Orleans with a Pizza Stop

"Remember, remember,

this is now, and now, 

and now. 

Live it, feel it, cling to it,

I want to become acutely

aware of all I have taken

for granted."

Sylvia Plath

 

 Since my solo century went well last week-end, I decided to put the ride on the club schedule for this week-end and share the course.  I really like most of this route to  New Orleans, particularly the stretch between Medora and Orleans, and I have not shared it with anyone for ever so long now.  I like the way it meanders for a bit between the railroad tracks on one side and the river on the other.  I like how the flowers grow alongside the railroad track, flowers shaded by the tree branches hanging overhead like a canopy.  I like how the shade of the trees dapples the ground, ever changing in the battle between shade and sun.  I like the old, metal bridge, no longer in use, that crosses the river only to end in  a corn field, a bridge to nowhere, and how despite the rust and rotting timbers, it clings to life reminding us of usefulness and how it too passes.  I like the climb up the Devil's Backbone and how the view you get changes so according to the season since the trees and grasses camouflage the valley to the side and below .  And  I like the anticipation of the descent down Tunnelton with its hazardous "S" curve at the bottom that includes a metal slab and grate that can snag any foolishly brave rider. Prior to their placement, sometimes I would find geodes, washed down the hill from the creek. 

 

When I schedule the ride, the prediction is perfect:  mid seventies and sunshine.  Of course, by the time it rolls around, the prediction is for a record cold high for the day, lots of wind, possible showers, and little sun.  Go figure.  I must admit that at times I wonder if, perhaps, my rides are cursed.  Sometimes it seems that the weather always wants to make them a bit more difficult than they might be otherwise. But it is all good.  Now, now, now.  I can ride.  I can push the pedals and feel my muscles contract and release and I can feel the wind.

I toy with canceling, but I need to ride:  emotionally as well as physically.  Those who know me well know that in the past six years, I have lost three of the people I loved the most:  my husband, my mom, and a brother.  Earlier this week, my youngest brother, older than me but the youngest of the boys, called telling me something was wrong with him and wanting my other brother's number to see if he could get him in to see a neurologist more quickly.  Hearing his slurred speech, I recognized the signs of a stroke, particularly when he says the left side of his tongue is numb.  And indeed, he has had a minor stroke.  All the horrors of my husband's death rush back over me for a moment, a tide of despair and fury at my helplessness.  On the very heels of this,  my nephew tells me that my sister is entering hospice.  It is just too much.  I ask  myself how strong I am expected to be and I am feeling sorry for myself as if nobody else has to go through this when deep down I know that life holds pain and loss for each.  I  know from experience the best way to fight this, particularly now I have nobody to hold me and assure me everything will work out, is to ride leaving the emotions behind on the pavement.  But, Lord, I am tired of being strong, and I do miss strong arms holding me and comforting me and someone telling me it will all be alright.  The words of Plath come to mind and I briefly think how much we take things and people for granted.  Between the Pandemic and the losses, perhaps this is the lesson to be learned.

I think of my nephew recently telling me that I am intimidating, a sentiment echoing the words of a friend after the death of my husband when explaining men's hesitancy to ask me out.  Rather ironic if  true. I certainly don't mean to be intimidating and it is not a quality that I think of being particularly admirable.  If they only knew what a shriveling, weak, coward I am inside, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do.  Standing still in life, well, it really isn't an option for any of us.  How glad I am that Lloyd was not intimidated by me.  Sometimes I smile thinking of how he once said that one of the things he enjoyed about being married to me was that he never really quite knew what I might do or try to do next. But now, now, now.   The past is the past.

I wonder how many will show for the ride.  John and Jon have both said they were coming, but the day looks bleak and it is in the forties.  As it turns out, there are five of us.  I am, of course, the weakest, and I sincerely mean it when I tell them that I don't expect them to hold back and wait for me.  I warn them of the sharp turns that are easy to miss and perilous to those riding with abandon.  I forget to warn them of the railroad tracks that can send you and your bike sailing through the air as I once learned but managed somehow to land, but I later remember and remind them at lunch.

