Campbellsburg Century in 2024

An Evening Bike Ride

by Gary L. Misch

Race toward the mountains,

Peddle through redbud alley,

Chase the blood red sky. 

The weather is to be nice on Saturday and I need to prepare.  Dave and I are, yet again, returning to Scotland, this time to ride across her beauty from east coast to west.  I feel relatively certain this will be my last trip there, but one never knows. Still, I intend to savor every moment and to do that, I have to whip this old body into some semblance of being in shape.  I have no intention of going all that way and then riding in the van rather than on my bicycle.  And so I put the Campbellsburg Century on the club calendar.  It is good to have some motivation to get out of the winter doldrums.

This was the first century that I ever designed and it was designed in bits and pieces, before GPS, without maps.  I would ride and mark turns with sidewalk chalk, searching for stores,  cobbling them together until they became a route I liked.  This would have been 2004.  Not only was it the first century I designed, but it was the first century I captained for the bicycle club.  But I have not had it on the ride schedule for a few years.  I knew it had some hard climbs, but I had forgotten how hard.  It is like looking back on long brevets and asking myself how in the world I did that. 

It is a small crowd just as I expected.  I suppose it should bother me, but it really doesn't.  There is a time and a place for such rides, and today is, hopefully, such a day. I rode this century alone when I first put it together and I have ridden it alone many times since.  It will be nice to have company, but if nobody shows I will make do.  At first I believe it will just be Jon and me, but I get a text from Dave that he is coming but running late.  We head on leaving him a cue sheet on the windshield.  I know he will catch us. 

On Eden Road, I begin to see the first of the dogwoods and I know spring is partially gone, stolen by my refusal to go out into the stormy, wet, windy, cold weather we have had recently.  Sure enough, the redbud trees, my favorites, while still retaining some muted color, have scattered petals along the roadside as if a marriage has taken place prior to our arrival.  It always saddens me a bit, this shedding of the redbud trees, despite the fact I know other flowers will now begin waving from the roadside, that the dogwoods will whiten and be around for a bit,  and that the trees are greening though not yet fully leafed out.  

I think about the cataract surgery I have elected to put off until the fall.  Everyone tells me that colors really pop afterwards, and I pray that I live to see another spring.  I have no reason to expect that I won't, but life has taught me that our time is limited.  I must admit, I am afraid of the surgery but of course I will do it anyway.  Watching mom's macular degeneration gave me more insight into the value of eyesight, even dimming eyesight, and while the risk of losing sight from the surgery is almost ridiculously low, it still worries me.  I shake it off, however.  Today is for enjoying company and the ride.  

Jon and I chat a bit to the first store stop.  At the large hill leading up to the Red Barn, he asks if this is the big  hill I had told him about it.  I tell him no.  It is a hill, and it is a tough hill, but it is not "THE HILL."  I explain to him that there will even be foreshadowing, that we will be riding along on a fairly flat road for a number of miles next to farm fields, and then we will see where the trees begin to hang over the road, branches like tentacles waiting to ensnare,  and a dark shadow will arc across the ground:  the start of the climb.  

Dave catches us when we reach the first store stop.   As we park our bikes, I notice a couple of robin eggs on the picnic table and wonder if Amos cleaned out a robin's nest from over his porch overhang, but I see no sign of mud or a nest up there.  Amos tells me there were those eggs plus a few others in the parking lot one morning.  He said that a man who watched the solar eclipse in his parking lot told him that the eclipse caused birds to lose eggs, but Amos points out if this had happened the eggs would have broken.  So the robin's eggs in the middle of a gravel parking lot are a mystery.  I later google it and learn that the eggs probably were either infertile and dumped by the parents or that they were stolen by a crow or bluejay who dropped them when being pursued by a pissed off parent, but neither of those explanations explain why the eggs are not cracked.  

Dave regains the energy he expended catching Jon and I as only the young can, and we are soon on our way.  Before you know it, we confront the "HILL" on Cox Ferry.  I remember my first time up that hill and how the construction workers bet I could not ride up it.  I remember descending the hill one time when a mother and her fawn ran parallel to the road and how I worried they would dart out as I didn't and still don't know if my brakes would fully stop me on such a steep descent.  I think about walking, but scramble up.  Dave admits to the same thoughts but also scrambles up.  Even Jon, an excellent climber, is  panting deeply, something I rarely see but then I rarely make it up a hill before him so perhaps that is it.  Both Dave and he had stopped to lighten their loads giving me a head start.  

Dave tells me his GPS kept jumping from 24 to 26 percent, and we laugh about this, particularly as I keep making it steeper and steeper. You said 28 percent grade right?  I am glad it is behind us, but I am glad I was still able to climb it.  I think briefly of all the times riders have had to walk that hill and am grateful to my legs for their strength and determination.  A bit after this, a woman becomes enraged that we are on her road, giving us the finger from inside the truck with her right hand and then with her left  hand outside the truck.  None of us have any idea why she is so angry.  There was no car to block her passing or slow her down.  But regardless, she is.  Instead of allowing it to dampen our spirits, however, we just laugh it off.  Jon begins making jokes about her being ambidextrous. People do seem to hate cyclists, though I must say I see surprisingly little of this on the country roads that I normally cling to. Indeed, many people are interested and kind and bid me to be careful on my travels.

 

It is then that the wind seems to be seriously slapping us around.  I think how glad I am that we should have it mostly at our backs after lunch.  Lunch is at Little Twirl since the Mennonite store closed and I am elated when we arrive.  Jon and Dave get shakes with their meal, but I get a child's ice cream cone which is plenty.  Despite it still being a bit chilly, we outside in the sun at a picnic table.  

The ride homeward after lunch is delightful with the wind pushing us along so that we need barely pedal.  We earned this, this feeling of flying with little effort, and I intend to suck every last bit of joy from it.  The worst of the climbing is behind us and I am glad.  My legs, while better than during last weeks century at that mileage, still tell me that I am being a bitch asking this of them.  I don't cramp though, as I did at the end of BMB.  I NEVER used to cramp, and if I did it was normally on the drive home after a long ride or in bed that night.  This seems to be changing, however, and it worries me a bit, this along with the knee pain I am starting to have.  I know we wear out, that I will wear out, but I am not resigned to wearing out even while I accept it as a fact. 

 

We quickly reach the Cheddar Depot. I am surprised at the changes and decide I probably need to find another store stop, but not today. We sit on the front porch taking some nourishment before heading onward, soaking up the last of the sunlight.

