Steve Montgomery's Lexington LeRoy Century

"God give me hills to climb,

And strength for climbing!"

Arthur Guitermen 

 

It is going to be a great day for a ride.  The weather has turned unseasonable cool,  the skies are overcast, but it is still warm enough for just shorts and a jersey.  The course is one I have not ridden for a few years, a course I  put together in honor of an old friend, Steve Montgomery, who wanted a ride that went through Bethlehem but where lunch was at LeRoy's in Lexington.  Unfortunately, he no longer rides, but  this route will always bring him back to my mind. Of course, that was back when LeRoy still owned LeRoy's.  Now it is owned by others and, unfortunately, has changed.  LeRoy and Bernice kept the store neat as a pin.  The new owners,  not so much.   Indeed, I debated putting this century on because of the changes, but decided it would be okay.  I have done too much curb side dining to be too particular.  If you are going to ride, you have to eat.

 

And so, off I go to the ride start.  I know two are coming, but I also know it will be a small crowd.  It is not a tour stage and only the tour stages draw large crowds of riders. In some ways, I prefer that.  It is rather nice when people take a bit of time on a century to talk and tend to stay together at least part of the time. I smile inwardly thinking of Lynn Roberts and his words after a century where we went less than 14.  At the end he said something to the effect that he did not know you could do a century and still feel so good at the end.  Pace and route, do matter.  As I remember it, that route was a medium in difficulty but it was a long time ago and that route went defunct as the middle store stop went out of business.  Today's route a bit more challenging hill wise.

 

"To everything there is a season." (Ecclesiastes).  There are times to ride hard and times to ride at an easy  pace.  I smile when Mike "Sparky" Pitt comes to mind remembering him talking about a pace line on a ride and telling me there was nobody's butt he wanted to look at that long.  With the challenging hills, I hope for a moderate pace:  not snail like but also not where I feel like dying at the end.  And it happens.  There are hills, wonderful for training and for the scenery they bestow, and for today I have the strength to climb  despite issuing a disclaimer at the start that there was one I just might end up walking.  

 

Those who are coming are capable riders and are not whiners.  (They leave that for me;-)  Chris Quirey also shows, and I know he also is strong and competent.  It is a nice mix with two extremely strong climbers and two of us who are more moderate in our pace.  There is Jon Wineland, Steve Meredith, Chris Quirey, and myself.  Yet neither of the two stronger riders are the kind who are impatient riding a bit more slowly than is their norm or uncomfortable with going ahead.  One problem I have run across as an older, slower ride captain is that some people feel they must stay back with me despite my assurances that I am fine and they should go ahead.  This can be miserable for both as I try to go faster than I should so as not to be a burden and they go slower than they want to go or are comfortable going, particularly if they have somewhere to be after the ride.  

 

This is really not a good course for a first century for most people. (says she who did the Old Kentucky Home 102 Time Trial as her first century;-)  The store stops are oddly spaced and it is quite hilly, particularly the last third of the course with the climb out of Bethlehem and the climb into Charlestown on Tunnel Mill and then all the short, steep climbs back to Henryville that seem unrelenting to tired legs. Today this concern is not an issue.  Yes, anyone can have an issue, mechanical or physical, that impairs their ability to finish, particularly in the heat of summer,  but barring anything unforeseen and unpreventable, it won't be this strong group who are all seasoned.

 

The first climb in a moderate one up Liberty Knob and then it is off to Flatwood.  The irony of the name does not escape me, for Flatwood has quite a nice little climb on it, but I do love the road though hate it that a house or two have gone up that block what was  once a wonderful view.   Everyone seems to be content to be out here, on their bikes, taking in the green while it is still here and, in places, vibrant.  Indeed I am shocked a bit further on the ride when I note a corn field that is ready for harvesting, stalks and leaves withered and brown, some ears facing downward.  I then notice some of the soybean fields are browning around the edges.  But most or the corn or soybeans still are far from being ripe for the harvest.  I know what is coming:  fall. 

As always, fall will be beautiful.  As always, my legs, despite still being strong, will push the pedals slower and slower.  Speed will being to be too much of an effort despite the cooler temperatures.  There will be chilly mornings and warmer afternoons.  Jackets, arm warmers, and leg warmers will begin to appear.  I will pull out my work gloves to put over my short finger gloves.  But not yet.  Soon, but not yet.  I think that I wish it is a beautiful fall.  Still rather morbid from all the loss, I realize that every season could be last and I want to soak them up inside my heart.  I have been so privileged to experience so many seasons and so many personalities on the bike.  I don't take this lightly or without being grateful. This year the retired group has had most of their rides on Wednesdays, which often don't work well for me, but I am grateful for the days I could participate.

After the first store stop we continue to Lexington where we sit outside at a picnic table eating our lunches.  Flies and yellow jackets abound,  but we remain outside despite their constant interference.  A few jokes and stories are told, and then it is back on the bike heading toward Bethlehem and the worst of the climbs.  I find that neither Chris nor Steve have climbed out of Bethlehem in this direction.  Jon thinks it is the hardest way to climb out.  I think I agree.  I grin thinking of Paul on an earlier ride this year where we climbed out the way we normally enter.  He griped the entire way yet never faltered in pushing the pedals.  As  I pointed out to him, when a group of us did the Bethlehem Century in the spring, a group of young men were at the top of the climb resting from their exertions.  Paul and Mike, in their seventies, did not rest nor did the rest of us, all in our sixties I believe.  Before my world crashed yet again.  Before  I struggled back onto my knees trying to stand once again.