At the start, there is the usual joking.  Everyone is complaining about the cold weather and how they had put cold weather clothes away a week or two ago.  But of the five of us, four are in tights and the fifth has knee warmers.  Everyone has full fingered gloves of some type, and most are dressed in three layers.  The only rider I know who regrets his clothing choice is the one dressed in only two  layers who wishes later in the ride that he had a third.

We ride off at a brisk pace on roads that were already damp and as we pull out of the parking lot it begins to drizzle.  I smile remembering a ride when I first started riding with the club and how  we were caught out on a century with no rain gear when the rain began.  At a store, we bought and all donned trash bags, tearing openings for our arms and heads.  And I remember how it warmed us and how I laughed telling the others I didn't know I would be riding with white trash.  And as I dream, I wake up to the sound of chatter around me as the riders that showed, as Tom Hurst, Jon Wineland, John Pellegrino, and Larry Preble catch up on all that has happened recently.  And the drizzle has passed only to be repeated once more and never for long enough to drench us.  For that I am thankful. Now, now, now.

The pace is brisk, at least for me, but I manage to keep up until almost Medora when I drop back.  I see a few  have stopped for a photo opp at the covered bridge, but I ride on so as not to hold them back.  I become worried, however,  when they have not caught me and turn back around thinking perhaps one has had a mechanical.  Instead they were just taking photos and doing other necessary things.  They seem to be enjoying themselves and I remind myself to hold on to the things I enjoy about all of them.  While I don't know him well at all,  I like how Tom's eyes crinkle and reflect his amusement when he laughs. I like the obvious pride he shows when talking of his daughter.   I like Larry's ability to recognize and capture beauty with his camera and his patience with my slower pace.  John, and I sincerely hope this does not offend him if he should ever read this blog, reminds me of a golden retriever, all smiles, laughter, happiness, and acceptance with no malice at all inside him.  He is a great conversationalist.  And then Jon and his beautiful mind, a boon and probably also a curse.  His sense of humor. Yes, now, now, now.  Appreciate these companions.  Don't take them for granted.  I may stop riding or they may stop riding or something else might happen to prevent our sharing the road in the future, so hang tight and soak it up, make a memory. 

At the store, we laugh at how the clerk is from New York (John is able to not only identify her as a New Yorker by her accent but guess where in New York).  She tells us she has lived in this area 10 years.  But still her accent gives her away.  And we each briefly wonder about how someone from New York City ended up in Medora.  Talk about contrasts. 

 

The lunch stop is not until we are past sixty miles.  By this time, Jon, Tom, and Larry are ahead.  While I know he, too, could forge far ahead of me, John and I ride in together and find them at Speak Easy Pizza, two of them already served.  Last week I was amazed at the speed of the service and this week is no different.  The guys tell me it is because of the brick oven.  As I look around, I again remind myself that this is "now and now and now," these smiles, these people.  Some will continue riding, some may not.  My pace may slow to where it becomes a burden to come to my rides rather than a pleasure, but not yet.  Or I may stop riding...one dreaded day.  As I often do, I think of the many who shared these miles with me and no longer ride or ride shorter distances or ride little and seldom with me.  Each has their own special place in my heart.  And so will these, the men gathered around the table, who came to ride despite the cold and the bit of rain. And we are cold when we leave the restaurant, but I know it is merely from stopping and that the hills that loom ahead will warm us.

Larry, John, and I finish the ride together while Tom and Jon ride ahead though we all meet for a brief time at the last store stop.  And this is good.  Even if they all rode ahead, I would be fine.  I am just glad that they came to share the day and to give me another memory to cherish when my riding days fall behind me.  I am preparing for those  days.  I have taken up painting in my quest to  find other hobbies.  And hopefully I will find other hobbies as the days and months and years pass.  But I want to concentrate on appreciating what is now and what I all too often take for granted and be grateful.  And I am fortunate that I have much to be grateful for in this life despite the fact that it is filled with losses, huge losses, losses that leave holes that can never be completely filled in.  My legs are tired, but I am sated for the day.  Beauty, bicycles, and some companionship.  Now, now, now.

