Old Gilgal

 "There are very few monsters

that  merit the fear we have of them."

Andre Gide

I would not be honest if I did not say I rather fear this century because of the climbing.  I  have ridden centuries in the past with more climbing, but not for awhile.  Okay, last summer, but that is still awhile.  Plus I am not as willing to hurt as I once was.  Recovery from a hard effort takes longer.  And I am carrying a bit of winter weight that stubbornly has refused to recede this summer, mostly due to diet and just not moving as much.  Regardless of the reason, extra weight means more to lug up a climb, more demands on muscles and sinews and lungs.  Rather strangely, however,  I also look forward to the ride and the challenge if that makes any sense.  Recently as I look and see everyone's goals, I feel rather aimless having none of my own.  Should, I question myself, be training for something?

I don't expect many at the ride.  While I did not ride it the last (only) time it was offered  (I can't remember why), I heard attendance was extremely small.  To my surprise,  lots of people show up.  Indeed, I suspect it has the largest or nearly the largest attendance of any tour stage this year thus far.  Over twenty. 

I enjoy the chatter and seeing both faces I am familiar with and those I am not so familiar with, but I am overjoyed when another female, Dee Shroer, shows.  Prior to her showing, I think that I might not only be among the very oldest of the group, but the only female.  Being the only female is not really unusual on distance rides, but at times is trying, particularly since it has become more difficult to keep up.  I ask Fritz Kopatz,  the ride captain if he would like for me to leave early suspecting I will be at or near the back and knowing how strong a rider he has become, but he says no so long  as I am not riding ten miles per hour.  So I wait.

We take off only to be stopped by a train.  It seems to take forever to pass and brings back memories of being almost done with a longer Kentucky brevet only to find a stopped train blocking the return.  Grasshopper was riding with me that year.  I don't remember for certain, but is seems there were one or two others. Perhaps Claudia?  Was this the time she told me I was older than her mother but her mother could not climb Oregon Road? ;-) Darkness surrounded us, blinding us in what was an already unfamiliar place.

 

Cars backed up for quite some distance and the rumor began to circulate that the train was broken and would not be moving.  After waiting a half hour and seeing no sign of movement or railroad employees, we found a work around.  I remember being very tired, and the disappointment at the delay in being able to finish causing me to tear up.  To this day, had I been alone, I swear I would have thrust my bike through and climbed under that damned train.  I was that tired and needy for the end.

But I digress.  Today's train is moving, and moving rapidly.  It is just long and takes what seems to be an eternity to clear the crossing.  There is, of course, no caboose, something that rather saddens me.  Everything changes. After about five or ten minutes of waiting, we are off.  The group does not seem to split into smaller groups nearly as quickly as usual, and the line begins to accordion.  

 

I become worried about possibly tapping tires and make a break away confused by the faster riders showing restraint, particularly this early in the ride.  Tom H. comes with me and we ride together for a bit before the behind group catches us, but by then the fast group has had their appetite for speed whetted and they take off leaving smaller, slower groups in their wake.  I like the smaller groups as I feel they are safer.  As I recently told a friend, I really enjoy being able to sleep on my side again and know that a fall could take that away as it has done in the past and thus I am cautious of crowds and people whose riding I don't know well. 

The pace is now quicker than I expect to be riding with the climbing that I know is ahead, but I seem to be caught up in the day.   It is cool, not the norm for this time of year.  And everything is green.  Later  I will think that my only regret for this day is that I can't seem to ride in a group or even with another person and appreciate the scenery as much as when I ride solo.  And what scenery it is.  Greenness has taken over the land despite the drought and the orange day lilies, or Tiger Lilies as some call them, have bloomed.  I see the first of the Black eyed Susan's.  White daisies have not yet faded and Queen Anne's lace is beginning to lace the ditches and roadsides. The scenery is much nicer than that of many centuries, but of course that is partially due to the hills.  I assume it is much harder to build on hills, but for whatever reason, it seems to be universal that hilly courses often tend to be synonymous with scenic courses.

 

The climbs come, one after another it seems, and climbs of all different kinds:  some steep, some long, some short, and some a bit of both.  Still, there are some flat and merely rolly roads.   Personally I do better on the the long climbs that are not so steep.  It is the steepness that makes my legs ache and my heart pound mercilessly against my chest.  But it is all good, reminding me I am alive and here and it is summer without the normal summer heat that sweats away your strength. It amuses me to hear everyone talking about how many climbs there are because it seems to vary from GPS to GPS unit, just like the total climb of this or any other ride.  In the end, how many does not matter.  One has to return to where one started to get to the car.  I remember a recent ride where someone assured me the last climb was behind us only to face yet another climb and how I teased him about lying to me. 

It seems mere moments before we reach the first store stop.  I have brought my homemade blueberry oatmeal bar, but I need to get a drink.  Dave King and Chris Quirey park around the corner of the store just as I did.  By the time we have finished, we see that the group has left without us and so we play chase.  Despite that, and much to my surprise, we are able to catch them.  Dave arrives first, then myself, and a few moments later Chris.  Internally I sigh knowing this sprint to catch up, as fast and long as it was,  will have a cost.      

 

Pacing is so  important in cycling or any other distance endeavor. As I once told a new rider going to PBP, go slower than you think you can to the turn around.  That still leaves  you hundreds of miles to pick up the pace if you are feeling spritely.  Fritz tells me what I already know, that he did not know we were on the side of the building rather than in the front with the others.  I giggle thinking of a time we left while someone was in the bathroom.  He got so angry, sure we did it on purpose when we had not.  We just didn't know he was missing. After that we would tease each other about being left behind on purpose.  How often in life do we take offense thinking that something accidental is purposeful?  Quite often I suspect.

The lunch stop is at a gas station.  There are other options available, and we later find that the fast group went to a restaurant when they show up behind us, but the majority stop at the gas station.  I pick the "hunk of pizza," ready and fast.  As someone who made the same decision points out, amusement timbering his voice, it is the best cardboard he has eaten in awhile.  I swear that pizza could not have been cooked today.  It had to be from yesterday or the day before.  Everyone still seems to be in a good humor.  Jokes fly and I soak in the laughter wafting through the air.  

The group spills out knowing that half of the course is done.  Everyone seems to continue to be in a good humor and thus far it has not turned into a death march. Fortunately, while it has warmed up, it is still cool for this time of year.  Dee and I spend much of the rest of the time riding together.  It is interesting to hear about her upcoming event.  She is part of a team that is swimming the English Channel.  I often struggle with conversation, particularly off the bike, but she is easy to talk with and doesn't demand constant chatter.  It interests me to no end, the people that ride and the goals they have.  Sam and John are getting read to face a 200  mile, one day, gravel ride. 