We descend the hill into Bethlehem that we  normally climb out on and I realize I forgot to warn Chris that the road the route is plotted on was taken over by the quarry and a new road was built a few years ago.  Google Maps just has not yet caught up with the changes.  Sure enough, I come upon Jon stopped waiting for Chris.  I text him to head back this way and shortly thereafter here he comes. I  get to the new turn just in time to see Steve riding off in the wrong direction.  He hears me and turns around, and we are together until the climb when Jon and Chris leave us as if we are standing still.  But I do not walk.  Nobody walks.  And I realize the coolers temperatures have made the climb much easier than  it normally seems.  Still, it is not the last climb.  There will be Tunnel Mill and then a series of short but constant climbs between Charlestown and Henryville.

Still, while my legs are complaining at the demands I have placed upon them, they are not screaming at me to stop.  And I know that they grow stronger, hopefully strong enough to last the fall riding season before I largely place the bike aside in order to hike.   Jon and Chris are in the parking lot when Steve and I pull in and the ride is complete, somewhere between 104 and 105 miles at a pleasant pace.  I am tired, but not exhausted.  Perhaps, tonight, sadness will not haunt me as I continue to climb away from grief and self pity.  Truly, I am blessed.  Blessed with friends, blessed with health, blessed with bicycles.  God, help me to count my blessings and not my deficits. 

Future PBP?

"A goal without a plan

is just a wish."

Antoine de Saint-Exupery 

It has been a steamy hot, humid week, filled with ragweed, so once again I steal out of the house quite early to get a ride in before it becomes miserably tropical.  Today I pick the Surly though I have no intention of seeking gravel.  What makes us pick a certain bike on a certain day?  Sometimes it is the route we intend to take, and sometimes it is just as if that bike calls to us.  Sometimes we find we have picked the right bike for the path we find ourselves on, and other times we think another would have been a better choice.  Regardless, like many choices, you just deal with the choice you have made.  Today's choice is perfect.  Today the Surly fits just fine though the SRAM shifters, while shifting so clean and crisply,  test my finger strength.

 

  I just want to get a ride in.  It is still hard to force myself out the door.  Grief is still my constant companion and urges me to stay home and wallow, but I have had lots of  practice with telling grief no.  I will not dishonor this precious gift of health and life that way, to make a mockery of the very gift that has been taken from others.   I can not yet make grief stay home when I leave, but that will come with time.   

 

I don't know that I believe that time  heals all wounds, but we eventually learn accept the dismemberment bestowed.  If we are lucky, perhaps, we learn a lesson from our grief.  In the end, I have concluded that the best way to honor those that went before is to live life as fully and as gratefully as we can while accepting that we are human and will have times of sadness and regret, times when the beauty of the world surrounds but eludes us somehow.    It is best to live so that maybe one day, when it is our turn to move onward, others will learn from how we lived and accepted the events and traumas that life has bestowed upon us and honor our passing.  

 

Everything is still very green despite the heat, and I think how very much I will miss it.  Time passes so quickly any more it seems I blink my eyes and summer has vanished leaving only a memory.  As I ruminate, I come across a large orange and white cat, lazily draped across the road soaking up the heat. He notices my approach, turns his head and stares for a moment, dead still in the way only a cat can be still, then stalks haughtily off the road, obviously angry at being disturbed in the midst of a fine nap.  A short time later, a flash that I identify as a ground hog scuttles nervously to a hidey hole at the road side.  Then, just a moment later, there is a fawn in the road.   "Where," I think, "is your mama?"  Mama is right around the bend.  The fawn takes off to my right, mama to the left, and I hear her snort.  I worry about the small size of the fawn.  Was it a runt or did mom have a late pregnancy?  I am not sure when deer season starts, but this fawn still seems to need it's mother.  A line from "The Yearling" comes to mind, "The wild animals seemed less  predatory to him than people he had known." 

 

I wonder if the snort means something.  Anyone who has been around animals much know that they do communicate though it is certainly not always or even usually through sounds.    Beware the horse that has his ears flat, pressed backwards against his  neck.  Beware the warning growl of a dog who feels you are riding much to closely to his yard.

 

At this point, I am near the big hill that I either need to climb or to not climb depending on if I want to retrace my route.  I decide to climb.  The Surly is heavier than my other bike, but it also has easier climbing gears despite the fact the Lynskey has a triple and the Surly does not.  I climb and find it is not overly stressing me.  Indeed, it feels quite lovely, the way the hills test my thighs and, even more so, my lungs.  I settle into a regular breathing pattern as I tend to do on hills, and before you know it, I have crested the top. The difficulty of climbs depends so much not only on the grade, but also on how quickly you are determined to get to the top of it.  Today I just relax and spin, not worrying about time or speed.   "Lovely," I think, for because of the climb later in the ride I will have a two mile downhill that I enjoy.  Suddenly it comes to mind that on brevets, one thing that always encouraged or discouraged me, depending on the scenario, was that each hill you climbed you would descend and vice versa. 

 

And then I begin to think about Paris Brest Paris and the people I know that were there this year. I got very excited for them and envious of their adventures.  For the first time since my husband passed, I truly wished I were there, and I realize it is not only because of the people I know riding, but because of the people I don't know.  Memories of the experience float through my head tauntingly and making me question if I could,  indeed, complete the course once again.  I think that I could physically, but could I once again obtain the mental fortitude that is necessary to be successful because anyone who rides brevets knows how  important that becomes at the longer distances, that ability to dig deep within oneself and move onward. And could I physically with my seeming inability to recover as quickly as I once did?

 

I toy with the idea the rest of the ride and decide that perhaps, depending on circumstances, I will rejoin RUSA and ride some brevets next year to see how I do.  When I get home, I try to look up the age of the oldest female to complete PBP.  I find the oldest American woman was Elizabeth Wicks who was age 75.   I believe she had a coach to give her direction and was probably a much stronger rider than me to begin with.   But I will only be 71,  so I will have a four year advantage over her. The oldest male was Jean Guillot at age 86.  I never find who the oldest woman was overall.  I do find it interesting in my bit of research to find that 2007, the first year I rode PBP, had the worst weather since 1956, the year of my birth.  How well I remember my husband urging me forward before the ride as I hesitated.  He reminded me that I will become too old to do these things that I love.  It is one reason I continue to ride centuries regularly, because when I stop it will most likely be for good.   So, the question remains, am I too old for PBP and brevets?