After the ride ends, we all go out to dinner together.  Being single and living alone, it is nice to have human company and laughter for an evening meal.  The perfect cap on the day before we part ways knowing/hoping we will meet again on another ride.  Life is good when it holds bicycles, friends, hard hills, and redbud trees in it. 

Easter Ride 2024

"Spring drew on...and a greenness

grew over those brown beds, which, 

freshening daily, suggested the thought

that Hope traversed them at night, and

left each morning brighter traces of 

her steps."

Charlotte Bronte

As always, there is something about spring that makes me glad to be alive, to have survived another of winter of dark and dreary cold, and come out of on the other side.   I give a prayer of thanksgiving to God that he has let my eyes feast on yet another spring.  Today's ride, an unexpected gift on a day predicted to be rainy and stormy.  Instead, the sun bursts through the clouds and the sky is as blue as my granddaughter's eyes, and I suppose, as innocent.  Perhaps the greatest gift is that the wind is mild and not the strong, bossy, punishing wind of recent rides.  

I decide to take the Calfee, my new bike, rather than my old, dependable Lynskey.  I don't trust the Calfee yet, not in the way I trust the  Lynskey, and I spend part of the ride trying to decide why.  Don't get me wrong....I absolutely adore my new Calfee, particularly the electronic shifting.  The ride is smooth as silk.  It is a beauty with remarkable craftsmanship evident from stem to stern.  I think the only thing I might change in a do over is the disc brakes:  they seem rather an overkill and are still rather unfamiliar to me and what they mean for tire changing, etc.  

 

But I still love my Lynskey, the way it takes abuse without complaining, the triple that has gone out of style rather than a compact double though it was always rare for me to use the smaller chain ring.  I got the Lynskey right before the 2011 PBP and it has served me well.  I intend for it to be my go to bike during bad weather.  In the end, I think it is because the Lynskey has proven itself that makes me comfortable.  We have a relationship.  So many memories. The Calfee and I will have to spend time together to make that happen.  And with the spring, there is hope that there will be time.  

I worry about my mind going anymore, the way I struggle sometimes to recall things, to pronounce things, to draw the words from my mind to mouth.  I have no diagnosis, but I worry about dementia or Alzheimer's and how I will handle it if it becomes reality because, in this country, you don't have choices as you do in some other places.  But this day is for appreciation, for celebration of another spring, a day and season for HOPE. And so I thrust the negative thoughts behind me as forcefully as possible, leaving them on the road as can only happen on a delightful spring day on a bicycle. 

It always amazes me how quickly spring arrives.  I don't mean that the winter is short, but that once spring decides it is time, how quickly green commandeers the brown and gray of winter.  As I ride, fields are alive with purple deadnettle.  Soon the farmers will spray and till it into submission, but for now it is dominant and absolutely gorgeous.  It brings a memory back of pulling it in the garden to plant and a bee getting angry with me.  It flew into my hair getting caught in the strands and I ran indoors, screaming.  My husband took the sting in his hand pulling it free. How often he saved me pain.  Always the protector.  How I miss that. 

 

I decide to head toward Henryville for, despite the sun, there are predictions for afternoon thunder storms.   The daffodils still brighten the landscape, painting the roadsides yellow, though they are fading. I love  how they stare winter down, daring her to do her worst, how they laugh at the strong spring winds, dancing and showing how those that are flexible survive hardships thrust upon them better than those that are rigid.   

 

I pass Helen Trueblood's, her yard alive with color, and regret that, with her passing, these flowers will not be cherished and cared for as they were while she graced this earth.  But I also remember how you can almost always tell an old homestead, despite the house being dilapidated or gone, bones sagging with age, by the daffodils that someone once planted.  During a hike on the Knobstone, Chris and I found an old well he was looking for that way.    The house was long gone, but the daffodils remain.  The words of a Leann Womack song come to mind, "And that's something, something worth leaving behind."  The name of the artist long forgotten, but the beauty remains, a reminder that actions, perhaps, last longer in preserving our bit of time here. 

 

The wheels continue to roll as I decide what roads to take and pick a few I don't normally ride.  I think how we tend to become slaves to routes as we become familiar with an area, maybe because of terrain, maybe because a bad dog lives on a certain road, maybe just because.  I decide to ride past my mother-in-law's old house.  So many memories there, some my own some shared by  my husband while he was still alive.  

 

The sky begins to darken and I decide it is best to head homewards despite being reluctant to give up this precious time on the bike on a day that was predicted to be stormy and rainy.  The day, instead was an Easter gift, and Easter is, I suppose, like spring, about hope.  And despite the ride ending, I smile.  

 

 

 

 

A Shitty Day;-) LIterally Speaking That Is

"You just have to learn how

to fall down and get back up again.

You just have to keep going."

Maggie Siff

 

It has been quite some time since I have done a century.  Since I no longer count miles or how many years I do a century outside each month of the year, it is hard to tell.  Counting ended when the Big Dog site went down without warning a number of years ago. I don't remember the exact number of months that I had ridden an outside century, but it was somewhere in the realm of over twelve years.  I stopped not because data was lost, but because someone fell asleep while driving and came into my lane hitting my car with their car. I was hurt. Still, when that data was lost, I realized the futility of keeping track.  What does it matter?  We get older.  We get slower.  Most of us get fewer miles.  The true question is, do we still enjoy the miles?  That, I suppose, is what is important.

 

Age has, without a doubt, affected my memory.  I "think" it was  November when I last did a century, but it could have been October or December. I do know I have not been outside on a bicycle all January though I have done a few trainer miles on Zwift.  Mostly I have been hiking or doing Pilates or Tabata pump classes.   But I decide that I want to try a century, an easy century without much climbing, but a century just to see what happens.  Jon says he is interested and the die is cast.

 

There is a Mad Dog Century on Saturday, but I have no interest in it because it is a city course.  There are only so many centuries left in these legs, and I don't want to waste them on such a course.   Besides, it is supposed to rain on Saturday and may be canceled.   Friday, however,  appears to have little chance of rain and to be relatively warm at the start for this time of year. And since I am retired, Friday works.  I decide on Dave Fleming's century course over Medora because of concerns that Medora may be flooded.  I warn Jon that I will be riding conservatively and reserve the right to turn around if I am tired and think finishing will be a chore.  It is an impediment, the difference in our paces, causing him to ride slower than he likes and me to ride faster than I like at times.  But I mean it when I say I will be riding conservatively. 