 

 

Orleans via Medora: It's All Good

"This time round I'm searching

down to where I used to go, 

and its been on my mind to make 

it shine."

James Taylor 

 

So my test ride earlier in the week went okay, unlike the week before.  And so, I decide to try a century.  The club has an easy century on the schedule, but I don't want any pressure to push myself or anyone to inconvenience.  After some internal debate, I decide to kill two birds with one stone.  I will plan on doing my Orleans century that has a first store stop in Medora.  This will allow me to see if Dollar General has opened there.  And, I tell myself, I can turn around and make it a fifty mile ride if my wrist is hurting too badly.  

 

I slip out into the cool of the morning shortly after first light.  It is supposed to get near ninety today and I have been off the bike and have not at all acclimated to the sudden heat wave that hit this area.  That being said, I was never one that felt one hour made that much difference in the end.  And I really am in  no rush.  There is no ride captain to sigh and wish this chubby anchor had stayed home and no husband at home wondering if I am okay and when I will arrive. Still, I maintain a decent pace, surprising myself when I reach Medora and have averaged a bit over 16.  Of course, it is a flat course, but still I am pleased.  And I am back in  love with bicycling, with the feel of my muscles as they turn the pedals, with the way the wind teases me, the whirl of the changing sights and sounds.  The words of Dr. Seuss come to mind, "Oh, the places you will go."

 

Along the way I think of my new hobby, watercolor painting, and try to look at things and see how I would paint them.  I think I need to either attach my carradice to this bike or take the bike with the rack so that I can fit sketching materials.  I wonder about the round barn.  It would make a lovely painting, but it is white. I wonder if it is too much white for an effective painting; however, when I reach there they have painted it and it is no longer white.  I then decided that the challenge would be to paint a round building.  But I am looking forward to trying.  I spend time wondering how the roundness of a building would affect the shadowing, but I never reach a conclusion.

 

In Medora, I find the new Dollar General is open.  It adds about a mile to the course as it is on the outskirts of town, but it is nice to once again have a place to buy a drink and a bite to eat there.  I buy a chocolate milk and pull out my homemade baked oatmeal/blueberry bar that I had in the freezer for just such an occasion.  It is a bit soggier than I would like, but it tastes good and I know what is in it.  

 

And then I am off on my favorite part of the route:  the section between Medora and Orleans.  I pull off at the old brick factory, however, which is a bit off course.  I am glad I do as I see it is still being worked on.  When I first came across it in my wandering, it was completely overgrown.  It is now being restored as a historical site.  After leaving, I appreciate the purple flowers growing near the railroad tracks.  For much of this section, the road has the railroad on one side and the river on the other.  For some reason, it hits me that as often as I have ridden this section, I have never seen a train.  Do they still use the track?  They must as near the brick factory there were piles of railroad ties that were being replaced, or I think that is what they are called. 

 

Before you know it, I am doing the long climb up the Devil's Backbone.  Until Medora the course is flat, but  no more.  It is a long climb but not really a steep climb.  I grin to myself when I reach what I originally called The House of the Thousand Dogs because when I came this way exploring, the family that lived there must have had at least twenty dogs.  Too many to count.  Now the house is silent.  I see roads tempting me going different directions that I have not explored, but decide not to risk it today when I am not sure of my fitness level.  There will, perhaps, be other days to go exploring.  The climb makes me think of Packman and I think how sad it is that our friendship ended over politics, but it is what it is.  Sometimes words that are said cannot be unsaid.

