Nearing the End of Hiking Season

"There are things you should

notice anyway.  To live for some

future goal is shallow.  It's the sides of

the mountain that sustain life, not the top.

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

without the top you can't have any sides. 

It's the top that defines the sides."

Robert Pirsig 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

Sink and Swim: 2023

"We all have our time machines.

Some take us back, they're called

memories. Some take us forward, 

they're called dreams."

Jeremy Irons

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

Natural Bridge 2023: A Fine Time

"Wherever I roam, nature

is the only stranger that feels

like home."

Angie Weiland-Crosby

 

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Underdressed and Cold

"She understands now what she, 

in all her worry, had forgotten.

That even as she hesitates and 

wavers, even as she thinks too much

and moves too cautiously, she doesn't

always have to get it right.  It's okay

to look back even as you move forward."

Jennifer E. Smith

 

As I age, I find training myself to stay strong to be so different than when I was younger.  Mainly, I suppose, because of recovery time changing.  But also due to other things perhaps such as the laziness factor. Additionally, I suppose, there is the idea that I have been there, done that so many times.  Once you have conquered something, done something successfully, doing it again, while still quite sweet and bringing a sense of accomplishment, does not have quite the same shine as the first time:  the first triathlon, the first PBP, the first kiss.  Riding or running used to be just disciplining myself to put one foot in front of the other, to turn the crank over and over, and that worked.  And it still works, but not as easily as it once did.  Mental? Physical? Probably a combination.  

 

So I worry a bit about plans for a ride followed by a walk after my morning weight workout when I find it is one of those days when it takes more effort than normal to lift the same weights.  That usually happens only when a. I have gotten out of my normal routine or b. I am  not fully recovered or c. I did not sleep well.  There are, however, times when it just crops up unexpectedly.  It happened when I was younger as well, but not so often and did not hit so hard.  And when younger, perhaps, I was more likely to skip the weights as muscle retention was not quite as vital as it is at this stage in my being.  

 

I  am just tired.  I toy with canceling, but know that it used to be, when I was doing triathlons, that going ahead with the workout was one way of extending endurance and keeping tiredness at bay in the future.  Only by pushing boundaries do they seem to recede.  And I have a century I hope to ride this coming week-end. I struggle with determining if that is still a useful strategy and really don't yet have an answer.  I will give it a go.  And I will forgive myself if I am wrong.

So I go to the ride.  Jon has planned a route to Lexington from Madison that is supposed to be 35 to 40 miles.  Of course, I should have known better: Jon consistently underestimates the mileage on his routes.  Unfortunately for me, not only is the distance longer than anticipated (43 miles), but I find as the sun hides behind clouds in anticipation of the coming snow, I have not dressed warmly enough.  Three miles is nothing on a warm, pleasant day, but today it is like eternity. When Jon asks about stopping at a store to warm up before proceeding, I even toy with the idea of telling him I will stop and asking him to come pick me up, but I firmly squash that thought and tell him it is best to continue riding.  It brings back a memory of a cold, winter century ride with Bill Pustow and Steve Rice.  It was our second century of the week-end, both in freezing weather, and I mention that I might turn around.  Jaws dropped as they urged me to continue with them.  And, of course, I did.  Was the end of that ride miserable?  Was I as cold as I am today or just tired?  I don't remember. 

 

 

From the store stop at Lexington to the end of the ride, I am freezing cold, miserably cold though I never reach that stage when one's whole body shivers involuntarily making it difficult to remain upright on a bicycle.  Jon occasionally urges me to pick up the pace thinking that will warm me, but what he does not realize is that this pace is it for right now.  The gas tank is nearing empty.  In my mind I think backwards to times when I perhaps asked more of others than what they had to give at the time and ask forgiveness for my naivety and for the arrogance of youth.  Or perhaps it is there and the reluctance to increase my pace is mental.  Regardless, it is there as tall and strong as any wall.  Today, I fear, I lack the strength, mental and/or physical, and  I will not break through. 