The hills begin to wear on me though I have no real issue in climbing them.  It is nice not to feel tempted to get off and walk.  I seem to feel that temptation more on group rides when the pace is pressed.  When alone, I rarely feel it.  But then when alone I am climbing at my own pace.  Dee and I are riding a reasonable pace.  We are not at the front, but we are not at the back either.  And we just climb, our pace fairly evenly matched.  Or she is going my pace.  With her being quite a bit younger, I don't  know.  I think briefly of how earlier in the ride John F. rode up to tell me I was one of the most inspirational people he knows, and I tuck that thought in my heart to pull out when I am weary and feeling old, something that happens more frequently now.  

Before you know it, however, we are at the end with smiles on our faces at our accomplishment.  We did not set any course records,  but we finished and with a respectable time.  My visions of finishing hours after the group following a death march to the finish did not come to pass. How often I magnify the difficulty of things, and not just riding.  The curse, I suppose, of having an imagination. 

 

 After gathering for a bit while the rest come in, a small group (Tom A, Dave K, Jon W. and myself) go out to dinner together to talk about the day and other things.  And once again, I am grateful for health, bicycles, and friends.  Thank you, Lloyd, for buying my first bicycle.  I think today you were smiling as you watched over me as you promised to do if you could.  This course did not merit the fear I had of it.  It was difficult but I have done much harder courses,  and it was fun. 

Getting By With A Little Help From My Friends: Story Century 2023

"The principles of living greatly include

the capacity to face trouble with courage, 

disappointment with cheerfulness, and

trial with humility."

Thomas Monson

 

I am captaining two centuries for the Tour de Mad Dog this year:  the Story century and the Medora Century.  Originally the Story Century was scheduled for Sunday, May 7th, but I canceled due to the prediction for rain and strong storms.  It turned out to be a wise decision, not one of those days where you cancel and then curse yourself because the weatherperson got it wrong.  The ride was rescheduled for Saturday, May 13.  

 

Rescheduling was fine until Murphy, one of my cats, became very ill.  Indeed, after a vet visit that included x-rays and blood work, and that seemed to have no resolution, I made arrangements with my daughter to be on call to come up on the thirteenth to accompany me to the vet and put him to rest as he was hiding and had quit eating for a couple of days.  Yet again, it seemed, I was being called upon to play God, but I did not want him to suffer and it is so hard to tell if a cat is in pain. How my heart was being cleaved into pieces at the thought of losing yet another one I love.   

 

Murphy was my mother's cat that we got from the shelter when she entered independent living.  She was so lonely there, a place she didn't want to be, and she wanted a cat so we adopted him after another family surrendered him to the humane society.  I often think how odd life is for while she was in a very nice Independent/Assisted living facility, I don't believe she ever felt at home there or was happy there.  But she was courageous, there is not doubt about that.  

 

I suppose, in the end, we all want to be in our homes.  And not every place we reside in is, or ever becomes, home.  But a bad case of C. Difficile that included hospitalization along with insistence by my siblings placed her there.  Murphy lived with her until she also entered Hospice.  Then he came to my home.  And, thus, I owe him for the care he gave my family.  This makes me think of a photo of a cat's tombstone first seen on Facebook.  The tombstone is old and weathered, but obviously was heartfelt:  1998-1910.  "He was only a cat, but he was human enough to be a great comfort in hours of loneliness and pain."  I like to think he was a comfort to my mother and sister, and that I am repaying him as best I can.

 

I can't tell you I was overly excited about having him move in with me, and not just because it meant I had lost loved ones.  I really did not want or need another cat.   Had it not been for a sick  husband, my intentions were not to have any pets after Kitti until I had some travel under my belt for there was no question that I was going to be a widow.  But he was so lonely being sick at home while I worked that we adopted two kittens from the shelter. They were a blessing and often diverted his mind from negative thoughts. Anyway, it is what it is. Someone needed to care for Murphy and he joined my household. Of course, I grew to love him despite the difficulties in introducing him to the others that share my home.    

But enough.  I can only say that I was disappointed at the thought of not being able to do the ride, but knew where my priorities were.  After all, as I teased them, Murphy sleeps with me.  They don't.  And so arrangements were made for others to captain the ride.  Steve Puckett and Chris Embry kindly agreed to lead the ride so it did not have to be canceled.  Still, disappointment is not always easy to deal with, but I try to look at my blessings.  And I could be on the way for a final, good-bye vet visit rather than standing here outside the store with friends and others who love bicycling.  At least I will be able to ride. 

Murphy rallied after the vet decided it was not a blockage and prescribed medication.  And so, while I could not ride the entire ride as I needed to be home to give him the medication, I determined I would be able to ride to the first store stop, turn around and go home to medicate him, then ride back out and meet the riders as they returned.  

With it being Mother's Day week-end and a rescheduled ride and an out of town ride, I did not expect the large turnout but was glad to see everyone.  Chris Embry, Glenn "Clothesline" Smith, Fritz Kopatz, Steve Puckett, Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish, Bob Grable, Samuel Bland, Jeff Schrode, John Fong, Mark Rougeux, Dan Barriere, Tom "Ambassador Dog" Askew, Amelia "Bubbles, Bird Dog" Dauer, Thomas Nance, Tom Hurst, and Steve "Mule" Rice all attend. (So many dogs needing names some of which have ridden with us for years)  I think that Tom and John are training for the Rain Ride.  Not sure if any of the others are.  Samuel is training for another event, gravel I believe, but I can't remember the name of the event.  Memory.....oh, my, how it deteriorates and robs us.  Steve Rice is training for PBP. 

The weather prediction is for scattered rain and storms today, however, the chances are around fifty percent so we head out not knowing if there will be a deluge or not.  As we take off, I realize I have forgotten my glasses.  I hurry to get them and then hammer to catch the group surprised that I am able to do so. The front group quickly leaves a few of us behind.  Such strong, strong riders.  I later hear they averaged about 20.1 mph until mile 22 and reached the store with an average of 18.1.  I feel sorry for Chris as he would definitely be up there with them and tell him I will be able to sweep until the first store stop, but he hangs back anyway. 

 

 I enjoy the chatter, the colorful jerseys, the sounds of the bicycles as we move down the road and think how very much I needed to get out and how grateful I am that Murphy is improving and that everyone has been so kind about his illness.  The stress was telling on me, particularly the one A.M. medications as I have trouble falling back to sleep.  One thing I have noticed about retirement is that I handle stress much less well than I used to.  Bicycling does so much to help in these situations:  the demands on the body and the time to think and puzzle.  And the scenery.  While this is not the most scenic route I have put together, and I will miss the most scenic part of this route, it does have its moments.  Some fields have not yet been sprayed and are alive with flowers.  Others show signs of birth: soybeans hesitantly breaching the soil, a few, sparse fields where I "think" I see the first slips of corn emerging.   In places, wildflowers cover the sides of roadside ditches, colorful and welcoming.