 

All this is, at this point, is a pipe dream, or a wish, without a real plan.  Reality comes with plans.  And there would not be the forgiveness that past planning had. My first PBP I rode out too hard but was able to recover with a few hours of sleep. That would probably not be the case again. If I ride out too hard, I will be done. 

 

 Will my desire remain?  Will my current abilities remain that long? I have noticed that  age brings with it one aspect of childhood, changes happen rapidly.   Firsts begin to be more frequent, but rather than it being the first time one does something, it changes to the first time one can't quite do something. Travel and planning the travel is stressful for me, not something that I really enjoy.  I near home and think that if I do decide to try this crazy thing again, in my  mind I will dedicate the ride to all those I have lost. For while I have eluded grief for a bit on this ride, I know it will return. Could I, should I, dream of PBP?  Perhaps I should, but also realize that it is, without a definite plan, still a dream.  And that is okay too. 

Dead and Broken

On the Loss of Victor R. Smith:

And so it is, with the loss of my last brother, Victor Smith, two days ago, I become an only child that once had four siblings. I suppose, being an orphan as well, with both parents deceased, this does not count. I certainly did not expect his loss, or at least not this soon, and I struggle. I find this odd because of all my siblings, we probably were the least close. We didn't hate each other and weren't angry with each other, but we were just very, very different sharing little in the way of interests though he did begin riding a bicycle a bit a few years back. Our lives went such different directions.

 

 

But for there to be no one left. No one left who remembers the sound of my mother singing as she did her household chores. No one left who remembers the stories she told us or the feel of her hands when you got sunburned and she applied a cooling ointment. No one left who remembers my father fixing things and his gentle rumblings around the house as he prepared to go to work at the hospital for doctors back then did rounds in the morning.

 

 

There is nobody left to remember the old family stories like the one about Chris getting out of the car and the gas station during vacation and our parents driving off and leaving him as they thought he was asleep in the back of the car. There is nobody left to remember the time I picked Victor for my Birthday King knowing I had hurt his feelings as I first was going to pick Tim Slater, his friend, who I thought was incredibly handsome. There is nobody left to remember the story about Marc deciding to camp up the road in a neighbor's yard that we didn't know even taking his own toilet paper. There is nobody left to remember Pam looking and buying clothing by price tag rather than by what looked the best or playing country music long before it was popular. There is nobody left to remember the time Dad dressed as Santa Claus and scared the dickens out of me. While they tended to me, the dog got on the table and ate the steak we were going to have for dinner that evening. It is, indeed, as if my childhood were severed from me, becoming more like a novel I read long ago than an experience I had that shaped and molded me and that I treasure. And I mourn. It is just too sad. I have lost so much.

 

 

Sleep well, brother. I have always loved you. You left too soon. Too young. Tell everyone hello and give them hugs. The caboose is still here waiting for her turn. Fly, Vee, fly.

 

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The funeral was yesterday and it is done.  Today, in an attempt to heal, I force my leg over the Surly and go seeking gravel knowing there will be solitude there.  I remember this feeling.  How one becomes dead inside for the longest time, broken somehow.  There is nothing anyone can do, though a few somehow manage to bypass the wall I have erected inside with a few words of comfort: a text from Paul, a card from Sharon, an email from Jon, a hug from Tiffany.   In the end, we are  helpless in the face of death.  My sympathy goes to my brother's wife because how well I remember how people, as they should, begin to go about their lives and reality hits like a sledgehammer.

I know it is beautiful here despite the growing heat.  It has been a cooler week and there has been rain enough that water lines the road in places.  The gravel has been recently raked and is rough, shaking me to my very bones, but I do not yield quickly to the temptation of pavement.  It is enough to feel......something, even discomfort.  

The Ironweed is beginning to bloom.  It seems early.  I think that I will remember my brother from now on when I see Ironweed.  Bumblebees are working it and I notice the Sumac is near bloom.  Fall approaches when it seems summer has just begun.  I pause for a moment to eat the peanut butter sandwich I have brought along as I expect no store stops on this ride.  I spot road treasure.  A large Yeti Jug that someone evidently lost.  

Taking my bandana out of my pant leg (I keep it there as I can easily reach it to wipe sweat) I tie it to the rack on the back of the Surly.  After some internal debate, as it is hot and I am sweating, I also remove the bandana around my forehead and use it as an anchor as well. 

I decide to abandon my ride and return home.  For today it is enough that I made myself head out the door.  Time will heal.  Bicycles will help. My heart will once more soak in the beauty God puts before me and send it directly to my heart.  But for now, I am broken and dead inside. 

Solitude and Rest

"Solitude is a breeding ground 

for idiosyncrasy, and I relish that

about it,  the way it liberates

whim."

Caroline Knapp

I belong to two bicycle clubs, and both have rides that interest me today, but a part of me urges me to decline both and do a gentle, easy, meandering type ride with no demands upon pace or conversation.  To soak in the summer that is relentlessly passing. To go at my own pace with no thought to others.  For these are the types of rides that often renew my love of cycling.  The decision is easy when Mike posts a difficult ride.  The other ride, a lunch ride to Stream Cliff, is not so easy to decline, but I need some alone time.

 

Years have taught me that I need to listen not only to my body, but my mind.  The body will tell you it is tired and needs to stop before it actually does, and there are times to push that limit, but the mind has needs too.  Recovery, both physical and mental, is important.  There is only so far one can push while still benefiting. 