At the store we are verbally accosted by a man outside that obviously has some issues.  It makes me sad, watching him struggle to communicate while knowing how vital communication is for a meaningful life.  He incontestably has limitations and is lamenting that nobody listens to him, that we will be getting seven inches of snow.  How sad it must be to have one's opinion continuously discounted, justified or not?  Later, while Jon is in the store, he informs me he also has visual disabilities and that people criticize him for not working but he does the best he can.  And in the end, perhaps that is what we all do, the best that we can do with what we have been given.  How easy it is for us to feel superior without really knowing what we would do in similar circumstances.  Perhaps rather than feeling so smug, I think, I should be extra thankful.  My parents were not perfect, but they met my needs as best they could.  My education was not Ivy League, but it was a good education that I should, perhaps, have made better use of it.  My mother received adequate prenatal care.  She probably drank while carrying me because it was their wont to have a martini before dinner every night, but she was not an alcoholic and did not use drugs.  My father did not beat me or molest me.  Blessings.  

And so, despite feeling as if my toes are blocks of ice that will crack and fall off at the slightest jolt and that I will never be truly warm again, I ride to my car, grab a warmer garment, and head out for a four mile walk, working my way through the tiredness that has only been exacerbated by the cold.  Looking back again, I remember jumping off the bike and hitting the ground running rather than walking.  Just as back then, it takes a bit for my legs to allow walking to feel natural rather than stilted and forced, as if it is a new motion.   But they do loosen though I never lose the tiredness.  I "think" I even manage a decent pace for most of the walk.  Still, rather than lamenting, as I sometimes do, that a ride or walk or hike has come to an end, I am happy to return to the car. And  hungry.

As we drive to a well deserved and much needed dinner I think that perhaps not only is okay, as Ms. Smith notes, to look backwards as we move forward, but necessary to plotting a successful course forward into this unknown morass known as aging.  If, indeed, there is a successful way to age. For it seems to me that aging, while it brings certain advantages, brings more than its share of losses, particularly the losses of people and abilities.  Regardless, it is the way of things.  Old age is uncharted territory, known only through living or vicariously through the writings of others. And I am grateful for that which I have been given.  

Rainy Days and the Wimp

"So it's raining?  You're 

not sugar.  You won't melt....

enjoy it."

Anonymous 

 

A century plan abandoned in light of the forecast for rain. It is not supposed to be terribly windy.  It is not supposed to be a hard rain, or even a steady rain, or an all dy rain, and it is not supposed to be particularly cold, lower fifties, but the plan is abandoned none the less.  I really need to purchase a new rain jacket.  My old Showers Pass jacket is in shreds, and when I last checked they were sold out of the cheaper one. I "think" I remember asking to be notified when the jackets are available again, but so far no luck. I tell myself to remember to check their web site. In the end, however, deep down, I know these are excuses.  Fifty in the rain is very doable.  

 

My husband would have laughed and called me a wimp for even thinking of backing out, and I, I would have ridden regardless at that point.  It was why he did it. And he was right.  I am definitely NOT sugar and would  not melt. How often did he challenge me leading me far beyond where I might otherwise have gone?  Sometimes it made me angry, but on the whole, I normally was glad and grateful.  For there are sights and sounds in the rain that you don't find elsewhere.  I certainly would not have the accomplishments I have under my belt without his encouragement and support.  But back to the ride.

I still plan to ride, however, just not so far and after the weatherperson says most of the rain will be gone.  Jon and I agree to meet in the afternoon when the rain is supposedly going to be gone and ride 35 miles with about 1,800 feet of climb with most of the climb due to three hills we will encounter.  Afterward we are to walk a bit over six miles in a loop around Madison ending with the walk up Hatcher Hill.  I am beginning to learn some of the names in this city despite not living there, but it certainly has taken me long enough.  I think Rich Ries was the first to take me up that hill on his St. Nick's Hick ride, a ride I showed up for despite not knowing Rich other than a FB follow or any of the other riders.  It was about a year after Lloyd's passing and I was still struggling mightily redefining myself and keeping my feet under me.  I will be forever grateful for the welcome I received that day and hold the ride close to my heart. 

Frankly, if we had not made plans to ride, I don't think I would have been able to force myself out on the bike.  With the gray, dreary weather, it would be too comforting to sit on my butt on the couch reading the book my daughter recommended and that I have found fascinating, "The Girl with Seven Names."  But there will be time for reading and relaxing.  My body is crying for exercise, and I do so prefer being outside over the trainer despite the fact the trainer is probably better for me. Jon and I talk a bit of how much easier it is to get out with another person on bad weather days or gray days.  And I know, for me at least, this is true. 