We are near the town where we will stop when Amelia gets a text that Denney's, the second of two available stores, is closed.  The front group has to return to Family Dollar.  This will add about two miles to their journey today, but when we arrive at Family Dollar, they seem okay with it.  Everyone is standing around talking and laughing and fueling for the hills that will come between them and the lunch stop, Story Inn.  I called the Inn  yesterday and they are expecting the group, but I hate it that I must leave them. I am glad to hear that Denney's closure is not permanent, as has happened with so many small stores, but a temporary aberration.  Since I originally put this route together, three other stores that were along the way have closed.  It is just hard for small stores to compete with Dollar Generals and other large stores. 

As we pull off and our paths diverge, I have to decide how to get home.  I decide to retrace our path rather than  head through Brownstown as I hope to meet the group in Brownstown on their way back.  I push myself and also surprise myself reaching home with almost 66 miles in the bank and a 15.8 average.   Had I been asked if this was possible, I would have told you no.  And had their been oodles of climbing, it would not have been.  But I feel good about it.  I will, after all, turn 67 next month.  And I don't have that many miles or centuries in the legs this year.

After giving Murphy his medication and throwing some leftovers in the microwave for lunch, I head back out.  The air now feels like a sauna.  It is not only our first hot day in awhile, but the humidity is off the chart.  It is only of those days where each breath seems as if it is as heavy as molasses and does not seem to fuel the muscles.  Sweat clings and dots the skin rather than evaporating.  And to top  it off, my arch nemesis while riding, the Cottonwood, is shedding its fluff.  I know if I happen to get one in my mouth, breathing will worsen significantly as they always seem to catch and grow in my throat.  

I assume I will probably not get to Brownstown before meeting the group as I had more miles to cover to my home than they did to lunch, but I hope to get there to get something to eat and/or drink.  "Hope is the thing with feathers and sings the tune without the words and never stops." (Emily Dickinson)  I meet two riders before Brownstown, Steve and Mark and my hope diminishes, but later I am told they did not stop at the lunch stop and that is why they were so far in front of the faster riders.  

 

The fast group is just pulling out of Dairy Queen, the third store stop, when I arrive.  The others remain in the store.  I join them.  I am glad to hear that lunch was fairly quick and yet disappointed to hear it was not at all crowded as I would hate to see it go out of business.  So many centuries that I put together I no longer do because of closed restaurants and/or stores. 

After leaving Dairy Queen, the group splits further.  Steve Puckett and I remain at the back and the rest take off.  The course is fairly flat other than the short, steep climb out of Brownstown so I am not at all surprised.  They, but not the fast group, are still in the parking lot when I arrive. (At least the fast group from Dairy Queen as some fell back to ride in a bit less slowly).  Everyone seems to have had a good time which makes me happy and, while I could not join them for the whole ride, I am glad that I got to join them at all.  Mostly I am  pleased that Murphy seems to be getting a bit better.  I hope when his time comes, I am able to face it with courage and humility, knowing that the bell eventually tolls for all of us.  And I am glad for bicycles.  Bicycles and friends, two of God's greatest gifts.  Yeah, "I get by with a little help from my friends."  Thanks everyone. 

Solo Hardinsburg: Spring 2023

There is no doubt that solitude

is a challenge and to maintain balance

within it is a precarious business.  But I 

must not forget that, for me, being with 

people or even one beloved person for

any length of time without solitude is even

worse.  I lose my center.  I feel dispersed, scattered

and in pieces.  I must have time alone to 

mull over my encounter, and to extract its 

juice, its essence, to understand what has 

really happened to me as a consequence of it."

May Sarton

I wake up and decide it is time to ride my traditional spring century to Hardinsburg and Little Twirl despite the chill of the morning and a tough 62 mile ride the day before.  What is the use of being retired if one always has to plan things?  Just gather your things and go if you so desire.  Life awaits.  And one never quite knows for sure where your bicycle may lead you.  I realize that I desire.....I really desire to ride.   It has been a while since I have indulged myself with a solitary century.  It has been awhile since I have had the desire to do so. I meet the desire with open arms welcoming it back and hoping it settles down and stays.

The centuries I have put together mostly fall into two categories:  those whose goal is a destination and those whose goal is scenery.  Hardinsburg used to have both when the Mennonite Store was open.   Big, fat sandwiches on fresh, homemade bread.  An oasis that was rather in the middle of nowhere which may be why it closed.  

 

 

This left Little Twirl, a constant since I put the route together though it now closes for the winter months, something that it did not used to do.  Don't get me wrong.  I am fond of Little Twirl and it will always hold a special place in my heart.  I still grin thinking of Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish spinning around in the parking lot, index finger pointing downward and touching his skull, spinning like a ballerina, giving it a "little twirl." I remember the first group I brought this way, back when Sparky used to ride and kept me in stitches. So many memories. And their food is not terrible.  But it does not replace the lost sandwiches on homemade bread or the memories that store holds.  As I have said so many times, everything changes.  

 

I have always thought the Hardinsburg route was scenic, at least when your mind was not grayed out from lack of oxygen;-)  It has a nice blend of farm land and forest land.  It passes some of the Amish homes that sometimes have something interesting or different going on.  And it is low traffic.  Not once on this route has anyone threatened me in or out of a vehicle.   Sometimes I can ride for a half hour or hour without one car passing me or without seeing another person. 

Still, I also know that despite only having about 4,800 feet of climbing, it always leaves me rather drained.  There are, I suppose, two major climbs, or major for this area.  But there are rollers everywhere.  There is very little in the way of flats once you get out past Pekin and the flat Blue River Road section of the course until a few miles from the end.  Shorts Corner is such a pesky little road.  No major climbs, but it doesn't let you forget that it rolls.  And a steep but rather short climb that the Garmin registers as eighteen percent near Hardinsburg.  Is that major? 

 

 I laugh thinking of how I would hate it when people would call about one of my rides and ask, "Is it hilly?" because hilly to one is not to another.  Heck, now that I am older, what I considered not hilly seems mountainous at times.  Fitness, age, bike, other factors all play into the answer I guess. I remember one time, on a different century, we crossed an overpass that was not particularly steep but has a bit of a bump as most overpasses do and a new riders asking me if there were any more climbs like that on the course.  Leota Hill loomed ahead, a mountain compared to that bump in the road.  If I remember correctly, he bailed at the lunch stop....but that has been so long ago and the rider was not one that ever became near and dear to me so I am not for sure. 