 

On this section I begin thinking about the year Steve Rice, Bill Pustow, Larry Preble, and I rode this course when it was ten degrees outside.  I picked the course so that we would fight the wind going out and would have it at our back on the return trip.  The unthinkable happens, however.  I have a flat.  Luckily Steve Rice fixes it for me as he is much faster than I am.  I would probably have suffered frostbite.  Not only was it cold, but it was windy.  Bill hands me the pump to give to Steve and I turn, accidentally hitting Steve in the head.  (He was wearing his helmet).  Steve thinks Bill did it, however, and turns to Bill asking what that was for.  Bill has no idea what Steve is talking about and despite the fact that we all might freeze death in the next few seconds, I am laughing so hard I almost wet my pants.  We did make it that day and in my mind I can still see Bill at the end with icicles hanging from his facial hair.   And no, I didn't have frozen shorts.  I "almost" wet my pants, but I didn't.  Good times.

Before I know it, I am at Orleans and decide to find the Pizza Place.  I get there just as their Farmer's Market is closing.  One of the sellers is an Amish couple, elderly, but their wagon is packed.  No home baked goods today.  I sigh as there is no longer a Pizza place where I believe it was before, only to round the corner and find a new Pizza place.  And it has open outside seating.  While pizza is a bit heavy for the middle of a ride, I am over 60 miles in and decide to give it a try.  I found the service incredibly fast and the pizza much better than I expected.   The server seems surprised that I only want one plate, but hey, I manage to master that personal pizza.  After all, I am riding over one hundred miles today, or that is the plan.

When I leave, I realize that it is really starting to heat up.  It feels good to sweat.  I am glad I remembered to put sun screen on.  I am also glad for the occasional cloud cover.  I toy in my mind with possible route changes so as to have a less busy road going into and out of Orleans and decide to look at a map when I get home.  I suppose it doesn't matter much when it is just me, but I would like to  put this course on the club schedule again sometime.  I pass some fields of corn and am glad to see them.  I have seen so few and those I have seen have been pretty sad looking.  I have seen  lots of soy beans and a beautiful alfalfa field that needs to be cut before the bloom sets in, but little corn. I suppose the wet weather plays into this, but not being a farmer don't really know.  

 

I thought I might be lonely, but when I reach Salem I realize I have really enjoyed this ride.   The solitude has given me time to think and I have been able to stop and take photos whenever the urge hit me. And I enjoy the last few miles despite legs that are growing weary and a wrist that aches like  the dickens and reminds me that my pogo sticking days are now officially behind me.  I haven't set any speed records, but I also am satisfied with the time it took me to complete the course.  And I am glad that I made the decision to do this ride, to relive some old memories, and to tempt myself with new roads to explore.  Yes, I intend to make it shine. 

Injuries Happen

 "Never let a stumble in the 

road be the end of the journey."

Anonymous

As some of you know and some of you don't know, I recently injured my wrist during a fall from a pogo stick. (Yes, it is fine to laugh at the idea of an old woman jumping around in her basement on a pogo stick from the 1980's.  I laughed at myself even after the injury, glad that I had not busted my head open on concrete or the edge of the workbench.  No fool  like an old fool). I had to cancel the century I had scheduled a couple of weeks ago as my wrist, while not broken, was sore even with just the whisper of a touch.  Even today, after a few weeks of recovery, the addition of any weight or twisting to that hand is quite noticeable.  Still, I am obviously healing.  I can now put my hair up or carry a cup of coffee in that hand.   Hopefully, not only will  the pain go completely away, but I will regain strength with time. 

Anyway, since I am missing this wonderful, spring riding,  I am grateful to have a smart trainer and to be able to use Zwift after having some clip on aerobars added to  my old Trek.  Even so, I have to be careful as I learn while trying to switch gears in the front chain rings.  I have to be careful to remain in the aerobars. Can't switch gears with my left hand, but on the trainer I can reach over with my right to change.  The hope is that I won't completely lose all my fitness before I am able to return to the road and will still be able to ride with friends. So, while I am not the biggest Zwift fan  in the world, and not at all a fan of their customer service, I am thankful that it exists so that I can continue to ride.  I am thankful my legs remain useful so I can walk.  And I am thankful my left wrist was injured and not my right since I am right-handed.  Mostly I am thankful to know the injury, this time, is not the end of the journey but merely a stumble on the road and soon I will be back, soaking up the beauty that can be found on country roads on a bicycle.  And perhaps I will have a renewed appreciation for the kiss of the wind on my face and the tapestry that rolls out before me.  Ride on, friends, ride on. 