 

Despite our slow pace, and I mean slow, I am pleased with how I feel on the hills.  I don't press, but I also don't suffer as much as I expected to. My thighs complain,  but it is not an injury complain, just one of laziness and being out of shape.  My knees are quiet, always a good thing. Now is the time of year to begin including hills, and lots of them, into my routine.  It is just too easy to become afraid of hills on the bike, to avoid the hills on the bike, because, well, because they hurt, particularly if you push on them.  But, oh, how much scenery and beauty one will miss if one sticks to the flats.  I may be getting old, but I am not ready to go there yet, to lose the feel of of your lungs gasping for air, your thighs calling for surcease, your mind trying to deceive you and tell you can't because, of course, the mind tries to quit long before the body really needs to.  And the rewards, not only gained strength, but beautiful vistas and long, quick descents, the kind that require every ounce of concentration because a fall could, most likely would, be disastrous and inevitably painful.  For as much as we like to think we are invincible and/or strong, we are in the end just weak flesh and bones, easily trashed, broken, and torn.  It is the reason I don't encourage people to begin riding.  I will help them if asked AFTER they make that decision, but I don't want the responsibility of talking someone into riding and then seeing them get hurt.  If you ride, you fall.  It comes with the territory.  The question is how badly will you be hurt.  

I think of my frailness as we descend knowing that we have ridden through numerous cinder patches laid down on the roads during the recent ice and snow.  But neither of us flats.  As Jon points out, any flat due to cinders would likely be a slow one, not the rapid deflation that grabs your handlebar. And we are back to the ride start too quickly despite my going rather slowly the entire day.   Still, I am chilly.  Yet again, I overdressed and the dampness of sweat, the worst winter enemy one has, chills me. Due to the late start much of our walk will be in the dark. But thankfully I have dry clothes to change into.  The river is lovely in the dark with lights reflecting out across the water.  Due to the cold, it is mainly deserted other than a man out walking his dog.  Indeed, we meet very few people on foot anywhere on the route despite walking a bit over six miles.

So no century for the day, but a good ride and a reasonably challenging walk.  No rain, just wet roads.....we didn't melt.  And I did, for the most part, other than chilling, enjoy it.  There will be other days for century rides, but I do believe I have become quite the wimp.  Perhaps next go round I'll show a bit more fortitude.  There will be time to rest.....just not yet.  I am not quite done. 

P&Y Plans Foiled: It's All Good

"Sometimes our fate resembles a 

fruit tree in winter.  Who would think

those branches would turn green and

blossom, but we hope it, we know it."

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 

 

 

It is the rare January day when it is supposed to be in the fifties the majority of the day, and so I suggest to Jon that we embark on a lunch ride to P&Y, a place I have become rather fond of during shorter the colder  months.  It is halfway in a fifty mile ride and rather flat.  The food is good and the store is small and normally not crowded.  He agrees and plans are laid to meet at ten and ride for lunch.  

 I do consider chickening out when looking at the wind prediction, but remind myself that  it is not only normal for winter, but relatively mild.  And it is time to get back into shape after a few weeks of Christmas festivities that included overeating and eating things that are decidedly unhealthy. Time to quit being a wimp, something gradually becoming more pronounced as I age.  And despite having my family in, I am ready for a friend.  Don't get me wrong.  I delight in my children and the grands, but visits are demanding in a way friendship is not, particularly with the children still being so small.  

We are both happy to be on our bikes and it feels good to be out.  Even the wind that will be my enemy is almost welcome, still light and caressing my face rather than viciously slapping it.  Sometimes, I suppose, being on a bicycle is like coming home.  How many hours and miles have I spent?  Uncounted and lost along with the Big Dog Site and all the memories the narratives held.  During the first half of the ride I keep thinking repeatedly just how very good it feels to get out, to use my muscles, to see the world however bleak it might be this time year.