On the ride I find that some farmers have not yet gotten around to spraying their fields so I am treated to large tracts of yellow flowers, so cheerful.  I used to believe they were wild mustard, but Duc told me differently.  Try as I might, I can't remember what he said they were.  Regardless, weed or no weed, they are a delight to the eye if not to the sinuses and I am in no rush today.  Probably a good thing as I have gotten as slow as molasses in January.  I do pass a few farm vehicles making use of the unusually dry weather.  But it is still too cold to do much.  When it is a large vehicle and  on a narrow road, I just stop and pull off to let him/her by hoping to engender good will and for the sake of safety. 

As I near the road that leads to Little Twirl, I think, as I always do on this section of road, of Steve Sexton.  I will never forget the cold December he and I rode this stretch together.  The others had pulled ahead.  I suspect he stayed back with me, not to witness the wind teaching me a lesson, which it did that day, but out of kindness.  Winter sometimes seems to leach the kindness out of us all.  We enjoy riding, but we also want to get it done and get somewhere to warm our bones.  Conflicted feelings I suppose.  I remember another time when a rider I did not know showed for a winter Hardinsburg and how he was averaging nine or ten mph and how I worried he would cause the whole group to get in after dark had fallen.  I tried to cut him loose and give him a short cut home.  He would not listen.  I left him but swept him in later with my car.  

After a small lunch at Little Twirl, the wind is, for a time, my friend.  It was supposed to shift to the west but stayed out of the south. Either will help me on my way home until the last mile or so.   I am not putting much effort into my pedaling, but my speed does not reflect that fact.  More memories pop up.   As I descend the huge hill on Cox Ferry, I think of the time a deer ran right next to me as I descended and my fear that she would veer out onto the road for the steepness combined with my speed made stopping almost an impossibility.  I remember the road crew betting on if I could climb that hill when I first came that way which made me decide to climb it or fall over trying.  I remember Paul Battle, after the descent, looking at me with concern in his eyes and saying, "You don't ride out here by yourself, do you?"  He didn't understand that I feel safer out here than I will ever feel in a city, but the fact that he worried about it touched me.  

Soon I am faced with the worst climb of the day.  It is one of those hills that you think you are doing fine on until you realize it gets steeper toward the top.  But I climb it with no issues.  Perhaps it is larger in my head than it is in reality?  Or perhaps because there is nobody with me to watch my slowness.  I can just take my time without worrying that someone is having to wait for me.   

 

It makes me think of how differently people ride.  Over the years I have found riding companions are different.  Some, like Steve Rice and Bill Pustow, would mostly stay with me and we would talk and share ideas and thoughts.  Bill always had an interesting book he was reading that he would fill me in on. Others, like Jon, like to ride ahead, each of us sharing the course and stops, but other than occasional interludes, riding our own ride. 

 

 I pop in to the Red Barn for my last store stop.  Amos is talking with someone but they leave when I arrive.  I notice his hair is graying as,  of course, is my own.   He talks about his daughter who is a service member and her new baby and I enjoy a bit of conversation before heading toward home and one of my favorite roads.  Low to little traffic, a canopy of trees in many places, and just scenic.

 

 I pass an Amish home where there are three small children outside, the youngest seeming to be about 18 months.  I grin from ear to ear watching her desperately but determinedly trying to keep up with the others dressed with her little bonnet on her head.  In the yard nearby graze two ponies with short, stubby legs and bellies so large they appear to be near to dragging the ground.  I come upon the mother, working in the yard cutting the grass with a non-motorized push mower.  And then I am isolated once more not passing another person or car for miles, able to enjoy the greenness that has drenched the forest.  

I reach home quite tired and quite glad to be there, fully saturated with the day, the sunshine, and the alone time that I still need despite living alone.  Soon I will be craving company, but with the weather becoming more conducive to riding I know that lies ahead shortly.  And in some ways, perhaps, I was not alone today.  The ghosts of cherished, loved friends were with me as I relived memories.  Some ride.  Some no longer ride.  But today, for just a bit, they were by my side.   I was glad to be alive and on a bicycle with no constraints on my time, able to look at where I have come from, where I am now, and where I am going.  Just me, my bike, and the road.  I am blessed. 

A Solitary Ride on a Windy Day

"Follow your heart.  Do what you love.

Because I was constantly struggling with 

that.  If it's in your heart, go for it.

Don't listen to other people."

Maz Jobrani 

 

Perhaps it should be, but it truly is not difficult to decide whether to go to Louisville to ride or not because I don't like the course, and unfortunately, the shorter ride today mirrors the longer ride.  I realize it is not about me, and many people seem to enjoy riding in/near the city.  Indeed, some actually prefer it, particularly if it means they can ride rather than drive to a ride start or if it means a flatter, faster, easier course.  But city riding, while I indulge in it occasionally, is not my thing and being a Tour de Mad Dog finisher just is not so important to me anymore that I will ride a course I don't like.  Perhaps even company is not so important as it once was.  We change.  Others change.  Viva la differences, I suppose.

 

 I would love to have the company, but spring dances by so quickly and I don't want to waste a riding day on such a course.  The last time I drove in to a town/suburb ride, a week or so ago,  four of us were riding along when  a man pulls alongside in his Mercedes, rolls down his window, and asks:  "Do I have to hit you to get you off the road?"  He then rolls up his window and drives on.   Where along the way did we become like this? Does anyone still yield a seat on a bus to a pregnant woman or volunteer to take another seat on a plane if a parent wants to sit with their child? Is it all about us and our rights?  Where along the way did we lose the "milk of human kindness?" (Shakespeare) Or maybe most have not.  Just a few.  Anyway,  if we cost this driver a minute of his time, that is a generous estimate.  Certainly, if he hit us, unless he drove on without stopping, it would cost more of his precious time. 

 

Regardless, it was not a bad ride, but it was not one of those rides where you spend time catching up and talking about things or where there is scenery that is so stunning it makes you inhale and send up a prayer of thanks celebrating being alive, alive and on a bicycle and with friends who share your passion.  Too much traffic.  It was not one of those rides that you will long remember and be glad you used your time to attend.  It was an okay ride, but not a great ride.  Great ride captain though.  And a course that had greater attendance than it would have if it were further afield. 

 

Soon there will be plenty of days with friends barring illness or accident.  There will be time to catch up about the winter happenings that we have not yet talked about on the few club rides I have done this year.  I have already gotten a chance to talk some to Paul and Mike during the ride I put on this week.  I was disappointed not to get to talk a bit with Steve, but we did catch up a bit before the ride.  He, Keith, and Tom Waggoner, yes THE Tom Waggoner that builds bicycles, rode ahead.  Of course, I did not know who he was until the store stop when Steve informed me and I did not see him after the ride, but I hope he felt welcome and enjoyed the course during his visit to this area.