I know I will be sorry when our rides together end just as I rue the day my riding ends period.  But I know the end of last year it had become a strain, the feeling that I was too slow, stealing the enjoyment of the ride and the miles from both of us.   When that happens, it becomes better to ride alone, without the demands, imaginary or real.  But as with other lost riding companions, it will tear my heart a bit.  So many lost companions over the year though for many different reasons:  Sparky....Bill.....Steve R......the other Steve R......Greg Z.....Joe C.....Steve S.....Bill P......Lynn R......and on and on and on.  

I turn my back on the thought of losses just as I intend to thumb my nose at the continuing grayness of the skies.  Day  after day with little to no sun.  Often rainy.  Or snowy.  Or cold.   "Godchidden" comes to mind, a phrase from a poem I read once...perhaps Thomas Hardy?

 

As I pack to leave for the ride start, I realize I need to go back over the list in my mind to be sure I have what I need to be comfortable.  All too well I remember a previous ride and riding back from today's third store stop inadequately clothed and, therefore, cold and thoroughly miserable.  I decide on a rain jacket despite the fact they are not calling for rain throughout the day, a decision I will be glad of for we do get some sprinkles though never any serious rain.  I don and discard a wool jersey, but do keep a wool base layer adding a regular jersey and vest.  I know  my hands will be warm enough with the bar mitts, but I throw in the new shoe covers my son got me for Christmas.  I also pack a light extra layer in a light backpack that I will wear just in case. 

Because it is winter, I throw a light on the bike as dusk falls early this time of year and head out to meet Jon at the start.  We are scheduled to leave at 8:00.  Despite getting behind school buses on a couple of occasions and having trouble putting on the new shoe covers, we leave at eight.  The first few roads are heavily trafficked with those heading to work and I am glad I turned my blinker on for a gray light cloaks the world.  Per the weather man, the sun is not supposed to shine today.

But once we are out the city, despite the occasional misting and the lack of sun, I find the beauty in the bare fields, brown and forlorn.  How patient they  are, imperturbable in their waiting, knowing there will, indeed, be a resurrection.  There is an allure in tenacity. As they often do, lines from Adrienne Rich come to mind, when she speaks of the "humble tenacity of things." 

 

 And it is while I am thinking such silly thoughts that it happens.  My front wheel leaves the road and, like a rookie, I over correct trying to regain pavement.  No, I don't fall in the water filled ditch on my right side.  I fall onto the pavement, tipping sideways, hitting head first.  Jon was ahead but hears me and turns around asking if I am okay.  And I think I am thanks to the helmet.  The foam is cracked a bit, and my rib and side feel painful, though not as painful as when I broke ribs in Texas, and I know I have a bit of road rash on my knee.  (I later find a bit elsewhere).  But  I am, indeed, blessed.  I can ride.   I check myself for what I know of concussions and seem to have no symptoms.

And so I decide to continue.  Imagine my surprise, when shortly down the road, a bird takes a dump on me hitting my glasses, my face, and my jacket.  The irony of it hits me immediately, but I desperately begin trying to find a way to clean myself.  Fortunately I find a wipe and Jon has hand sanitizer.  I tell him it is the first time I have used hand sanitizer on my face. Well, in all honesty, I can now say I have had a shitty day;-)

 

As I ride I think of my husband saying to me, shortly before he died, that while he didn't know if he could, if he is able he would take care of me.  Between God and him, they did a pretty good job today, better than I deserve.   

We eat and finish without a third store stop.  The pace is slow and I am hurting pretty good at the end, my big concern being that the aches has extended to include my neck and shoulders.  Remembering my head bouncing, I wonder if I have whip lash.   Having had it once before and remembering how painful it was and how long lasting, I am frightened.  Jon suggests that it might just be from riding and being on a bike so long when I have not ridden a century for awhile and he turns out to be right.

Still, I am glad to get to my car and head home even if I remember on the way home I can't take any pain killers because of possible bleeding.  But I am not sorry that I rode despite the accident and getting dumped on.   Life is, I suppose, just a series of getting knocked down and getting back up until, of course, one day you don't.  As Ms. Siff points out, "You just have to keep going." And there is beauty out there, even in the midst of a dreary and dark winter. 

Hardinsburg on the Calfee: Fall 2023

"This thou perceiv'st,

which makes they love

more strong/To love that

well which thou must leave

ere long."

William Shakespeare

 

 

 

When I wake up, I decide to ride and enjoy the last of the unseasonable warmth and the last of autumn's dance.  How I love the colors of her skirt as she swirls doing a suggestive strip tease, bathed in sunlight or shade, delighting the eye and the soul. How I love the crackling and rustling noises that serenade and tease my ears as I pass woodlands and cornfields and the sweeping vistas of freshly harvested fields, withered and spent, tucked in for the winter months, resting.  Just returning from a visit with my son and his family, I am concerned that the leaves will have fallen, but I find that they remain and the color seems to be in full swing.  So I air up the tires on my new bike and head out, unsure whether I will do a century or a sixty mile ride.  New bike, new saddle often equals sore butt.

 

The morning still has a chill to it so I don arm warmers and a jacket as well as leg warmers.  Despite the promised warmth, there is no mistaking this weather for summer.  I carry a small back pack in the hopes of doing a slow peel along the way.  I also have on my buff making sure it covers my ears.  Yesterday I rode into a thick swarm of Asian beetles that lighted all over my body and I was so glad to have my ears covered.  I don't know if I will encounter them today, but if so I will again be prepared.  I have encountered them before, but not in these numbers.  I must have been a good year for them.  I do encounter them later, particularly on Delaney Park Road, but while thick, they are not as concentrated as  yesterday.  Still I am glad for glasses and my buff.

 

I smile in delight as I get ready to climb Leota Hill as it becomes obvious that it is alive with color that screams fall.  I stop to take photographs, many of which I won't be able to share because it seems Microsoft has disabled my camera download program inserting their own (I think)  and I have not yet taken the time to figure out how to switch it back.  Luckily, I also take a few photos with my phone. Yellows, oranges, and reds line the road and I stop in the midst of the climb to photograph one tree that strikes me as being particularly beautiful.  