 

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Bicycles, Friends, Family, and Loss

"A family is a risky venture

because the greater the love, the

greater the loss....

That's the trade-off.   

But I'll take it all."

Brad Pitt 

 

How many times has my bicycling helped me to cope with loss?  Same with cycling friends?  How often have they picked me up and helped me move forward when I have fallen to my knees?  Sometimes without even knowing it.  And what will I do when I lose it?   When I lose them? How will I cope with that loss?  Monday was just such a ride, and how grateful I was to have riding companions that took my mind off my troubles for a few hours without judging or even commenting on my pensive mood.  How grateful I am for those who have done the same in the past.

In a sense, I have lost someone.  My big sister has been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia recently, and Sunday was the first day I have gotten to see her since the beginning of the Pandemic when, other than her physical handicaps and some intellectual issues which she has had since a car accident fifty years  or so ago, she was fine.  The change since I last saw her was heart wrenching.  And when I returned her to the facility, she  physically curled into the fetal position in her wheel chair.  How I wanted to just pick her  up and bring her home with me, but of course I could not.  How I wanted to comfort her, but I could not.  How I wished she lived closer so that I could check on her more often, but I cannot. 

 

And so I ride to ease the pain of my own inability to ease her suffering and learn to accept again that I am powerless against the ravages that time can bestow upon us. I am powerless over the damage that this Pandemic has caused with its cursed isolation, for unlike me, my sister is, or was, outgoing and gregarious.  And yet again, I am grateful for my bicycle and for the road that accepts my tears as her own.  And I am grateful for those that have kept the tears at bay by their presence and have teased a smile from my lips, even if just for a bit, sometimes  knowingly and sometimes not.  My mom once said that life has a way of kicking you when you are already down and I think she is right, but bicycles and friends have a way of picking me back up.  And so I say thank you to both.    And thank you to my sister for always being my biggest fan.  To have you as a sister, I'll take the trade off.  Family, friends, and bicycles.  Love you sis.

 

The Christy Century

"A great wind is blowing,

and that gives you either imagination

or a headache."

Catherine the Great 

My heart sinks as the date for my century approaches and the prediction for wind increases and the prediction for temperature decreases.  Steady winds of fifteen miles per hour with gusts up to possibly fifty.  Temperatures to decrease throughout the day until the wind chill is thirty eight degrees.  The day before was lovely. Light winds and low seventies.  The day after is predicted to be nice.  But not the day I have the ride scheduled. And my imagination is giving me a headache as I imagine myself buffeted by winds until all my strength has ebbed and left me stripped bare, humbled by weakness, embarrassed in front of friends who are stronger than me.

 

 A part of me longs to do the easy thing, to cancel the ride.  As I recently told  a friend, I fear I have become a weather wienie.   A part of me wonders if even the few who said they would show will change their minds.  A part of me wonders if I will be capable of completing the ride in these conditions.  It is only my second century of the year and I am not as young or as strong as I once was.  But a part of me remembers that it is the challenging rides that bring the most rewards, that there is a satisfaction in finishing a difficult ride that does not come with an easier ride.  That the hard rides play their role in making for future rides.  "But nobody wins afraid of losing, and the hard roads are the ones worth choosing, someday we'll look back and smile, and hope it was worth every mile." (Chris Stapleton) 

 

And so I center my imagination on a successful if difficult ride to win over a headache.   The only way I know to delay the coming of a time when I no longer can ride the distance and fight the wind is to fight the battle for as long as I can.  Strength ebbs quickly, more quickly with age than with youth, when unused. And it becomes much harder to regain that which has been lost. The battle is mental as well as physical, and sometimes it is harder to win than others.  But for today, will triumphs.