I barely notice the long climb up Hatcher Hill, and only later discover that my bike was  in the small chain ring.  Duh, no wonder.  The day is warm enough that I stop at the bottom of the climb and lose my jacket.  Later I will be very glad to have that jacket as the temperature drops and the winds increase, but for now I am happy to stick it in my jersey pocket.  

It is shortly thereafter, right when we are making the transition from city to country, that the funniest event of the day happens.  I hear a cat.  This is a very loud cat.  It is a cat who sounds as if he needs help and I can't ride on by perhaps because a cats meow, according to research, somehow mimic the cries of a human baby.  "Where is that cat?," I ask Jon, only then remembering that the previous night I had changed my phone ring from the Nutcracker to a cat.  I burst out laughing at my own cluelessness and will chuckle about it throughout the day.  Perhaps at least now I will hear my phone rather then tuning it out like the "Yes, Dear" husband who is paying absolutely no attention to the question being asked. Not that I usually answer it if it rings as it is normally a spam caller, just another change the world has wrought during my lifetime. 

When we reach the lunch stop we find it is still closed for the holidays.  We discuss whether to go to Butlersville or North Vernon.  Butlersville is closer.  It is noon and I don't have a light if something would go wrong.  Butlersville will bring us in around 60 miles whereas North Vernon would be closer to 80 and would be a longer lunch.  I am relieved that Jon does not seem terribly disappointed when I say I don't want to go to Vernon.  I am relieved that he knows the route to Butlersville, for I do not.  

We arrive and my intention to begin eating more sensibly vanishes when the girl says the special is a cheeseburger and fries.  The store is crowded and we decide to eat outside at the picnic table.  We both gobble our food as it is cold (the weather not the food) and seems to be growing colder by the moment.  We later lament that we did not have the good sense to eat at the side of the building sheltering from the wind.  But there you have it.  The food was unexpectedly good for a gas station type store. And if we had good sense we probably would not be out on bicycles in this weather, which while warm for January is still quite cold.  

 

The ride home becomes a trial every time we turn into the wind.  But since it will only turn out to be around sixty miles, it is not a real concern, just a hindrance, one that will hopefully help me to become stronger and bloom for spring riding.  Branches will, despite doubts, become green.  Effort will blossom.  And barring illness or accident, there is another year of riding in front of me.  And so, I wish everyone a Happy New Year that includes many hours on the bike knowing that some of them may be more miserable than happy as fitness gives birth, but knowing that the bad days make those good days, the ones where you feel like you could ride strongly and forever and with great joy.  May 2023 be blessed for us all. We finish the day with a few miles of hiking at Clifty Falls, then head to our homes to rest, to build, to prepare for the coming spring. 

A Century Ride as the Winter Solstice Approaches

"We cannot stop the winter

or summer from coming.  We

cannot stop the spring or fall or

make them other than they are. 

They are gifts from the universe

we cannot refuse. But we can 

choose what we will contribute to

life when each arrives."

Gary Zukhav

 

I must confess,  I have very mixed feelings when I decide to ride a century in December, a month when I normally did a minimum of two centuries just a few years ago:  my Christmas breakfast century whose route varied and Bethlehem whose route did not vary.  I was younger then, and stronger.  I had a pretty close knit group that would always attend. But it is time to go on.  Even past time.  I grow weak.  A weather and route weenie.  And it is not supposed to be so very cold today and the wind is not supposed to be so very wild.  So out the door I go praying that the weather does not overly beat me up.  I know I will hurt by the end.  That is the price of admission when one has not ridden a century for a bit.  But rather than paying at the door, I know I will pay at the end.  I just hope it is not too ugly.

Since December of 2014, I have lost my husband, two brothers, my mother, my sister, and a nephew.  If there is one thing age and loss have taught me is that time on this earth is limited and should not be wasted.  Which is not to say that I don't still waste time, but it is at least conscious wastefulness, and today will not be a waste.  A century ride is never a waste.  And if you don't use your body the saying is true, you truly do lose it.  Additionally, age makes it harder to get it back.  Better just to persevere until the time comes to hang the bicycle on the wall for good.  And adventure may await.  One never quite knows what to expect from a long ride.