It does not take long for  me to realize I made the right decision.  With a century Saturday, a 55 miler Tuesday with lots of climbing, and a fast paced 50 mile ride on Wednesday, not only my body but my mind is ready for a break.  Particularly with a difficult century scheduled for Sunday. Eden/Delaney Park road beckons and I follow the call knowing that I will get  peace and solitude there.  

I love the way the trees canopy the road, letting only patches of sunshine through to jigsaw the road.  And I know this road well enough to know that the shade does not hide anything dangerous.  The road is not flat, but every climb and descent is a gentle one, at least until one nears Salem.  That will be the big decision of the day.  Whether to climb or turn around.  Sweet clover lines the roads that are not busy enough for the county mowing machines to decimate, and I think of how I would have told Lloyd about them after a ride because bees love the wild sweet clover. 

While there is payback for the climb in  the form of a two mile descent later in the ride, when I get there and start to climb I change my mind and turn around.  This is a fasted ride and I will still get in about 45 miles before returning home.  My belly starts to remind me that it is hungry, and a candy bar and drink with Amos is not a good way to end a fast.  Also there is lots of climbing to be done on Sunday's century.

I think of my brother, who passed about a year ago, and wonder if anyone else things of him or misses him.  I think of others that have passed.  And I realize that I owe it to them to live well, or as best I can, for they did not get a chance to do so.  So many.  Lynn recently pointed out that I had more loss then anyone should have in such a short period of time and he is right.  Since 2014 my husband, two brothers, a sister, a mother, a best friend, a nephew.  Sometimes it is hard to remain upright and not feel sorry for myself, and once again I am thankful for friends and bicycles.  

Today was not a friend day.  Today I needed time alone, to think, to pray, to miss those that have passed.  Perhaps, without realizing it, I owed my brother this day, because how sad it would be not to  be missed and remembered.  Yet again  I realize how our choices in life, how we treat others, how we view the world, impacts us and others around us.  Once again I realize that I have been blessed. 

The Adjective Century

"Rain is grace; rain

is the sky descending to the

earth; without rain, there

would be no life."

John Updike

 

I check a few times to see if the century is canceled due to the prediction for rain and possible storms, but it is not.  So I pack my things, double checking for rain gear, a rain cap and a waterproof phone case.  Then I head out.  I decide not to pack my rain jacket as the rain is not supposed to arrive until the afternoon and it should be hot by them.  I do pack a small, disposable poncho, something I try to carry during the summer when storms can pop up suddenly and without warning.    

 

Too well I remember a hot summer ride where the rain caught us on what was a sweltering day reducing us to a mob of shivering, miserable cyclists....at least until we bought and adorned ourselves in white, plastic garbage bags, tearing a hole for head and arms:  the time I joked about riding with white trash.  I think it was the first time, at least that I remember, where I was so cold my body shuddered in strong, involuntary contractions in an attempt to warm itself. To this day, I wonder why they make some trash bags white.  Seems rather an odd choice of colors for the task.  Like the time I wore a white dress on a first date and we went for barbecue ribs which I promptly spilled onto my lap. 

 

I like most of this century; however, I greatly dislike the unnecessary section on River Road.  River Road is a dangerous road with impatient motorists and no shoulder for a cyclist to move over.  But it is what it is and there is only three to four miles on it.  Still, considering it and the coming rain, I decide to ask the ride captain if I am able to start the ride early.  Sam says yes and so off I go leaving the others in the parking lot.  Steve Rice, Mark R., Dave King, and Steve Meredith catch me a bit down the road having left early as well.  

 

As I ride through neighborhoods, a solitary woman on a bike, I think how nice it is to leave early, before traffic has become too thick.  It is so peaceful.  I like riding in the morning while much of the world is sleeping or gathered around the table eating breakfast.  The neighborhoods are wrapped in quietness other than bird song and the occasional dog disturbed by my unexpected passage or an unidentified rustling in the bushes. Everything is lush and vibrant nurtured by the moistness and rain that has haunted this area recently and seems to show no sign of abating.  "One of those summers," I think. I am glad it was  not my decision to have or to cancel the ride today with summer being so unpredictable.  Summer flowers adorn green lawns in bright colors.  Even humid, hot, rainy summers have their benefits I suppose.

 

Despite the coolness of morning, it is obviously  humid.  Even with the flatness of the first part of the course, my skin begins to glow.   If only the moisture would sink in and revitalize my skin, I think.  I have never considered myself to be particularly vain, maybe because I know that while I am not ugly, I am not a beauty, but I dislike the coming of crepey skin.  Of course, cycling is hard on the skin.  And I  have done a lot of cycling.  A song reaches my lips despite those thoughts and I find my rhythm, the one I know that I can maintain for a hundred miles barring something unforeseen. 

 

Before they catch me, I think about where on the course I will probably be when the rain hits.  I speed my pedal stroke thinking to  minimize my chances of getting a good soaking.  I really don't mind rain, though, in the summer. I only truly mind the storms or torrential downpours that impact visibility and my ability to see and my ability to brake if needed or the downpours that leave you shivering cold to the point where even pedaling can't warm you.  Indeed, as I told a friend who rode yesterday rather than today because of the rain, better a rain ride and some coolness than that blasted heat that saps my strength so quickly and so thoroughly.  He does not agree.  

I hurry through the first store stop after eating my homemade blueberry oatmeal bar and Annette Melecio, a triathlete, John Pelligrino, and Dave King come with me.  They ask about Steve and Mark, but I really didn't notice if they had already left the store stop.  Dave says he is in training for PBP and getting in and out of controls or stops rapidly. (He will forget this by the third store stop where Annette, John, and I roll out without him while he finishes a milk shake). Dave's relationship with food always amazes and charms me.  Dave and Steve are both headed back to PBP this year and I feel a momentary tinge of regret for not being part of it, but I just don't want to be that tired again.  Twice, I think, is enough.