"It is time to start planning hikes," I think to myself, as I climb past where the Knobstone Trail crosses the hill to the Leota trailhead. I believe that Chris Quirey may be joining Jon and I on our group hikes this winter. And I will probably do some of the LBC hikes.   But I will still be doing some hikes alone just as I will ride alone today.  There is something in me that needs this alone time occasionally, time to think and to dream and to just meander.  And what a perfect day for it today is, to have no demands on my thoughts or route or pace.  Some people wonder how I stand riding a century alone, but I wonder how they can stand not to.

As I round the corner to turn onto Blue River Road, a horse and rider suddenly and unexpectedly come galloping around the curve.  Both of us are startled.  He yanks on the reins (I pity that horse's mouth) bringing it to a sliding stop on the pavement, weight thrust deeply into its haunches.   I coo to it as I pass by, "Easy, little one.  Easy."  The horse stands quivering but stands.  The rider is unresponsive.  He appears to be Amish with his straw hat and I am surprised. I normally think of the Amish as being good caretakers of their livestock and galloping a horse, even with shoes, on this pavement is so hard on the legs.  I wonder if there was an emergency.  Or perhaps the horse took off with him.  I'll never know.  A bit further down the road, I run into an Amish wagon that is passing in the other direction.  Unlike the rider, they wave back.  

The road passes  quickly to the first store stop despite my easy pace.  This century is one where it is easy to override during the first quarter because other than Leota Hill and a few rollers, it is basically flat.  Having ridden it  numerous times, however, I know what is coming and pace myself accordingly.   Reaching the store, I grab some milk to eat and take a seat on the curb. Looking down near my foot, I find a breakfast companion.  Glad I didn't step on him by mistake as it was close.  I suppose small things are always in danger from larger things in this life.  How thoughtlessly a small life can be changed.  And in the end, we are all small lives.

After the store stop, the climbing begins in earnest starting with Short's Corner Road.  I wonder how my new bike will climb and how I will do as it seems to stress my back more on  harder climbs than the Lynskey.  Perhaps this will be rectified when the shorter stem arrives and perhaps not.  The day I got the Lynskey was a happy day that I will always remember.  Lloyd and I went down to Tennessee and the shop owner, Lynn I think his name was, spent an hour or more changing and fitting things.  How Lloyd and I laughed and smiled that day.  Because I was happy, he was happy.  It was a good day.  I miss having someone who truly cares about my happiness even while he didn't understand this bicycling obsession that he unwittingly fostered.

 

Already I am thinking ahead to the huge climb to get to the Red Barn after lunch, but I force myself to just ride and enjoy.  And there is much to enjoy.  I bathe in the beauty of the countryside. 

As always on this ride, after I leave Hardinsburg heading toward Little Twirl, my lunch stop that will close after this week-end, I come across fields of unharvested pumpkins.  This happens EVERY  year in this area and I don't know why.  Are they good for the soil if plowed under?  Is there a lack of help or demand for the product?  It is usually different fields, though not always, but there is always a field of  unharvested pumpkins that stretches almost as far as the eye can see.  

 

I climb the rollers that I remember climbing one Christmas Breakfast century with Steve Sexton for some reason.  The wind was strong that year and it was cold and the others had ridden ahead.  Lunch seemed forever away because my pedaling seemed to take me nowhere.  But still it was a good day.  The hard rides, the unusual rides, these are the ones you tend to remember.  And with thoughts swirling in my head, I find I have arrived. 

It is warm enough to eat outside at Little Twirl though the morning sunshine has disappeared and clouds cover the sky.  The dimness does not extinguish my pleasure in the scenery that is to follow or the warmth that has caused me to lose a layer. Walnuts and persimmons lie thickly on the ground in places.  And then I am at the climb.  I have no trouble making the climb but I do feel it in the muscles of my lower back.  Still, I am glad to be able to climb it.  Since it is a new bike with different gearing and no triple, I have not yet come to trust it.  

I sit and chat a bit with Amos at the Red Barn.  As he often does, he tells me about how he used to ride his bike all the time when he was young and I, as I always do, tell he there is nothing stopping him from resuming.  We both know that isn't going to happen, but it is almost a tradition at this point.  He tells me today that he has had this store for 21 years and reminds me that it is squirrel season and bow hunting season for deer and I should dress brightly.  

 

And the century ends with one of my favorite stretches of road and the knowledge that while there are a few rollers, the major climbs of the day are behind me.  As expected, Delaney Park is lovely and traffic non-existent.  I see deer, chipmunks, and squirrels.   All seems to be scampering, busily preparing for the coming cold and food scarcity.  There are a few fields that remain unharvested, but most have been laid bare.  While there is a logging sign, it has not affected most of the road (fingers crossed that they don't denude it as so often happens).  At the Amish homes, I see nobody, not even the children.  Today it is as if I am almost alone in the world. 

  I don't know how many falls remain in my future, particularly falls seen from the seat of a bicycle, but I am glad that I made use of this warm day, despite the wind, to enjoy this one.  How very many I wasted with a lack of appreciation in my years on earth, but no longer.  I am blessed. 

Medora: 2023

"The best portion of a man's life,

his little, nameless, unremembered

acts of kindness and love."

William Wordsworth 

As the Medora Century approaches, watching the weather is an exercise in futility and frustration with the prediction changing every few hours.   So I decide to just wait until the morning of the ride.  The morning of the ride the wind prediction is down to twelve miles with higher gusts (27) out of the west.  This is promising as while there will be wind on the way out, there should be some tail wind on the return, always my preference.  Also, it is not as strong as was  predicted earlier.  Lastly, and perhaps even more importantly,  rain chances are twenty percent or lower the entire day.

 

As I leave for the ride, the sun is shining and the wind is relatively calm.  There are some clouds, but none that look particularly dark or threatening.  I wonder how many will show.    Last week, when the prediction for today was mid-forties with rain and wind, I talked about possibly canceling.  I have ridden brevets and centuries in the upper thirties, low forties where it rained most of if not the entire day in the past, so I know I can do it, but I also have great respect for cold, wet weather and what it can do to people.  I remember having  to help another, extremely strong rider, get into his back pocket to get an energy bar on one such brevet as his fingers were no longer working and how close he was to hypothermia at the finish.  As for wind, Mike Kamenish and I rode Ike, though I will admit I hugged his back wheel for shelter much of the ride.

 

Can I still do this type of ride?  Certainly.  I am older and slower but far from dead.  But I will not purposefully seek it out anymore or ask others to ride in it.  Captaining a cold, rain ride is a big responsibility, particularly if any of the people who show are not experienced riding in rain and lack the proper clothing to do so safely.   I am glad I don't have to make this decision. Plus, I did not dress for particularly foul weather.