 

  Already the Redbuds are fading to a pale, blanched version of their glory only a few days prior.  The Dogwoods are still strong, however, and bluebells and other flowers line side roads.  On my walk the other day, I even spotted some red trillium, one of my favorites.  Trees are leafing out to where views seen in the winter are becoming obscured.  But how I rejoice in the greenness.  Even mowing my lawn still seems a treat rather than a chore.  The only time I truly miss the cold is when it comes time to sleep.  If things run as normal, I will not sleep as well in the coming months.  

 

And so, despite the colder weather and wind predictions, after walking with Diana at the Forestry, I swing my leg over the bike and head toward Eden/Delaney Park.  I decide to ride to Salem and home knowing this route will run somewhere between forty and fifty miles.  Along the way I realize that I am happy and so glad at how much I "wanted" to ride.  I have struggled with that a bit in the recent past year or so and wondered if my verve would reappear.  I hope it does not begin to slip away again, because I love it here:  the solitude, the burgeoning verdancy, the colors and hues.

 

Eden and Delaney do not disappoint.  I love how the trees grow right to the edge of the road in places and one rides under a canopy.  I don't love the hill that I know is coming near the turn around point, but I also know it is that time of year.  And experience has taught me that great scenery  often comes with the price of hills and climbing.   The fields are not yet planted in those areas where the forest has gaps.   It is obvious, however, that some have been sprayed and I realize I missed the full fields of yellow flowers that delight me but cause my allergies to plague me a bit.   I come across a young Amish boy and girl carrying a basket and laugh at the two, small spotted ponies in the yard.  Later I will pass an Amish man mowing his yard with the blades whirling behind a horse.  This is a first for me.  I have often seen the Amish pushing the old, non-electric or gas mowers that you walk behind, but never where the blades were pulled by a horse.  

I reach the hill and the white ducks that appeared a year or two ago are at the bottom in a creek.  They appear to have multiplied.  I wonder that a fox or coyote has not gotten them. I begin to climb, the legs protesting as they are wont to do anymore.  Since I have been doing leg work, I know that the protest is really more mental and so I stay in the middle chain ring and force one foot to follow the other.  I try to think of how easy the miles home will be as I push into the strong winds.  And it helps.  Despite my worry, I have no trouble climbing the hill though the climb is slow.  

As expected, the ride home make me a tail wind hero, often reaching 23 or 24 mph on roads where, at this stage in my life, I would normally travel at perhaps 15 or 16 on a good day.  It feels good to fly.  I toy with stopping at the store for a snack, but decide to wait until I get home.  I have a meal planned and know I will enjoy it more hungry.  So glad I lead with my heart this time rather than going to a ride others wanted me to go to but that I felt I would not enjoy for life has taught me that rides and time are limited. So glad I got to catch yet another glimpse of spring before she dances off leaving summer behind.  So glad to be alive, to be healthy, to be on a bicycle.  So blessed. 

 

 

Nearing the End of Hiking Season

"There are things you should

notice anyway.  To live for some

future goal is shallow.  It's the sides of

the mountain that sustain life, not the top.

Here's where things grow.....but, of course,

without the top you can't have any sides. 

It's the top that defines the sides."

Robert Pirsig 

 

As I have aged, I find that I ride less in winter and hike more.  It is not that I can't ride in winter, or even that I don't ride in winter, but I ride in cold temperatures less frequently, tend to ride shorter distances, and I certainly don't enjoy it as I used to.  It is physically and mentally harder than it used to be.  The wind and cold have not changed, so I must have changed.  I suppose I am nearing the top and it will help define the stages and changes in my life.

 

 

I have often asked myself if it is the loss of the companions that I rode with throughout the winter in the past or creeping weakness and vulnerability.  The winds seem a bit more powerful.  My legs a bit weaker.  My willpower not so steeled.  Perhaps it is just because I know that I can do it, so proving it to myself and others is no longer an issue.  Regardless of the reason, it is what it is.  I no longer have a need to prove myself to anyone but me.  And perhaps it is best to have a multitude of hobbies to choose from.  Perhaps it brings a freshness to older hobbies.  Absence does, conceivably, make the heart a bit fonder, not only of people but of activities.  When spring arrives, I am longing for long, warm unhurried days on the bike and the companionship of those friends I rarely see other than in warm, bicycling weather.  By fall I am longing for the forest trails and the isolation.

 

 Instead, to keep active and not become a total winter blob, over the past few years I have started hiking more frequently in the cold months.   I enjoy the colder months in so many ways when hiking.  Less people are seen on the trail.  Ticks are fewer to non-existent.  Snakes are sleeping.  I quite enjoy plopping down on a log and opening my thermos for lunch, hot soup doing a slow creep, warming me down to my bones. I quite enjoy the starkness of the sepia landscape and how the few splotches of color here and there seem almost cartoon like and unreal.  

 

And the silence.  I enjoy the absence of sound other than crunching of leaves under my feet or the rapping of a woodpecker or the occasional rustle alongside the path by goodness knows what.  Birds will become raucous  and pervasive when spring hits, but for now there is largely a silence here.  Their song as they desperately seek mates will be one way I will know that spring is close along with the awakening of the peepers shrill clamor.  I will know that warmer weather and bicycling approaches.

 

I quite enjoy the way my lungs struggle trudging up a steep climb reminding me of my dependence upon air.  The way my calves ache during a steep climb, muscles straining to meet the demands being placed on them.  Often, particularly early in a hike, I will rush to meet the climb testing myself, knowing that my strength will normally ebb toward the summit or upon the return when the miles have left their mark on my legs.  

Of course, when Jon is with me, which is quite often, there is more sound....mostly my incessant chattering.  But it is just different somehow.  And he is quite tolerant. Usually, silence descends more surely as we get further into the hike.  And when Jon is with me, there are more demands put on these short legs.  Sometimes my shortness is a gift, when a tree has fallen and must be gone under or around, but often it is a hindrance, making me stretch to climb over it or to match my shorter strides to his longer ones, the foot or so difference in height becoming even more apparent.  Of course, we often tease each other about it.  We have been friends long enough that there are jokes between us that others would not understand.  Miles hiking or biking or perchance just time spent together gives birth to such closeness. 

 

Fortunately I live near five trailheads for the Knobstone Trail.  I don't know how long it was after I moved to this area that I became aware of the trail, but it was awhile.  It stretches for 58 miles with the loops I believe.  So many parks have trails that are only a few miles long. How glad I am to have found out about it even though there are times it kicks my butt. 

We decide to do the loop from Oxley Trail Head to Delaney Park with the idea that we can turn around or shorten the hike as needed by cutting out loops.  (This is the only part of the trail that loops). The original plan is to leave from Delaney, but Oxley is closer to my house and so the  hike starts there.  There are numerous cars in the parking lot which surprises me, but we do not run into them on the trail.  A mile or so in, Jon notices tents off to the right of the trail, and we suspect that those belong with the truck.  I don't notice, but Jon said the truck bed was filled with empty beer containers.  So we speculate that they are just camping and not hiking.  Indeed, we never see them on the trail, but their vehicles are gone from the parking lot upon our return.  