The first climb is Liberty Knob and I warn them about the dogs at the top.  There is a group of three or four of them that always come out.  I have talked to the owner about them and others have talked with the owner about them, but he is unwilling and/or unable to control them.  They have never bitten a cyclist that I know of, but they can be quite scary.  There are times when I change my route to avoid them. I am wary of groups of dogs like I am groups of people:  both do things in groups that they would never do individually.  Today, however, they are not as bad as usual.  Perhaps, I think, because the stronger riders have already passed this way and wore them out.  Even dogs seems to grow lazy in this humid heat.  

The second climb is William's Knob, better known to me as Bill's Knob as it is on my Marengo  Mangler ride and I would tease my friend, Bill, about it. Teasing.  I think that perhaps it is a sign of a good relationship so long it is not hurtful.  The climb is not quite as long as Liberty, but a bit steeper.  Since my left knee has been bothering me a bit the past few rides, I decide to drop into my triple, something I don't normally do on this climb.  It is newly paved which makes climbing it easier.  I tell the group Sam said there is now a dog residing at the top, and there is; however, he never leaves his yard.  

And now is the time to look forward to the descent on Daisy Hill, the one that always amuses me as a cyclist will almost inevitably being going MUCH faster than the speed limit when the hill ends.  I always envision a  law enforcement officer with his radar gun pulling over cyclist after cyclist. This is the hill that last year, people worried that Tom Askew had gone down on as he did not show for the lunch stop.  (He just missed the stop as it is not right on the course and rode onward).  After the descent, we go to Subway but there is a long line of the faster riders waiting to be served so we head a few streets over to a local cafe for lunch.  

It turns out we arrive prior to lunch.  They tell us food will be quick, and it is.  In the end, however, it does not matter as while we are eating the skies open up, thunder cracks, lightening flares, and rain comes down in a torrent.  We wait until the worst of it passes and head out into a drizzle.  Dave has a rain jacket, I have a cheap emergency poncho that I usually carry on the bike, and Annette and John (with some help from Annette) adorn trash bags donated by the restaurant. 

I worry that we will overheat on the climb that comes almost immediately after the lunch stop, but needlessly.  The air has chilled and I am glad to have my poncho.  It is not too long after, however, that I decide I am starting to sweat inside and stop to take off so as not to dehydrate.  It also reduces the enormous drag that being inside a plastic bubble has on forward movement.  And we are moving.  Each of us seems intent on a fast (for me) pace.  It is cold starting out, but soon the work of the ride warms me.  Annette and John have followed suit removing their trash bags.  We save our plastic just in case, but we never need it. The rain has cooled things down making the ride much more pleasant.

We roll into the third store stop thinking the fast group is in front, but they pull in as we (well, all except Dave) are finishing a quick bite and drink.  I worry about Chris Embry not being in the fast group, but I know he had a rather serious fall.  What I did not know....what he did not know until later....is that he is riding with broken ribs.  (Been there, done that).   In the end, we will end up finishing with this group, but only because they waited at lunch until the rain stopped whereas we did not.  The hills are getting to our legs.  Though there are no significant climbs after the climb to Rake Road right after lunch, there are lots of rollers.  And we have been pushing.   

The end is a whirl.  I end up finishing with Thomas Nance's group only because they have to stop at a stop light, but as I look around at that light I realize that I probably have children as old or older than some of the riders.  For a 67 year old woman, I suppose I did okay.  The rain actually helped by keeping the temperature down.  I just suffer anymore when it is really hot, and my pace shows it.  I vow not to ride so  hard the next century, but who knows.  What a blessing to have the health to ride, slowly or quickly, and ride for a hundred miles.  Is there any better way to spend the day?  And thank goodness for the rain that not only cooled us for the effort, but will lend her beauty to future rides by keeping everything so verdant.

A Hot One

"I am cruel thirsty

this hot weather.....

Nothing makes me so 

excessively peevish as 

hot weather."

Jonathan Swift 

The strange weather this year continues.  Suddenly it is July and it is hot.  The bouts of colder weather have not allowed my body to adapt, and I suffer.  This is particularly so because of the high dew point from all the rain and storm activity here recently.  Or in other words, it is humid.  It is the kind of humid that often, particularly during climbs when speed is lower, ones skin glows from sweat that the body has produced to try to cool you but that doesn't because it cannot evaporate.  It's the kind of ride that makes one dream of large, ice filled glasses of water and cool showers and air conditioning.  It's the kind of ride where your throat feels parched no matter how much you drink and the water, warmed by the weather, is as warm as drinking your own urine would be.  

But we are riding to lunch at Stream Cliff and it is only a bit over fifty miles one way.  So there will be a break in the middle.  But the initial climb out of Madison is a tough one and a long one.  My legs still are weak from yesterday's hot century.  And I suffer a bit before we reach the top.  I just don't recover as quickly as I used to, and it shows.  I always lag behind Jon on climbs regardless, but today is worse than usual.  At least there is another rider, Ken, closer to my own speed so I don't feel like such a drag.  

Lunch is, as always, delicious and not overly crowded.  I have become very fond of their blueberry salad.  It is nice to talk and relax and drink cold water before climbing on our bikes for the return trip.  How nice it would be, I think, to just take a nap now that my stomach is full and my need for conversation briefly sated.  

 

The return trip, though not as hilly, is even hotter.  By the time we reach Madison, I am more than ready to get off my bike, the bike that , yet again, is NOT allowing me to shift into the big ring.  It happens so often any more. Jon is kind and adjusts the limit screw.  I toy with the idea of suggesting a drink before heading home, but I am weary and don't.  Glad I rode, but the heat is making me tired and peevish, so home I go to luxuriate in a shower and as much ice cold water to drink as I can hold.  Tomorrow is, after all, another day.  And I am blessed to have a home to go to. 

