tell Jon that it seems to me I remember Duc Do saying there was something I should see near here that I missed but I can't remember. He texts Duc asking if he remembers. I am a bit surprised he has cell service here, but he does. We ride on unsure when or even if we will get a reply.
After crossing the bridge, the road turns to pavement for a long climb that never gets steep but still challenges already tired legs. It always surprises me how my legs protest the first few miles when I ride long brevets or back to back, but later give in and don't cause too much problem other than protesting on climbs. At the top of the climb, I see a couple of cows in the yard of a brick home. At first, I think they have put statues there for there obviously is no fence. Then I see movement and more cows until there is an entire herd of cattle. A man comes driving up and slows. I ask him if he knows who to contact about the cows being out and it turns out he is there to try to get them back to their pasture. His friend arrives in a mule shortly after. He jokingly offers to sell us the cattle. I tease Jon about tying a cow the back of his bicycle and try to remember if it is a cow that the boy sold for beans in "Jack and the Beanstalk." We ride on. Jon notices a street sign to our left that says Hindostan Falls and asks me about it. I tell him I don't know but ask if he wants to go down the road and see what we find. We do and find some waterfalls that cross the White River. Ironically, after our trip down that road, Duc later texts about the falls. We climb back up from the falls to our route and at the top the man with the cows stops to tell us the cows are in. He then reveals that when he saw our tire tracks off the bridge he thought they were Amish buggy wheel tracks. He asks about our journey and then drives on wishing us safe travels. Like most people we encounter, he is surprised at the distance we are traveling and probably wonders about whether we are quite right mentally. I also wonder that occasionally so can't blame him for any speculations he might have.
We arrive shortly thereafter in Shoals and stop at the Jay C there getting some milk to have with our Amish home baked bread and apple butter. We sit on a bench outside the store and indulge. It is delicious. As we leave, we come across one of the large row crop tractors that Jon always asks if we could ride under. There are a number of them sitting there and we determine that yes, one could ride under, but it would be much easier at my five foot two than at Jon's six foot two. Still, I would not recommend trying it while the tractor is moving. These are the tractors that I usually dismount and step off the road for and allow them to pass before resuming my travels.
We hit some lovely pavement ( and it is along this stretch where we get lost the first time). Chicken Farm Road. I see a bungee cord lying there in the road, apparently waiting to be claimed. For those that have never ridden with Jon, Jon always finds a plethora of tools alongside the road. I rarely notice such things, so I am gleeful that I spotted it before he did and can't help but brag a bit. I get off my bike and attempt to pick it up only to find it is embedded so deeply in the tar that removal is impossible. Thus, my small victory is dashed. The joke is upon me. I giggle. This nicely paved road also turns out to be a loop around Shoals. The arrows on my GPS disappear without my noticing for awhile and we are lost. We both smile as "The Blair Witch Project" comes up in conversation.
We consult our maps and get back on our way following a main road out of Shoals hoping to get back on course. We decide to cut through Martin State Forest and hit miles of gravel. Neither of us has been here before. As it turns out, the reroute I did included a gravel road in the forestry, and the arrows appear back on my GPS as we ride. Neither of us have been to this forest before. It is lush and green and we see nobody on the roads. We stop to see if the office is open, but it is closed on week-ends. The entire Forest appears to be deserted. Because I have knobby tires and am on my Surly, I have a huge advantage over Jon who is on his road bike. But he never complains and never loses his good humor, something I appreciate. Some people get very upset if a ride goes off script or if the unexpected is encountered. But Jon does not appear to be one of those people.
At the end of the forest, we turn for awhile on paved roads and it seems like only a short hop to the lunch stop at Orleans. Outside of Orleans, Jon's cue sheet diverges from my GPS file and we decide to follow the cue sheet. Luckily we punt or we would have bypassed Orleans and I am in need of fuel. We arrive only to find we are fifteen minutes too late for pizza. We ride to the other restaurant in town only to find it closed even earlier in the day. So we end up at a picnic table at the gas station eating gas station food, something both of us are familiar with: we have both done hours of curb side dining during our years on the bike. I am starting to get fairly tired and look forward to the flatter section between Orleans and our next stop, Salem. I find, however, that my reroute has not only taken out much of this flatness, but has added gravel. Once again we have a few miles of gravel to ride on roads new to both of us.
When we reach Salem, I am ready for the adventure to end. A shower and bed sound so enticing. I am tired and getting a bit cranky. I decide to modify the route a bit to cut off two hills. I later regret this decision and probably would not have made it if I adequately remembered how I had routed us in. Regardless, this is what we do and we end the ride an hour or so before dark. Despite being tired, or perhaps despite is not a good choice of words because tiredness is part of what makes the journey enjoyable, I am so glad that the ride worked out and that we rode, the we did not "rust unburnished," but "shined with use." Oh, how I love bicycles. Oh, how I appreciate friends that do as well.
Posts