Medora is a special century to me, holding so many memories both solo and alone.  So much has changed since I first came upon this little, neglected town.  All the stores that were open at the time to meet a cyclists needs have closed.  A new cafe opened last year only to close.  I found it had re-opened on my pre-ride of the course, but don't feel it is dependable.  The gas station is now closed.  Randy's Market closed, re-opened, closed.  The pizza place, once a hamburger place and before that an ice cream place, has a for sale sign on it. The only place that has consistently remained open throughout the years I have ridden here is the bar.  

 

  So now I only schedule a ride for others when the festival is held each October.  And I mourn the loss of those small places and the loss of small towns where small businesses can't compete with the big conglomerates who often run them out of business before raising their prices to gouge a bit more deeply.  A friend, Thomas Nance, once pointed out to me that in our greed we have done this to ourselves, and of course he is correct.  But just because we put together that pill it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.  The festival does, however, when combined with being the last century of the tour, give the ride a party like feel. 

I am the first to arrive, but soon there is  a nice sized crowd, much larger than I expect.  Most are LBC members, but John Mahorney and Thomas Nance have brought some of the Ridenfaden members with them.  Amelia Dauer, Larry Preble, Stanley Paulin, Tom Hurst, Chris Quirey, Jeff Shrode, Paul Battle, Paula Pierce, Samuel Bland, Fritz Kopatz, Derek Wilder, Keith Baldwin, Bob Grable, Jon Wineland, Steven Sarson, Don Williams, Jose Rodriguez, Mary Margaret Williams, Mark Rougoux, Thomas Nance, Steve Puckett, Frank Harris, Dan Barriere, Clay Mitchell, Damar Kiper, Chris Embry, Glenn Smith, John Mahorney, and Dominic Wasserzug are all present.  It is Derek's first century and while I am never introduced, he rides strongly and never meets me at the back of the pack.  It is Dominique's first Mad Dog Century and I share part of it with him.  He also is a strong rider.  I am sad that Dave King and Mike Kamenish are not here to celebrate another year of the tour because each is special to me in his own way, but they had other things to do or did not trust the forecast.  Either way, by the end of the day I know neither would have enjoyed today's ride. 

 

One of the announcements is a new challenge I invented  for the ride.  The course is about as flat as one can make a course in this part of the country with the entire century only having about 3,000 feet of elevation.  BUT, we pass TWO fire tower climbs, both quite demanding.  One is in Clark County Forestry and the other in Jackson County Forestry. The challenge, if anyone accepts it, it to climb both during the ride while still completing the rest of the course.  I  have climbed both when younger, but never on the same day.  I stopped doing this a few years ago when my knees still hurt the following day after the climb and have not tried since as I could see no purpose in needlessly exposing myself to injury. Nobody speaks up.  

 

Everyone is in a good mood.  Why not?  The sun is shining and people have turned out in pink.  Paula makes everyone smile with a pink wig.  She says she believes it will get hot later in the ride, but turns into a blessing keeping her warm instead. Chris Embry is in pink from  head to toe, even sporting a mask.  The smile that started on my face with Paula with her pink hair, got bigger with Amelia in her tutu, and became humongous when I see Chris.  There are pink jerseys, pink socks, pink arm warmers, etc.  Oh, yes, real men are not afraid of pink.  I think of Paul's pink jersey and how he told me that it used to be the 25,000 mile jersey for the club but they changed the color because the men would not wear it.  It had to be better than the dreary gray they changed it to, one of the jerseys that I consider a "fish cleaning" jersey:  I wear it when I suspect there might be permanent damage or dirty that won't come out. I would prefer the pink. Pink is a happy color.

 

 

And we roll out after Steve Puckett announces that those who have qualified should be getting an email from him this week about the 2023 TMD jersey.  I wonder what it will look like this year.  It is always nice to get another jersey. I think of how when I first started riding I hated the bright, jarring colors.   Now they seem festive.  I suppose we change.  Now I love the parade of color as we roll out, the sound of laughter and free wheels spinning, the anticipation of the ride. 

 

  Before we have even finished the loop through the forestry I come across Chris Embry with a flat tire.  I stop and wait for him thinking this will probably mean I ride alone to the first store stop for no way am I keeping up with Chris.  But when we get ready to leave the forestry, Paul, Mary Margaret, and Don have waited at the forestry entrance.   Their thoughtfulness in doing so touches me.  Paul is my buddy, but I have only met Don and Mary Margaret on the BMB century.

As we ride to the first store stop,  someone notices a rider behind us.  I don't think I left anyone so make the false assumption that someone arrived late and hurried to catch us.  I am wrong.  It is Jon Wineland and Sam Bland, both who decided to accept the Fire Tower Challenge and had climbed Fire Tower Hill in Clark Forestry.  This fire tower was constructed in 1930 and overlooks parts of Clark, Scott, Washington, and Floyd County and, from I have read, was the first fire tower constructed in the state.  At one time, Duc Do posted how steep the fire tower climb was in places, but the link is no longer on the site.   I can tell you from past experience, it is steep.  

Jon and Sam say it was a  difficult climb not only because of the steepness but because the road was wet and covered with leaves that caused wheels to slip.  Jon had the same experience that I had the first time I "tried" to climb it with wheels coming off the pavement when trying to stand.  But they made it only to find the fire tower itself was closed.  "Will they," I wonder, "attempt the second fire tower after lunch."  Hint:  (They do).  

 

We reach Huck's and fuel up, but shortly after we leave and head toward the festival the rain begins.  Now I KNOW that Paul hates to ride in rain, and I worry because he doesn't look very warm.  I think that perhaps he will turn around.   He has done that before on this very ride though it was before I changed the course.  I suspect that because Don and Mary Margaret drove so far to get here he does not, but only Paul knows his reasoning for continuing.  Anyway, he completes the century finishing before I do and, as always, I am glad of the time I do spend riding with him. 

 

When we near the covered bridge, the rain really picks up, but since it is chilly we decide not to shelter there and press forward to Medora which is only a mile or two away.  I am glad they don't want to wait as I know waiting will only make us colder and the rain gives no indication that it is going to stop.  I am surprised not to see others heading back from the festival, but we don't. 