As we hike, we talk about the things that friends talk about.  The woods still seem rather dead with the occasional leaf beginning to bud out.  Jon spots and points out a few flowers, but they are not yet fully open.  And the miles pass.  We got a rather late start, so I begin to wonder about finishing before dark.  As so often happens, my imagination takes over and I picture us out there, no light, trying to find our way as not only darkness gathers around us, but the cold descends.  For it has been cold the past few days and night.  Unseasonably so.  But when we reach Delaney for the trek back, it appears all will be well barring injury or getting lost, something that could happen but is unlikely as the Knobstone is, on the whole, extremely well marked.  

 

17.7 miles later, we are back at his truck, preparing to go find nourishment.  Later I think that Mr. Persig is probably wrong in respect to a life metaphor.  Surely the sides, how we approach the top of our life, actuates the end of the long climb.  The top must be somewhat influenced by the path we take to get there and maybe even how long it takes to reach the summit.  But I suppose neither can exist without the other.  I suspect that each has a role in defining the other.  And how terrible it would be to reach the top and realize we had missed the journey, the sides, in  our quest.  Surely it is not shallow to consider the top. Regardless, it was a good day leaving me tired but sated, at least temporarily, and happy knowing that spring approaches along with long days on the bike.  Such blessings. 

Sink and Swim: 2023

"We all have our time machines.

Some take us back, they're called

memories. Some take us forward, 

they're called dreams."

Jeremy Irons

 

It is going to be perfect weather for a century ride despite the tumultuous rain that pounded the area the day before that left roads abandoned and closed in my area and took out power in others. Trees are down everywhere, unable to stand the force of winds that, in places, got up to eighty miles per hour. There is no doubt that the roads will be covered with debris. In fact, today's ride captain, Dee, is without power.  But that weather is gone. This area does not seem to flood as easily as where I live.  So the ride is on. 

 

Today it is crisp  and cool without being cold and with not too much variation in the temperature so that one has to worry about undressing and carrying throughout the day.  The sun is shining. Still, I slip on a light backpack just in case.  Weather is always unpredictable, but perhaps a bit more so this time of year. I heed the lesson learned from an earlier ride this year when I was under-dressed and rather miserable.

I like this century: Sink or Swim.  I think it is, perhaps, that best century that Larry "Gizmo" has ever put together though I am not particularly fond of the lunch spot.  There are, unfortunately, some busy roads, but many of the roads are low traffic and scenic.  There are a couple of long climbs and a couple of steep climbs, but none that will be too painful. Besides, it is time to begin building leg strength for the coming riding season. One does not realize how winter has leached strength so much until encountering a good climb.  Then the legs let you know, whining and complaining as they do every spring, asking if you aren't getting too old for this nonsense, threatening to quit but sucking it up and turning the pedals, however slowly. 

 

 

 I have memories from this century stretching back for years.  Sometime during the ride I will remind Larry of the time John Paul, he, and I rode this century and of our river swim after lunch.  So long ago, it seems like a dream. J.P. had never been in the Ohio River before.  I suspect he has not been in it since.  I KNOW he would not have gotten in without our urging. But he did it.  Oh, the power of peer pressure.  At one point, I think of Dave Combs, who no longer is able to ride, and remember riding with him one year on this exact road.  I remember eating at the gas station with Steve Rice each of us with a slice of terrible gas station pizza but downing it to keep moving.   Odd, the things the mind chooses to remember. 

 

Dee is the ride captain and  has a nice turn out.  About the perfect size group.  Small for a tour stage, but actually perfect for the day. There is Dee, Larry, Glenn, Thomas N, Tom A, Jon W., Samuel, Clint, John P., Chris, Will, and me.   All are strong, capable riders. Well, except perhaps for me.  I am definitely capable of completing the course, but I no longer consider myself strong. But I am out here.  There is that to cling to.  And I am far and away the most senior female.  Indeed, other than Dee, I am the only female.  Distance cycling seems to remain largely a male sport, at least in this area. 

I take off early in hopes of a private place along the first roads to relieve myself since, for some unknown reason, they demolished the bathrooms in the park and I drove quite a ways to get to the ride start.  Since Dee is captaining, I let her know I am taking off a bit early, but I feel certain they will catch me quickly.  Every year it gets harder to maintain a decent average no matter how hard I seem to work, but at least I am out here.  I had started to wonder if I would have to return to riding solo just because of my speed.  I don't like to feel as if I am holding others up and impacting their ride.  I think to myself that this is rather odd because of the number of times I have ridden at the back, sweeping, when I could have gone much faster.  Normally, I didn't mind.  But somehow it still bothers me that it now will be me being swept.  

 

I ride by myself  for quite awhile.  I am glad when the fast group passes and do not notice my tears.  I just found a very good friend from high school passed away and I am grieving the loss.  She was part of the childhood that will never return and enriched my life in so many ways. Her loss triggers memories that I haven't thought about for years, some good, some bad.  Indeed, despite looking forward to the ride prior to that knowledge, I had to press myself to come.  I think of my mom talking to me about how hard it was to be the last of her biological family and among the last of friends she had made.  Experience, perhaps, makes us emphasize in a way that we could not emphasize when younger.   Life is, indeed, about learning.  All too often she rubs our faces in it, recalcitrant students that we are. 

But it is hard to remain glum when the sun is shining and it is spring in the country.  The peepers sing to me.  Flowers are starting to shyly raise their faces toward the sun and bravely open themselves wide.  The grass is showing signs of greening and trees are starting to bud. Color re-enters the world. And I am on a bicycle.  How many times has my bicycle been a friend and a confidant?  How many emotions, tears and smiles and curses and laughter,  have I scattered across various roads leaving them behind.

Larry, Tom, and I ride together for a bit and enter Smithville together.  The road we are to travel is barricaded due to downed power lines.  We cross the barrier to ask about crossing and are accosted by an extremely pissed off line worker who informs us the barricade is there for a reason.  He allows us to pass however.  Tom and I try to placate him telling him how much we appreciate how hard he is working to get power re-established, but it seems to fall on deaf ears.   He mumbles something about the riders ahead of us.  I later learn that it is here that another Mad Dog earns his nickname.  He bunny hops the downed power line without seeing that there is another line that is not on the ground and is low hanging, clipping his helmet.  My understanding is that the lineman said something about him being clothes lined and a new MD nickname is given:  Clothes Line. 