The Overnight to Gasth0f Amish Village

"He feels that there must be something

wrong when anything worth while can

be obtained without a struggle. Fighting his

way to triumph, overcoming obstacles,  gives this 

man pleasure. Difficulties are a tonic to him.

He likes to do hard things because it tests

his strength."

Orson Swett Marden 

I decide that I want to put on my overnight to Gusthauf Amish Village in  Montgomery, Indiana though it is not a popular ride.  Despite my fight against it, age is relentless sapping my strength, greedily grabbing more with each passing year. The best way that I know to battle this inevitable loss, to stick my tongue out at it  and to slow it down  is to assiduously push my limits as best I can.   And it is fulfilling to test limits, particularly if they have not receded as far as one thought they might. But this push needs to be balanced against being overly zealous and getting injured or destroying the love I have for cycling and movement.  Riding a bike should be a pleasure, not an encumbrance. And it is somewhat limited by the responsibilities that each of us must shoulder. In my case,  largely the cats:  a mixed blessing and curse.

 

I believe, when I first schedule it, that this will be my good-bye visit to this route.  It is a difficult route with quite a bit of climbing and some gravel, though not so much as when I first went exploring.  Each year it seems more paving has been done. Back to back centuries are always tough, and this is no exception.  I always wonder if I will be able to complete it again or will have to call in the rescue wagon.   I want to test my strength, to revel in what is left of it and to judge the rate it is receding.

 

 But as I get takers for the ride, something I rather did not expect, I see the gravel disappear to meet their desires rather than my own and I realize that while it is a good-bye, it is most likely a goodby to having company for the route.  I need a good-bye that includes the gravel and the little bits of scenery that shake me to my core sometimes even causing me just to stop for a moment in wonder and delight or to tear up with reverence and admiration for this world that God has bestowed upon us. 

 

Without a soul mate, I think, to leave this course behind, I need the ride to be completely solo the way the ride was originally done though perhaps without the surprises that  new routes often have, something that has always delighted me even while, at time, it worried me and caused consternation. I need to feel the route and yield to any urge I might have to loiter or to deviate and explore or to  take a photograph or rest in the shade for a moment or just think to myself, "I need to remember this.  I need to remember this minute and how I feel.  I need to be grateful."  

 

Lloyd would have somehow understood I think.  Or perhaps I phrase that incorrectly.  He may not have understood, but he would have understood that it was important to me.  And what was important to me somehow became important to him as well.  How I miss being homed in his arms.  How I wish he could have shared more adventures.  Recently I assured someone I have moved on, but does one ever truly move on?  Or do we just pretend because we can't change it?

Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled at the company and fine with the changes in exchange for the experience of sharing the road and my route with fellow travelers and lovers of distance cycling, at least this time.  But I have good-byes to make.  Perhaps, however, they are further in the distance than I anticipate.  Perhaps I will even do the trip again sometime with companions.  For while the course is difficult, particularly with my knobby tires and loaded bike, I never have any doubt of being able to finish and I manage to climb and not walk any of the hills.  Yes, I am tempted a few times, but I don't, mostly to prove to myself that I don't need to because there is, of course, no shame in walking at times.  Indeed, it can be the smart thing to do, the thing that allows success rather than failure. 

 

 

It turns out there are four of us that  head out:  Jon Wineland, Steve Meredith, and Glen Smith.  I have known Jon and Steve for awhile.  Both are strong and capable riders with a history of doing distance rides.  I do not really know Glen though I know he is a strong rider.  He has never done back to back centuries if I understand him correctly. 

 

Without the gravel, I am at a distinct disadvantage with my bike and the knobby tires and would, I believe, be able to ride faster on a road bike, loaded or not.   And my bike IS heavy.  I don't weight it, but I struggle to pick it up near the rear. The others are all on road bikes.  The others are younger.  The others are male and stronger.  But I am okay with that.  And weather permitting, I may veer off the beaten path for some gravel.  For me, it is not about the speed. The only time the speed bothers me is knowing that my slowness bothers others.  Other than beating the storm the second day, on this trip I have no need to hurry.  I don't want to hurry.   I want to soak in the surroundings on what I believe to be one of the most scenic routes offered by the bike club. 

 

Originally I thought I might veer off at least to Brooks Bridge, one of my favorite gravel stretches.  But it is not to be.  The others offer to wait for me and urge me to go, but it is on the return leg and the weather is too questionable. There are others to think of and to plan for and the storms are due in Scott County around four.  Being  a ride captain does tend to make one feel rather responsible.  I would feel terrible if we were needless caught in a dangerous storm and someone was injured.

The weather on the return leg is a huge issue for this ride as the forecast changes almost hourly as the dates approach.  A decision has to be made that would allow people to cancel room reservations without a penalty.   And the second day can't be easily canceled as it is far from home and nobody has a car.  I waiver back and forth, but decide to roll the dice when the probably is forty to fifty percent.  I do  have two drivers as back ups that would come to the rescue if absolutely  necessary, but it would have to be dire straits for me to impose on their good will. And, depending upon where we were when it hit, they would be useless, for much of this route is on lightly traveled country roads.  

 

Briefly I think of the kindness of Raney Self when I first designed and rode this route by myself shortly after my husband passed.  She, as well as my friend, Diana,  offered to come if I had any issues.  Knowing they had my back made being brave a bit easier.  Diana again steps forward as does my daughter.  It  warms my heart on the Tuesday after the ride when Paul Battle says he almost called me on Sunday to see if I needed a ride home.  Friendship is such a blessing.   The kindness of others always undoes me.