Five others show for the ride:  Jon Wineland, Larry  Prebble, Mike Kamenish, Thomas Nance, and David King.  All are strong riders.  All are capable of exceeding my pace and dropping me with little effort.  At the ride start I tell them that I am fine with their going ahead and that I don't expect them to hang back at my pace, but they don't listen well and we start off as a group toward Commiskey, then Vernon, and lastly Crothersville.  The wind is from the North West and our journey stretches to the North East.  There will be times of respite  with a tail wind, times of crosswinds, and times of head winds.  The fact that the route zig zags favors us for it gives us breaks, but the first time we head full face-ward into the wind doubt enters my mind.  The wind is incredibly strong emphasizing what it can do to a puny mortal.  I am pedaling with all my strength to maintain a bit over 9 miles per hour.  But I remind myself that it blows not just on me, but the rest of the group and I was the one who did not cancel.  

At least for part of the ride there is sunshine.  With the daffodils dancing, it is hard not to notice the beauty of the season even in the midst of adversity.  Spring is so long anticipated and so short lived after gracing us with her presence.  Larry has asked that we stop at certain intervals so that he can send up his drone, and the group willingly complies.  Despite knowing that it adds a bit to the time of what we all know will be a long day, it also adds an additional short breath to allow muscles to recover before once  more straining against the wind.  It seems it is rarely a tail wind and more often a cross or head wind, but I remind myself it always seems this way.  Additionally,  Larry is quite the artist with his videos and photos and I think most if not all enjoy watching them.   As we ride along, I notice that the creeks are swollen and the water is encompassing tree stumps.  This worries me as one time there was a flooded road on this route that I had not expected.  I did not think we had gotten that much rain, but doubt floods my mind as I see water stretching further up tree trunks than it should, challenging the sides that contain it, swirling with mud and debris.

At lunch I share the concern with the others along with advice on how to bypass it; however, nobody takes the bypass and we find that the way is just fine with no flooding.  I breath a sigh of relief knowing nobody would want to add another few miles onto the 102 we were already riding, particularly as it would mean more headwind.  Everyone but Jon and I eat at Subway.  Jon and I eat outside having brought our lunches.  But during lunch I notice that it is obviously colder.  I brought a string pack with some extra clothing and slip on a vest wondering if it is a mistake.  So often one chills during a stop but then warms up quickly once back on the bike and pedaling.  But I am never sorry for putting it on, even during the climbs.  

The pack breaks up after the lunch stop, but I am fine with that.    People have things they need to do, dinner plans, places to be.  And it is definitely colder.  I know I have to keep a steady pace to finish. Taking off my gloves at the third stop is a mistake and I am glad I still have my barr mitts on the bike while they warm up again.  And we really only pause as chill sets in the longer the stop. When we reach the intersection of State Road 39 and State Road 256, I know the head wind is finished.  It is  like a gift from God.  Success, barring a freak accident or mechanical, is almost assured.  And we do finish in good spirits, weaker but knowing that weakness will contribute to greater strength a few days down the road, and satiated with the company of others who love cycling as much as we do.   And satisfied that for today, at least, we conquered the wind and our fears.  Thanks, guys, for sharing the roads with me.  Thanks for coming out to play. 

 

The Simple Things Bicycling Brings

"To find the universal elements enough;

to find the air and the water exhilarating; 

to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening

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

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

in spring - these are some of the rewards

of a simple life."

John Burroughs

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Larry's Buckner River Dance Century

 "A daffodil pushing up through the 

dark earth to the spring,

knowing somehow deep in its roots that spring

 and light

and sunshine will come, has more courage and more 

knowledge of the value of life than any human 

being I've

 met."

Madeleine L'Engle

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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