Right before the first store stop, I am riding with Larry and Jon if I remember correctly when Jon's carefully packed lunch falls off the rack of his bike landing in the road. I am able to dodge it and avoid a fall, but behind us are numerous cars.  Somehow, however,  it survives intact.  The joking begins about how Jon "lost his lunch" and Chris comes up with Jon's new Mad Dog name:  Lunchbox.  

At the store stop, the twelve riders regroup.  A truck that looks as if it is held together only by rust passes.  A young man rolls down his window as he passes and yells out, "Faggots."  It makes me sad.   A bicycle would, I think, help this young man.  But of course it will never happen.

When we near the lunch stop, a small group of us decide on the gas station rather than the restaurant.  We sit joking with each other and fueling and before we are even finished, the fast riders arrive from the sit down restaurant.  We take off together.  

As we near the third store stop, I recognize it as well as some of the roads from past Kentucky brevets.  The group re-groups for the last time.  By the end, some of the riders will already have left for home.  Some of those homes will have electricity.  Others will still be without.  I pull off by myself again for awhile, pushing hard at the pedals, enjoying the feeling of my lungs and legs struggling, only to find a small group waiting at the top of the last, short but steep hill.  I debate moving on by myself, but I decide to be sociable.  I am in no rush to finish.

 

 We wait for the last of the group and arrive at the finish together after a short stop by some to reclaim clothes they had hidden along the route after shedding them early in the ride.  There is, of course, laughter and teasing about this, about Dee getting the men to strip and vice versa, and as I laugh I realize I have had a good time today.  This ride has been good for me.  Yes, I have suffered another loss magnified by memories. But this is tempered as I begin to dream of future rides and the laughter that I hope they also contain.  Once again I am forced to accept that I am, in most things, powerless. But I can dream.  There is really nothing in this world quite like a bike ride with friends, nothing. 

 

Natural Bridge 2023: A Fine Time

"Wherever I roam, nature

is the only stranger that feels

like home."

Angie Weiland-Crosby

 

 

I am looking forward to the upcoming hiking/biking trip Jon and I have planned at Natural Bridge State Park.  To my surprise, we are easily able to snare a two bedroom cabin that, while spartan, will serve our needs just fine and will be much cheaper than two cabins.  (Yes, two bedrooms.  We are friends and not lovers despite some people's belief to the contrary. Our relationship has not, and likely will not, lead to that of lovers.) And on the morning of the seventh, we take off. Since the cabin has a kitchen, we will be eating there or on the trail, so we bring food as well as clothing, bikes, firewood, etc.  Prior to the trip we discussed our menu and each contributes.  I wonder if it will all fit in my small car, but somehow it does. 

On our way there we discuss what to do when we get there.  The first thing is to see if we can check in or have to leave everything in the car.  We also stop and buy a topographical map of the Red River Gorge area.  While there, I make a joke about possibly getting lost and the man at the station tells us of a call he got a few weeks ago where a young man had fallen and broken his ankle.  He said it was supposed to get in the twenties that night and the call did not come in until late afternoon, but he did not know what happened. He also points out that these hikers were young and strong (leaving it hanging that perhaps we are none of those things).  We exchange a few more words before heading on. While getting lost is a possibility, Jon is good at reading maps and it really does not overly concern me.  We have been hiking regularly throughout the winter and often do ten to twelve miles in a day.  As far as falling and breaking an ankle, anyone that rides a bike accepts that activity brings the possibility of injury and even tragedy.  But it sure beats not living life. 

 

Due to the warm weather, we decide that we will ride the first day since the weather is lovely though quite windy and rain is predicted for the following day.  Originally, when reservations were made, I figured that we would, in all likelihood, be hiking only due to the cold weather.  Yes, I can and have ridden is some pretty cold weather.  I just find it more challenging and less enjoyable now. That is why I added hiking to my activities. I won't accept not being active at this point, but some sports are more comfortable than others in the winter. An added bonus, is that the short break from regular cycling seems to do me good mentally. And after all, the reservation is in early February.  But the forecast, while predicting some rain and wind, is ideal even reaching the sixties and seventies.  The only time I have bicycled in this area was on the TOKYO four day ride a few years ago, but I know enough from those rides to anticipate some hills.  I will not be disappointed.  What I am disappointed about when I get there is that, somehow, I have remembered everything EXCEPT my riding shoes.  

 

But I am ahead of myself.  I don't realize this until after we check in and eat our lunch. We  head out on our bikes anyway, my feet clad in running shoes.  I am not sure how this will go.  I remember Grasshopper forgetting his bike shoes and doing a brevet (I can't remember the length) and how his feet hurt at the end.  I determine that I will try it, however, and turn around if the pain is too great. Somehow, despite the small SPD knobs, I do fine unless I attempt to stand.  So I  remain seated and use granny a bit more than I might otherwise throughout the ride.  Occasionally I grin at my own stupidity.  I even remembered shoe covers, just not the shoes to put them over. 

 

This is following our laughter at the speed limit in the park.  23 mph.  Jon points it out and I giggle about it at times throughout our stay.  I don't think I have ever seen a speed limit that was not based on 5:  5 mph, 10 mph, 25 mph, etc.  I suppose it truly is no more random than any other choice the powers that be decide to assign to a road, but it seems more random because of the rareness.  This is one thing I enjoy about Jon's company:  his sense of humor and his quickness in noticing and pointing out things I might otherwise have missed.  Throughout our stay I think how lucky I am to have found a friend to share some adventures with and who enjoys many of the same things that I enjoy for it is much more fun sharing experiences.  Yes, I like and even need a certain, even a large amount, of alone time.  But I get that in my everyday life now being retired and widowed.  

Despite the wind, for once it seems a tail wind more than a head wind throughout the ride.  I assume we are sheltered here on roads that seem to run between mountains and hills.  It seems like no time before we are at Nada Tunnel.  Or at least I "think" the tunnel was before the center. I have told Jon I might walk as while I have ridden the tunnel in the past, I also have found that the darkness is a bit disorienting.  But I manage to ride through glad I remembered to bring a clip on light.  I am busy in my mind trying to connect the tunnel with previous Tokyo (Tour of Kentucky Overland, 4 days, a bit over 400 miles).  I decide, and later riding it in reverse, become even more certain that we passed through the opposite way during Tokyo as I remember the climb.  Jon talks of a time when he was there before when two cars pulled up and neither would yield causing a traffic jam.  Since Anne and he were on bicycles, they did not know how it was resolved, but someone must have yielded as well as all the cars that piled up behind them.