The ride almost ends as it just begins for me as a few miles out from the start, a huge dog chases Jon slamming into my front wheel.  Instinct makes me clip out on the right side and lean using my foot as a brace.  Somehow, I manage to remain upright despite the impact.  Only later do I think how lucky I am that  my bones were able to stand the impact of the bracing as my foot hits the pavement.  We ride on but I decide that after our journey is over, I will return and leave a note for the dog owners just in case they decide to be responsible in the future.  That is the frustrating thing with dog encounters.  The fault lies in the owner.  The dog is pretty much doing what comes naturally.  But this makes it no less dangerous for the bicycle rider. I hope that I did not hurt the dog by slamming into him.  Afterward he seemed okay as he raced back to his yard.

The first day goes by quickly.  Medora is the first store stop and up until that time, the route is flat.  Garmin will later show that day one has 107.7 miles of climbing and almost 5,900 feet of elevation that day.  (Thanks, Steve M. for posting that data). After we pass Leesville, store sadly still closed, I laugh when, after warning people of a climb ahead, Steve tells me that he reads 18 percent grade at one point but that Garmin does not count it as a climb.  I think the rest of us, all except Jon, seem to feel it is a pretty demanding climb.  It will be the same with the heat this first day.  Everyone is feeling it other than Jon who does not think it is that hot.  How different each of us is. 

The lunch stop for the ride is at  Mitchell.  Here Jon and I get our wires crossed.  I think he is taking us to the small cafe in town and he thinks the cafe is elsewhere.  As he did a modified version of the route to avoid the gravel, and that is what everyone is following, we miss the cafe.   We end up eating at Kentucky Fried Chicken because it is close and available.  The gas station literally had nothing worthy of lunch and smelled of cigarette smoke.

 

After lunch, the heat begins and we have a number of miles before Shoals and the next store. Steve runs out of water and starts having cramping.  I share with him, then we both run out.  I normally don't need huge amounts of water and speculate that it is the salt from our lunch stop.  Very rarely do I eat high salt foods. Whatever the reason, while I don't cramp, I am  very thirsty. Jon shares with us, but we are out with about 8 hot miles left to go when Steve finds a church with a spigot.  The first church we approach has a spigot, but it does not function.  The second one, however,  pours out cool, lovely, water.  And we rejoice.   

 

The only issue is that Glen did not see us stop  and has been dependent upon Jon for directions as he does not use a GPS and does not really seem to use a cue sheet, so he sails past our next turn, probably because, while RWGPS says it is paved, it is not.  I have cell coverage so I call him and, luckily, he answers.  Jon waits for him, and they later catch up just at the time when we make the turn to the store stop which is a bit off the course.

Despite the heat and the climbs, the scenery is spectacular.  Just outside Mitchell, we come upon the largest field of Black Eyed Susan's I think I have ever seen.  It is laced with Queen Ann's Lace and some small white flower whose name escapes me. Despite not feeling as if I can truly stop and loiter, I do take a photo.  In other places orange and red day lilies, some call them Tiger  Lilies, line the roads, their faces turning to the sun.  The occasional daisy remains though their time is about over and they look a bit spent.  Trees grow right up to the edge of the road in some places and in other places there are long vistas.  Everything is green and fresh and I am so thankful to be alive and on a bicycle. 

When we reach Shoals, I see a rider that is not with us.  I then notice his jersey and ask him if he is Bill Watts, the RUSA coordinator for Indiana.  He says that he is and is on a brevet.  I think of asking if Matt is riding, but I am not sure if that is kosher so I don't.  Later I found that he did, indeed, ride completing the 600 K in preparation for PBP. We chat only briefly and then head out.  All of us are tired, heat, distance, and climbing have sapped our strength,  and ready for the hotel.   Steve mentions about being too tired to eat, but I caution him he will do better eating before going to sleep so his body has time to store the fuel he will give it.  

 

Leaving Shoals, we avoid the gravel hill that I have never been successful in climbing.   Not only is it steep, but the rock is just too thick and lacks the tire tracks necessary.  My wheels inevitably slip and my front tire lifts off the ground when I try to stand.  In the past I have balanced the possibility of injury in the midst of nowhere against the victory of completing the climb, and safety has won.  Today's route is a bit hillier and longer, but it is a lovely variation and eventually intersects with a route Steve has put together in the past.   We do hit a bit of gravel not far from the hotel and, unfortunately, Glen goes down.  He is not hurt, however, and we are all glad to see the hotel looming in the distance, a safe haven for the night before heading back out. 

We all go to dinner together at the Amish restaurant.  The food here is always good.  There is fried chicken, ribs, pulled pork, fish, and on and on.  And there is fresh, home made bread.  The only change from when I first came by myself is that there is no longer pie at the dessert table.  We ask the waitress about it and it is something that changed with COVID.  You can still get pie, but it is extra and not included in the buffet price.

 

At dinner, we talk about when to leave.  Since I am normally up at five (without an alarm), I tell them I will check and call or text the time we will leave.   Jon wants to leave at eight.  The others want to leave at first light.  Glen and Steve opt to go to bed.  Jon and I continue our tradition of having a few glasses of wine outside in one of the hotel gazebos as darkness gathers.  A tiger kitten joins us, obviously not neutered, and spends his time begging for attention until we return to the hotel and our rooms.  While I worry I won't sleep, I do and rather quickly, the strains of the day taking their toll.

When I arise, early as usual, after looking at the radar and reading predictions, I text and tell the group that we are eating and leaving.  The others meet me in the dining room, but Jon has not responded.  I then call Jon to no avail and  finally knock on his door.  Again, no response. I determine it is too dangerous to wait to leave and am just getting ready to ask Steve and Glen to go ahead and leave while I wait when Jon texts.  