 

When we arrive,  I am amazed to find the city has opened the school gym, the Senior Center, and the church to warm us and any other fools who are going to an outside festival in a steady drizzle.  While I don't enter any of these buildings, I am  told they have free coffee and cookies that they are distributing to riders.  I have learned that, for me, it is best not to get too warm as it makes coming back out into the cold rain worse.  Instead, my strategy is to keep moving.  Inertia is the kiss of death on a cold, wet ride or on a cold ride.  But the kindness of the people here warms my heart.  I know the stands that are normally crowded stand lonely, without customers, and that it is costing them, but I later learn the fish stand gave some riders free fish.  It truly is amazing to see the kindness in the face of their own adversity.  

A few of us grab a quick tenderloin sandwich.  When the seller asks me if I want tomato and lettuce, I tell him  no, I want nothing that takes the heat away from the sandwich.  A town citizen yields his seat on a doorstep to me and I sit with the others fueling myself for the second half of the ride, surprised that I am not colder but knowing I need to finish and move on.  John Mahorney is there and says the radar looks like the rain is clearing out.  And it does.  For a few minutes before resuming the steady drumming, drizzle that has plagued us since the first store stop.  Occasionally it seems there is a break just long enough to obtain some dryness, only to resume.  The story of the day following the first store stop.

 

Suddenly, as happens with rides, I look up and everyone is pretty much gone.  Two have called for someone to pick them up.  I am glad they are using their heads and making the decision that is right for them. Most of us were not prepared for this. Dominic and I head out for the finish.  I assume those I was riding with have gone ahead only to later find that they were sheltering.  

At times, despite the rain and company, I notice the beauty of the harvested fields, lying sheared and mournful, waiting for spring to awaken them.  The trees, while not plentiful on this route which has lots of farmland (thus the flatness) are starting to show some color despite the drought.  And I realize that despite the rain, I am enjoying myself.  

Suddenly I look behind me and Dominic is gone.  I turn around and retrace my route finding Paul, Don, and Mary Margaret who I had unwittingly left behind at the festival.  I ride to the last turn and still see no sign of Dominic and there is nothing to do but assume he missed the turn and move on.  I thought I had seen him shortly before I turned, but perhaps I am mistaken.  We run into him emerging from the woods and I am relieved.  I did not want to leave him out on the course or off the course alone.  

Soon two Ridenfaden riders pass.  They say there is another group behind.  Then Sam catches us, delayed by the second fire tower climb.  He says he is tired but our slower pace soon is too slow for him to remain warm and he rides ahead.  From what I understand, he made it all the way to the other fire tower.  Jon did the climbing, but stopped a bit short of reaching the actual tower, but since he did the climbing, I consider these two the first to complete the Challenge, and what a Challenge it is.  

When we reach the third store stop, the two Ridenfaden riders are there, names unknown.  These "may" be the two that  I later learned went to Dollar General and bought sweat shirts to complete the ride. There is no way to really keep track of what happens on a ride unless everyone stays together.  Even then I suspect it is somewhat individual.  I invite them to dinner, but they say they need to head back to Louisville after the ride.  They take off before we leave the store. 

Mary Margaret, Don, and Paul leave the store before Dominic and I do, afraid to linger while Dominic prepares due to being cold.  We later catch them when Paul finds he has picked up something metal in his brake pads that is causing his rims to shed small, metal slivers.  Whatever it is, Don removes it and they ride on.  We meet them at the end of the ride in the parking lot.  Of course, right before we pull in, the sun pops out for about one minute and I smile thinking that God does, indeed, have a good sense of humor.  I thank him for getting everyone in safely. 

After the ride,  ten of us head to Good Fellas for pizza and conversation:  Amelia Dauer, Thomas Nance, Dominc, Mary Margaret, Don, Paul, Steve S., Jon W., and myself. Everyone appears to be a in a good mood despite the cold, rainy ride.  I look forward to hot food and going home to a nice warm bath.  As always, I know I will be thankful to whomever I owe the invention of the hot water heater to for it is one of my favorite things after a cold ride, to soak in hot water until even my bones are warm.  And today, to add to the warmth of the bath will not only be the remembrance of the ride, the laughter, the struggles, the companionship, the beauty of land itself, will be the kindness riders received at the hands of strangers in Medora.  I like to think that this kindness will be remembered.  It was truly special. Laughter and smiles lace the conversation as bellies are filled, the perfect way to end a ride that should have been easy but, with the wind and rain, wasn't. Good Fellas even puts in dessert pizzas for us: apple and cherry.  I am truly blessed. 

Wheels of Screams 2023

 
"Nevertheless, I will tell you that you

will awake one day to find that your life

has rushed by at a speed at once impossible 

and cruel.  The most intense moments will

seem to have occurred only yesterday and 

nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, 

the impossible intensity of love and its dog leaping

happiness, the bleak blackness of passions

unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved."

Meg Rosoff

Wise words, those of Ms. Rosoff, and they play a part in my decision to attend the next century despite the abrupt changes in weather, the distance to the start, and the difficulty of the course.  Because I know I will miss this.  The contemplation of a ride, sometimes laced with a trace of fear or trepidation, the ability to put one foot after the other, to brave hills, to brave cold, to brave the possibility of failure.   The thought of companionship or solitude, of laughter and sharing, of the unexpected, and roads that I don't know as well as I know my own living room lure me.  Fall passes quickly.  Ride while it is still a delight.  Ride while fear of the challenge is less than the excitement of the challenge. 

 

 First I check with the ride captain prior to the ride to see if my growing slowness is a problem for him.  I know Thomas always sweeps his rides.  All club rides used to be swept, but it doesn't happen all the time anymore.  Sometimes it seems as if everyone is vested in ending the experience as quickly as possible, and I know I, myself, have been guilty of this rush, am still guilty of it at times.  Sometimes it seems that only my solo centuries are those where I truly relax and rarely push.  

 

I know this century has lovely scenery, but I also know it has unrelenting climbs that challenge not only the legs and lungs but the heart and mind.  I know that it will not be a large crowd as many people ride only to get their ten Tour de Mad Dog centuries in and do no more, particularly if a course and/or the weather is demanding.  This course, however lovely, is hard and demanding and it is cold and windy.  Indeed, earlier in the week the wind prediction gave me pause, but it moderated to a tolerable level.