Shortly after, we pass what I think looks like beaver activity.  I ask if Jon minds if I stop, and as usual, he is tolerant of my request for a closer look.  It is, indeed, beaver.  Several trees of varying sizes have been felled.  What I can't understand, and still don't, is why the distance from the water rather than felling trees closer.  I then wonder  how  they cart the trees they gnaw down.  Despite the lack of foliage on the trees, when I peer at the water I see no evidence of a dam.  Damn, I think;-) 

 

 

We also stop at a small cabin right outside of closed Gladie Visitor Center.  Jon is again tolerant and does not complain that I want to see the cabin that sits nearby.  We cross a small bridge to see the cabin built in the 1800's and transported to this site.  The doors are locked and there is no access, but it is interesting to see it and to imagine who lived there.  Besides, it will give us a small rest before the long, demanding climb to Sky Bridge.  As we settle back in our saddles, I note and comment not only on how lovely it is, but on the lack of traffic.  It is as if Jon and I are the only ones on the road.  And for a time, other than three motorcycles, we see nobody.  

The climb is easier than I expect, but then I use granny the entire time to (at least this is my excuse and I'm sticking to it) protect my feet.  I find I really am enjoying the demands on my legs and lungs.  I realize how happy I am to be here, to be alive, to be healthy, to have a companion.  I also realize how grateful I am for this unseasonable warmth.  

Near the end of the ride, we do run into some traffic.  But it is not terrible and the drivers, despite it being time to go home from work, are considerate.  Day one is over all too soon, but there is dinner and a fire in the fireplace to look forward to.  Even this has an element of humor as the pork chops were a bit too close to the broiler and charred setting off the smoke alarm.  At home, I keep a step stool in my kitchen for such emergencies, but there is none here.  Fortunately, Jon, who is tall, is able to dismantle them while I have visions of fire trucks racing at top speed to drown our evening meal;-)  Despite the charring, the meal is delicious and afterwards we chat a bit then watch the State of the Union before drifting off to bed.  

The next day we decide to combine riding and hiking as the warm weather and new roads are too hard to pass on.  We hike first going to Gray's Arch.  In places, I find myself reminded of Scotland when we pass boulders and fallen trees covered with a rich, green moss.  In fact, yesterday, we passed a road by the name of Glencairn and now I spend a bit of time speculating on the reason why.  My guess is that someone who immigrated from Scotland settled here as the area reminded him of his home, but of course, I tend to romanticize things at times.  Still, I suspect most of us suffer from homesickness when we make moves,  particularly those who switch countries.  It takes a certain kind of bravery, I conjecture, to pack up and leave ones home and friends and all that is familiar.  A line from a song from elementary school Music class comes to mind: "Oh, Erin must be leave thee driven by a tyrant's hand? Must we ask a Mother's welcome from a strange and distant land?"  (Dion Boucicault)

As we begin the climb up to the arch (not the top but the top of the underside) we hear a voice warning us that there is a dog up there in case we don't like dogs.  We find two men and a black lab looking dog who is friendly in a way that only dogs can be.  He greets us as if we were old friends that he has not seen for an eternity before resuming regular dog business of smelling and exploring. They head down before us and we spend a few moments taking photos of the scenery to give them time to forge ahead.  We later learn they returned to their car and were not doing the longer hike. 

We pass trees shooting roots down around rocks, victims of where they landed as seeds and I think about the urge to cling to life. We see roots where soil has eroded away leaving them desperately trying to adapt.  Again, something perhaps, that all living creatures, plant and animals do, this clinging.  We see rhododendron everywhere, running rampant, getting ready to bloom, and I think how lovely it will be in just a few weeks when color begins to seep back into the world shucking off winter and leaving it behind.  And I realize that Ms. Weiland-Crosby is right.  This feels right, one leg following the other through woods that are unfamiliar to me yet seem like home, a heritage.  At one point, we stop to savor our lunch.  Both of us have soup that Jon made in our thermoses, can combined with a peanut butter sandwich, we refuel. 

After the hike, we head out on a shorter, backwards version, of yesterday's ride.  It is colder and the wind bites a bit deeper, but it is still lovely.  I determine that this is, indeed, the direction from which we approached the tunnel on Tokyo.  After stopping briefly before the tunnel to photograph a small waterfall, we come to the tunnel.  This time there are cars.  This time I walk my bike through most of the tunnel.  My foot begins to ache a bit so I become glad that we near the end of our ride.  Plus, I am getting hungry.  I think of how hungry I would get when we used to go to Hell Week, day after day of century riding turning my appetite almost wolfish and insatiable.  Still, it is nice  to actually feel hungry and to need food.  I wonder how much of our eating is fueled by boredom/loneliness/inactivity.  

 

We decide to just hike the last day due to the high winds, and indeed they are strong.  We start by climbing to the top of Natural Bridge and then do a 12 mile loop.  As we walk, I think how natural, no pun intended;-), it feels to be out here in the woods.  I am, however, glad there is a path for else-wise I fear I would be hopelessly lost.  Learning to navigate by compass has been one of those winter chores that I always think I will have time to do while it is cold and dreary out yet never seem to accomplish.  Such a long list of things many of which will never get done.  

 

We pass through groves of Rhododendron so thick that the are all you can see on both sides of the path.  Indeed, in places someone has cut them back.  We come across a board that has the tracks of what appear to be a large Bobcat on boards laid down covering a muddy spot that I promptly slip and fall into.  At one point, there is a mile or so of sporadically, large areas where something has been pawing at and moving leaves.  We see no tracks to give us a clue, but they are large areas and obviously some animal has moved them.  I wonder if it is a black bear coming out of hibernation and looking to refuel an empty belly.  

 

We sit on a log and have our lunches:  soup an peanut butter sandwiches.  Shortly thereafter a lone female hiker appears.  I suggest we allow her to pass as I assume she will be faster than we are, or should I say, I am, for she is much younger.  And she does keep up a good pace.  But near the end, we catch and pass her as we near the end. I tease Jon about losing the gazelle to follow and note that her gait was, indeed, graceful.  He suggests that perhaps she is a runner, and I think of a girl from the county named Chrissy Johnson whose running was so gloriously light and beautiful I could have watched for hours.  Her brothers were the same. As if their feet just briefly touch earth to prove they are, indeed, human.  It is then we see a sign someone has put up as a trail marker designating the area as "the naked mile."  This is not too far out from Natural Bridge.  We decide it is a prank but it brings a grin to both of our faces.  

 

And then it is over and time to go home.  The drive, despite good company, begins to seem interminable, particularly when we hit a traffic jam near Lexington.  Waze takes me through part of the city to bypass it, but it is still slow going.  Myriad thoughts pass through my mind on the drive because I know what my feelings will be when I get home from past experiences.  I will be happy to be home in familiar surroundings, to have a cat on my lap purring.  Yet there will be a sadness that the adventure has come to an end and a yearning for just another day.  And there will be tiredness from all the physical activity, but a good tiredness that left memories and, hopefully, greater strength.  And yet again, as I have thought so often during the trip, I think how very blessed I have been having health and friendship.  Yeah, it was fun.