 

The morning is gloomy with nary a hint of sunshine though the forecasters said the sun might peek through this afternoon.  I sincerely hope so for there has not been one ray for what seems like an eternity.  At least the temperature has been mellow for this time of year.  And at least some of my obligations and worries are coming to an end.  But I long to bathe in the sun despite the fact his power has waned and lacks the heat he has in summer.

 

Jon agrees to ride with me so we meet at the ride start in Madison and head out both worrying a bit about how we are dressed.  As it turns out, we are both fine though I am a tad overdressed.  I have already asked him to agree not to linger at stops.  Winter riding is not so very hard with the appropriate clothing so long as the distance is short and no stops are necessary.  To me, one of the hardest things about winter century rides are the necessity of stops.  Inevitably, within a short time I begin to chill.  To try to prevent this today, I unzip my jacket well before stops allowing the wind to reach inside my warm outer shell and dispel some of the inevitable dampness that builds during exercise.  It helps, but does not eliminate the discomfort completely.  I remember one cold brevet where another rider was upset that I left the control so quickly saying he wanted to ride with me, but my body had begun shivering involuntarily to the point where if I didn't leave, I was unsure if I would be able to keep the bike upright.   Just another reminder that in the end, however much I like to feel in control of things, I truly am not.  Even my own body has demands and needs that I cannot control.

The route we are riding does not have a first store stop so we stop rather late at a park.  The picnic table has collapsed and slants downward, but we manage to sit for a few moments and eat what we have brought.  Jon has a Cliff bar I think and I have a half whole wheat p and j sandwich.  It tastes wonderful and I need it, but I am glad we move on quickly.  I briefly think of the times we have tarried there on this route, luxuriating in the finer weather.  Today is not, however, such a day.

We have decided to eschew the traditional Subway lunch stop as it is so early in the ride and not a favorite of mine anyway.  We go quite some distance further to a coffee shop we both know that also has sandwiches.  But on our way we face a long, rather boring stretch that is, as normal, into the wind.  Though the wind is not inordinately strong, it is strong enough that I struggle and the scenery here is repetitive, not helping anything.  We have reached the point in the ride where conversation is sparse and scattered.  Jon rides just a bit ahead, stopping to wait at times as I fall behind. Barren field after barren field waiting patiently for spring and planting time.  Lush greenness is a vague memory.  The world seems sepia colored other than the occasional yard that we pass that has Christmas decorations outside.  

 

Decorations bring to mind that it is not too long before the children will visit for the holiday, and I set my  mind yet again to determining the menu trying to plan for vegetarians and young children that are not the adventurous eaters that my daughter was when young.  I quite enjoy it but it makes me hungry and I realize I will be VERY glad to hit the lunch stop.

 

Lunch is delicious and does not take overly long as I worry not only about chilling but about getting in before dark.  I brought lights just in case, but I don't like to be on busier roads when the light has faded.  Odd because night riding was one of my favorite things about brevets, but only when we were out on side, lightly traveled roads.  Even during those years, I worried when there were lots of cars.  

 

After lunch we get a good chuckle when a group of children come to the side of the road hailing and cheering us.  One yells, "Do you like ketchup and mustard?"  It takes me a moment before I realize it is a reference to our jackets.  Jon is dressed in a red jacket and I have on my yellow jacket.  I  think how refreshing it is to actually see children outside in the yard doing something rather than inside the house watching television or playing video games.  Perhaps I remember incorrectly, but I remember being outside most of the time when I was not being tortured in school.  Not that I didn't like school or the other children or the teachers or reading.  I adored reading.  But I did not like the sitting required and being trapped inside, particularly on lovely days when the earth just seemed to abound with things to do and places to explore.   

Sometimes the last miles of a century, particularly when one has been lazy, can be  more a death march than a pleasure, but despite my being out of shape, it is not so today.  I am tired, pleasantly tired, and I am as stiff, but I know I could go further, easier anymore than going faster for sure.  We are in before dark with some minutes to spare.  I would not chose a winter day as my favorite for riding, but I am glad that I did choose to ride and make use of the day and my body, to appreciate the starkness of the trees against the gray sky, to almost laugh out loud with excitement when a few rays of sun do happen to break through the ponderous gloom that has settled on the earth recently.  Yeah, it was a good day.  And I realize yet again that I am blessed.