It seems strange getting ready.  Just five days prior, I did a century in temperatures that were unseasonably warm: high eighties.  Today the start is in the low forties and the high is only expected to be the low sixties.  I worry about over or under dressing as it always takes me a few rides to get the right combination.  And the wind will play a part here for it is predicted to be on the stronger side.  I find I am not the only one when Chris Quirey is lamenting that lack of a light jacket.  Larry Preble has an extra and loans him one, something I suspect Chris was grateful for the entire ride.  It reminds of a ride where Don Feeney borrowed my green jacket which was way too small for him.  We called him the hulk during that ride. More people that no longer ride, some of whom I haven't seen for ages, but I still smile at the memory.

I believe there are twelve or thirteen of us, but I fail to photo the sign in sheet, didn't count, and my memory fails me, something that happens quite frequently anymore. Or perhaps I merely notice it whereas before I did not.  Regardless, it is more people than I expected.  And the thought of losing memory is frightening. I do know it was good to see Tom Hurst back on the bike and riding strongly after his fall earlier this year.

 

 

Somehow the topic of gifts come up and I tell the story of the year my husband bought me a load of turkey dung for my garden for either our anniversary or Valentine's Day....can't remember which for sure.  Oh, how it made me laugh.  I could  not garden that year because the smell of the dung permeated the air everywhere outside.  And suddenly it is as if he had just died rather than passing a number of years ago.  Oh, as Ms. Rosoff says, "the impossible intensity of love."  How quickly that time passed.   How I still miss his arms and his support during hard times, his help making decisions or doing things around the house that I struggle with, but just as much or more I miss his humor and the funny things he would do, like the dung, with love in his heart and the best of intentions but that make others cringe.  We move on.  We find new and different loves.  We have more and different experiences.  But we really don't move on I suppose.  Perhaps bury would be a more appropriate description in more than one sense.  "Every heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls!  On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the wall!  And mine at times is haunted by Phantoms from the past, As motionless as shadows, by the moonlight cast! " (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)  

 

But back to the ride.

 

Bob Grable and I had talked of perhaps starting early as he has an event to attend and I know I will be slow.  As it turns out, there is a small group of us that head out early.  It is nice that there is another woman on the ride. On most centuries, if there is another woman, it is Dee or Amelia.   Distance riding still seems to be mainly the province of men in this part of the country.  Dee leaves early with me though we only end up spending part of the day riding together.   I warn everyone that I intend to ride slowly and not press myself as I have been doing.  I know this course will sap my strength and I don't want to finish wishing I had not ridden or totally wiped out.  There is a time and place for that.  That time is not today.  Fall, for me, is a time to slow down and soak up the beauty.  And this is just the course to do that on.  

Dee and I ride together while the others take off.  Thomas Nance, the ride captain, catches us and rides along.  He said that Chris Embry had a bike problem they struggled with a bit at the beginning.  By that time, Chris had passed us long before, young and strong on the bike.  I hope Thomas is being honest that he does not mind riding a slower pace for he is certainly capable of being with the first group.  

We reach the store stop and realize that Steve Puckett is not with that group.  Chris Embry reaches him by phone and we realize he is, indeed, behind everyone.  Somehow Thomas missed him at the start.  

 

The first store is very quaint but appears to do a good business.  I sit longer than normal drinking the milk I purchased and eating the oatmeal blueberry bar I made at home.  Steve pulls in just about as the group is getting ready to leave.  I leave with them, but don't chase and fall behind.  I am fine with that.  This is a course I don't mind riding alone because you see more, and despite being on mostly state roads, the roads are not busy.  I think how often scenery is tied to hills, probably because it is harder to develop hilly land than flat land.  Regardless, it is lovely with fall reaching forward to color the land.   Her skirts swirl and dance in the wind, falling into the road, confetti for our passing.

It is not too long before Dee leaves the group and drops back.  Dave as well and we ride together to the lunch stop.  I know Dave does not like Subway so I am confused when he passes Dairy Queen and Burger King to Subway.  I just figure he has changed his mind but when I look, he is gone.  Dee and I enter Subway and there is a long line.  I tell her I won't wait and head to Burger King.  And were they fast.  I ordered and filled my drink and my food was ready.  This allowed me to be one of the first to leave the lunch stop. And junk food is junk food.  One fast food restaurant is much the same as the others. 

I worry a bit as the wind has picked up and is slapping me around on the way out of town.  Fortunately, it is mostly a tail or side wind the rest of the way.  As I climb two, short steep hills that require standing, I am glad nobody is with me to witness my struggle.  But I don't stop and I don't walk.  Somehow I keep the pedals turning and make the ascent knowing that these are just the start of what is left to conquer.    I feel a sense of pride at the top of each climb.  I have made it and I have not walked.  Not that there is shame in walking a hill.  I have walked plenty of them.  But walking a hill is like using my triple, something I think it is best to avoid making a habit.  

While alone, I savor the scenery in a way I don't seem to be able to do when riding with a group.  But I am also thinking of my new bike.  Bob from Clarksville Schwinn called at seven last night telling me it was done.  In fact, I debated skipping the century to pick up the bike but decide to ride and pick it up on Sunday.  But I long to ride it and to see how it ended up, to get to know it, and hopefully get to trust it to get me through that days journey. 

Before long I am caught despite my head start.  I end the ride with this group and am glad I am with people when a pick up passes with a young man leaning out the window yelling something.  "Cut me some slack," I think as he yells.  Then I think,  "I am old enough to be your grandmother."  Originally I think he is yelling because I have fallen behind the group on a climb, but he yells at them as well.  None of us could understand what he said, but it is not the first time for any of us that someone has yelled at us as we ride down the road not bothering anyone.  

I debate passing the last store stop and riding in because there are so few miles left, but stop and the very front group is there.  We all finish together.  My legs tell me repeatedly that they are glad to be done, but my heart is still a bit out there on the course thinking of the beauty and the slight sadness of fall and wondering if this is the last time I will ride this course.  Endings are, I suppose, always a bit melancholy just as they are inevitable.  

There is a bit of joking in the parking lot, but I don't linger long as it is a long drive home.  I warn them about the predicted weather for next week-end, Medora, the last century of the TMD for 2023. As almost always is the case, I am glad that I came and glad that I still can ride.  I rue my growing slowness, but appreciate the health that allows me to continue however slowly it may be.  And one day there may be an e-bike in my future.  But not today.  Today's pleasure will not, I hope, ever be erased. 

Yellowstone: A Different Kind of Journey

"Sensitive people feel so deeply they

often have to retreat from the world,

in order to dig beneath the layers of pain

to find their faith and courage."