 

Dawn is just barely breaking when we  head out and I ask if everyone will turn on their blinky lights.   Everyone but Glen has brought one and does as I suggest.   As we leave, dawn breaking as much as it can with cloudy, gray skies and the occasional rumble of thunder, I think how much I miss riding out in the early morning during overnight bike trips.  There is just something special about it, being out here while most people are still sleeping. 

We do get rained upon.  Mostly it is a light drizzle, quite pleasant, but there are a few spurts of harder rain.  It never, however, is hard enough to impact vision and we keep moving.  The world seems so fresh and clean.  It brings back to me how enjoyable it can be riding in a light rain when it is warm outside and the world is so very verdant.

Because of the weather, I decide to cut 8 miles off the course to shorten our journey and increase our likelihood of getting in prior to the bad weather that is predicted.  The loop I cut off is at Shoals.  While we sit and talk about it, we eat the home made bread and apple butter we brought with us from breakfast.  As always, it tastes like manna from heaven.  I think briefly of my first solo ride here, and how I stopped and just sat in the road and ate the traffic was so light.  My stop at the store that day was only for sunscreen, something I had forgotten that year.  Someone points out a man in front of the store in a truck totally passed out.  As I walk by, I actually wonder if he is dead.  But he awakens and drives off only to drive back and park yet again.   The group consensus is that it was a late night with too much alcohol, but who knows.

 

While I ponder the best way to rejoin the route while cutting off the eight miles, Steve says he knows a route that will will get us to the lunch stop. Though it has about five miles of main road, I decide that in light of the weather this is the wisest choice.  Also, it is still early and the road is not likely to be too busy.  Interesting, as Jon will later point out, three of us contributed to the ride.  And Steve's route is indeed lovely and intersects with my traditional route further up the road.  

It is not too long after we turn off the main road, that I spy a trailer hitch someone has lost along the road.  I pick it up as Jon mentioned only last night that a racoon had carried his off.  I am amazed at how heavy it is and give it to Jon to carry when we get to where he is waiting.  Glen teases and says to find a few more to slow Jon down.  Steve tells Jon of all the tools he has found in this area that have bounced out of trucks.  At one point, I do insist on a group photo though, not being much into selfies, it does not include me.   Then Steve takes one that includes me.

We reach Orleans a bit earlier than I originally planned on due to the route changes and the Pizza place is not yet open so we eat at the cafe.  As always on such journeys, there are people who are curious about where you are riding and how far.  One man even pulls up a chair and sits with us for a bit, a cyclist who wants to tell us he has done the RAIN ride.  Steve is training not only for RAIN, but he is riding to and from the start from home.  Steve  does not mention this nor the fact that he has done the ride before as the man tells us about the course. Or that he has completed a 600K in Kentucky where brevets are known to be difficult.  The fellow cyclist is surprised we are not riding the state highways home, but I tell him I try to avoid those roads and stick to the back roads.  I, in turn, am surprised that he would think we would return home on those roads rather than less traveled country roads. 

 

As we approach Salem, a road that I did not believe was gravel becomes gravel.  Jon and Glen are ahead.  After a mile of gravel, Steve and I see  a dog ahead that appears to be aggressive: a BIG dog.  I text Jon and Glen telling them to meet us at the store and we detour around us.  Even as we do so, the dog is bounding across the field coming toward us.  Jon later says that there were two dogs, both aggressive, and that the owners were very nonchalant about their aggressiveness.  He said they went for him but Glen said they did not bother him.  As for me, I have had enough of dogs this trip though actually, as I think about it, there were relatively few we ran into considering all the miles we traveled.

Salem is the last store stop and Jon and Glen are there when we arrive.  It is busy getting to the store as the state road is closed for repaving throwing all the cars onto side roads.  At the store, Glen finds that his electronic shifters have quit functioning.  He is not in the hardest gear, but I worry knowing the hills that lie between us and the end.  Yes, he is very strong, but he has a lot of miles and a lot of climbs in his legs.  Per Steve, day 2 will end with about 98 miles and 5,500 feet of climbing.  Less than originally planned, but still significant.   I look at the radar and think we are safe from the strong storms predicted, but try to get everyone moving.   Lunch was a longer stop than anticipated.  Jon comments that storms can just spring up, and he turns out to be right.

As the hills between Salem and Scottsburg pound our legs, the skies begin to visibly darken.  The wind, however, shifts from a crosswind to a tail wind which helps.  It now becomes a race to get in before the storms.  Jon and Glen are no longer waiting at turns.  Steve and I both pick up our paces.  I am, however, stopped by an overwhelming need to go to the bathroom so I send Steve onward.  I never quite catch him though I can see him in the distance, and we reach the end.  Nobody wants to linger.  All of us want a shower, food, and a bed.  I do text to see if everyone got home alright. Steve answers that he is home but has no power.  Since he is on well water, this means no shower.  But he is safe.  Jon finally texts that he is home and all is well.  I never hear from Glen but assume he made it to his home okay.  

This ride was a satisfying ride and I am glad that I put it on the calendar.  I am glad that people came and my hope is that they, too, found some satisfaction in its completion and enjoyed the journey as well.  It was not one of those special rides, the kind you think about repeatedly for long periods of time afterward or pull out of your memory from time to time to make yourself smile.  But it was a ride that I am glad that I completed.  I proved to myself that I could despite the fact that I knew it would not be easy and that it would test my strength, both physical and mental.  For as any distance cyclist knows, part of turning the pedals over and over is mental.  Maybe even as much mental as physical.  

Will I go back?  I hope to.  It is too easy to allow one's limits to shrink without really testing them to see where they currently are, whether they have shrunk or expanded, and then determine whether anything can be done if they have been reduced.   I do not delude myself that I will be able to do this ride until my time here on earth is done, at least unless I suffer an accident that ends me.  But I hope to maintain as long as I can.  It is just so damned beautiful out on the road.  And I am blessed to be there.