Shannon Alder

 

I am worried that I will not be able to go on my planned vacation to Yellowstone with my daughter for I have been ill.  Fever and an attack on my lungs by some passing virus that thought I needed a spanking.  COVID tests negative.  But my fever breaks and while I am far from recovered, I am able to go and to not worry about infecting her or other passengers.  I have never been to this park and it gives me a chance to spend time with the woman I birthed all those years ago and to familiarize myself a bit more deeply with who she has become.  

 

When children are little, we know almost everything there is to know about them....when they wake up, what they eat, who their friends are, how they spend their time.  But that little slice of time does not last long, nor should it.  They grow, they change, they become.  As a parent, this means loss, but it also means pride....pride that she is self-sufficient and no longer needs me to ensure her survival, pride in her accomplishments, pride in decisions she made. 

 

I need this break for I have struggled since the loss of my brother, even thinking sometimes about just leaving this world so I don't have to lose any more people or pets that I have known or cared about.  I am weary of loss. I find myself withdrawing from friends a bit, pushing them away and keeping them at arms length, not really wanting to care about them, to run that risk of future pain. Never seriously suicidal because I know the damage that is left behind and because I have responsibilities and because God has blessed me by not allowing me to sink so low that there seems to be no other way out.  There are, after all,  cats that need to be taken care of and a few people who would grieve my passing.  There are grandchildren to be hugged and to be proud of.  And there are children who, while they no longer really need me on one level, will continue to need me on another.  And there is my new bicycle that has not yet arrived but which I eagerly anticipate.

 

Of course, the pool of those who give a damn is getting smaller.  Both best friends from high school are now gone.  All my family other than children and grandchildren are gone. I find myself sympathizing with Job, praying please don't let me lose what little is left. It is not impossible to leave these worries behind.  But there are parental responsibilities.  We never stop trying to role model appropriate behavior I suppose.  We never stop worrying about their well-being. And again, there are cats to be fed as they have no hesitancy in reminding me in the morning when I try to sleep in a bit. People say I am strong.  They don't know the cowering, shivering individual inside.  They see the shell that moves stoically forward and talks using intellect rather than emotion.  But while we may know something with our minds, emotions don't always mirror that knowing taking us in different directions.  

 

There is also  the realization that if genetics holds true, I probably have about 10 years or less before I join my siblings and friends.  Unless I am like my mother who lived to almost 100.  While we try to fool ourselves, human life, all life, is so darned fragile. 10  years does not seem like very long. But that is, I suppose, the thing.  If that is what is left it is so important to enjoy and make the most of it, to squeeze every little bit of pleasure out of life wringing it dry.   I just hope that when it is my time, I am fortunate enough to leave quickly, not lingering in one of the death warehouses that we call nursing homes. 

 

I don't mean to be critical of those that work in nursing homes.  They do what they can, often selflessly for little pay, but having witnessed them with my mother and sister, I do not care to be in one.  There is such a thing as living too long I guess.  One reason I try so hard to take care of myself is the desire to live on my own and be capable of caring for myself as long as is possible.  I detest being dependent, and I don't trust it. I have heard the begging and pleading in the voices of my elders, felt it seep deep inside me kindling a fear I had not known before. But I must look forward or be turned to salt I suppose.

We meet at the airport, both of us excited about going someplace new.  And our flight is on time, something that no longer happens with the regularity of the past.  Once in Bozeman, there is a long wait for the rental car, but then we are on our way.  (I was supposed to get a Ford Fiesta but they give me a Mustang.) We run to Walmart to pick up some groceries, and head for Yellowstone to check into our cabin. Travel and still not being completely well has depleted me and I will be glad to check in. 

The scenery is lovely, so different from home.  We drive through a long valley for what seems like forever before reaching Gardner and entering the park.  The drive from the entrance to Mammoth Hot Springs seems like forever despite being on three to four miles, but the curves need to be taken slowly.  We arrive and check in.  This cabin will be ours for four nights.  Female and younger elks are grazing nearby.  We cautiously make our way to the cabin door and put our things away before going to explore.  While out, I see two cyclists, bicycles loaded, enjoying a brief stop before heading onward to wherever they are heading.  I am briefly envious, but so glad to have the time with my daughter.

 

We get up early each morning and drive to different places.  Once to Old Faithful, once to Lamar Valley, once to Fairy Falls.  We hike.  We talk.  We soak up the beauty.  And we laugh.  It is so nice to laugh together.  We laugh at the call of 24, an older bull elk, as he proclaims that these females are his.  Once he is right outside our cabin and the sound is as loud as if he has joined us.  We rush to the windows.  I don't see him but my daughter catches a glimpse as he charges around the corner of another cabin.  We laugh the next day at how a young elk still needs and wants his mama despite the fact his legs have grown to where nursing is a chore. We laugh on a hike at a ground squirrel and how his tail disappears as he enters his burrow.  We laugh at his caution in emerging and then his cheekiness in trying to join us once he smelled our food. And each laugh is a breath of life, a reason to endure. 

 

We see a fox, a coyote, buffaloes, a raven, and other wildlife.  We experience Old Faithful. We hike and we ride and we just enjoy the newness and each other. The only real issue is the food.  Unlike the Shenandoah Park the food pretty much sucks though my daughter had a few vegetarian meals that she thought were okay. 

The trip home comes all too quickly.  I treasure the time we had together, this child who once was inside of me, totally dependent, but now stands on her own two feet and who is kind to me, patient when I forget something or get confused or anxious or sad.  I treasure this child who shared laughter with me helping me heal. This time was not about bicycles, but about family, about finding the strength to move on, and perhaps realizing that I am not quite as alone as I thought that perhaps I was and that perhaps I matter.  The child who was part of helping me find once more, if only for a bit, faith and courage to move onward as I shuffle through the different blows that have been dealt to me in such an amazingly short period of time.  

So, to friends that have noticed me backing off,  I am sorry.  I am just trying to find my balance on the shifting sands beneath me and to reconcile recent happenings.  It is not you.  It is me.  But this time away hopefully helped.  And being with you, despite my pushing hard against the love I have for you, will hopefully help.  And bicycles, bicycles and the freedom they bestow, will hopefully help.  And eventually, perchance, I will heal, though possibly not as I was, who I was, before.  Eventually a scab will form and despite my weakness, I will put one foot in front of the other and move forward until moving forward is no longer a choice and the time has come to rest.