Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Momma, why would you take my kodachrome?


Dear Blog Reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I have been excited to find that the trees do have leaves. I had wondered. But yesterday, out in the country, where we don’t have the heat retaining properties of the big city, the woods have reached that critical mass. They trees are more than sticks around a trunk. We are rescued once again. I had worried that there was a real chance of succumbing to carbon dioxide poisoning. Without any viable chlorophyll converting CO2 to oxygen, I was starting to fear that we may all keel over from oxygen depravation. We are saved.

I wonder sometimes if the reason the birds migrate each fall is because they are very sensitive to lower oxygen levels brought on by the lack of photosynthesis from depleted chlorophyll. Weren’t the canaries kept in the mine for that very reason? They have these tiny little lungs. Yet they need lots of oxygen to keep their mitochondria working through the Krebs cycle while they are furiously flapping there wings trying to fool the laws of gravity. Who knows? This may be a grand design. Maybe the Grand Old Designer gave the most mobile of the creatures really small lungs so that they would move out of town every year. And cumulatively, the oxygen saved provided enough life giving gas for us less mobile bipeds and quadrupeds the ability to get through the winter. It is just a thought.

I have a friend who knows much more than I do. He stated that research has been done that shows that during high summer, when the days are long, the corn is tall and the trees are in their glory, the atmospheric oxygen levels actually increase. He stated that is the reason athletic endeavors are improved during this time period. I must admit that July, August, and September have my fastest times for riding. I suppose that only works for the country folk. You who live in the concrete jungle are on your own.

See, I told you that there was some use for all of that stuff you learned, or they tried to teach you in high school. Paul Simon didn’t know what he was talking about and Mr. Ashburn did. Now get out there and learn something today.

Take care,

Roger

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

And one to grow on?


Dear Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine, more than fine actually. You are reading the blog of a person who just finished his first century bike ride on Good Friday. This from a person who had trouble riding 6 miles 3 and a half years ago. Some day when the news paper reporters come up and ask me “is there anything you would have done differently in your 150 years on this earth?” I will say “yes, I would have ridden like crazy during my 20s and 30s because then I could have improved rather than just fight middle aged spread. I would have ignored my children and my wife. I would not have read the Chronicles of Narnia to them, or the Lord of the Rings to them or even Harry Potter, or gone on walks, learned how to quilt, fixed houses after moving, did the back yard work, the farming, the cooking on Monday nights, or helped with the laundry.” I’m kidding. Everything has its time and place. In my 51st year, it was time to ride 100 miles.

I have more on that later.

I do have a bit of blog house keeping before I really get going. A few weeks ago, I wrote about my grand plan to cheat the government and their diabolical plans to take an hour away from me. I wasn’t going to change my analog clocks. I was going to cover up the clocks on my phone, computer, and Ipad; any device that automatically adjusted to daylight savings time. I was going to live in my own time zone; the time zone of my head. I was just going to go to work an hour early each day, eat lunch an hour early, go to bed an hour early. A couple of weeks ago, I was out with friends and one of them asked how it was going. I ruefully had to admit that it wasn’t going very well. In fact, I had failed. Somehow in the middle of the night my brain got all discombobulated and reset its time. I woke up an hour late and ended up having to take an hour of personal time at work. So I am sorry to say that I have been assimilated. I am the BORG. On the bright side, it was a good first effort. I think that I will take another run at it next year.

Back to riding 101 miles, the lovely Miss Beverly used her really big brain and convinced me to take my bike to Bloomington on Thursday after work and leave the car for Ben drive up for Easter weekend. Ben has eschewed a car until he gets his college loans paid off. That means that he rides his bike to work through the winter vortices. He catches the bus to go shopping and relies on good relations with those of the car driving persuasion.  It works very well until it comes time to visit Sharrittville. Bev’s suggestion worked perfectly for the 1st leg of an Easter visit. He was able to drive the car back to Ingalls on Saturday.

After going out to eat and running a couple of errands, it was time for bed. Seven would come early. I had been nervous about this ride. It was the longest one that I have taken that was unsupported. For the uninitiated, an unsupported biking event has nothing to do with the riders wearing a jock; a common misconception. You should not feel self-conscious about making such a common mistake. A supported bike ride has volunteers who constantly drive the route. They stop for people who break down. They carry tools, tubes, and pumps. The really good rides have vans full of food and water to keep the rider hydrated and fortified. Bev is usually my volunteer. Even around home she will keep the phone handy and rescue me when I get a flat tire or rearm me when my gun runs out of bullets for assassin deer.

I was going on this ride unsupported. I would carry my own drink, tools, pump, bananas and Fig Newtons. If I broke down and couldn’t fix it with duck tape and gum then the plan was that I would wait until Bev got home from work. I would text her my coordinates and through the technological marvel of Google Maps she would come and pick me up.

Nerves aside, the first stop was a diner in Bloomington for a stack of pancakes, sausage, O.J. and milk. It is a surreal diner. It is a favorite of Ben’s. The owner/cook is pretty good. It is the wait staff that gives one pause. The last time we were in I watched them fight over how unfair it was that the one girl who hadn’t gotten there was assigned to all of the good tables. Bob, from the back, told them all to shut up or he would fire them all. I always try to be on my best behavior while eating there. I am pretty sure that it is the best policy for a loogie free breakfast.

The morning started at a perfect 50 degrees. Last year when I tackled this ride, I started at home. The hills protecting Bloomington were formidable. This is especially true after 75 miles. It is a much better plan to tackle them early and leave the flats of central Indiana for the last 25 miles. I was making really good time and was just cresting Tulip Ridge which was the steepest ascent of the day. At the top, two men were just getting out of a pickup. One of the gentlemen, sporting a well trimmed beard, heavy flannel shirt and ball cap, said something just as I was cresting the hill. I ride wearing earbuds listening to books on tape. (I know that it is dangerous. I can’t hear when vehicles are coming up behind me, blah, blah, blah. However, I don’t care. Go bug someone else about safety.) I could not hear what the gentleman said, but he had a smile on his face. His demeanor seemed to require more than just a nod, grim smile, and short wave. I stopped. I have a general road rule of not irritating the locals; especially, when a few engaged words might let me know where a good mushroom spot may be.

That’s right. Dad, who must have been 75, and his son, who was my age, were out looking for signs of resurrection on Good Friday in the woods of southern Indiana; looking in the dead leaves for signs of life. We chatted for a few minutes about the chances for morel success this early; everyone thankful that the weather that had finally broken. They seemed impressed that I would ride 100 miles in a day. It was a delightful few moments at the top of a tall hill early in a long ride. As delightful as it was, I did become a bit uncomfortable when the son took the opportunity to undo his pants and tuck in his flannel shirt. I try not to live my life in old cliché but I couldn’t help it. Dueling Banjos suddenly sprang to life in my head. I cautiously extricated myself from the moment, got back on my bike and went careening down the other side of Tulip Ridge at 40 mph.

Lunch time found me in Franklin Indiana. It is a beautiful little down town. I don’t know who the park manager is, but they have a wonderful commitment to Arbor Day. Last year they planted at least 500 trees in a park the size of an acre on about a 10 foot grid. They are so thick that in 20 years you won’t be able to see the park for the trees. There will be no throwing balls or Frisbees. The dogs will become severely dehydrated trying to mark their territory. I love that kind of tree dedication.

Riding into downtown, I found the Grill Bar; home of the world famous cheese burger. I hate it when I miss the memo. Who knew? The world knew I guess. I just had not been paying attention. I was a bit surprised that the world had not beaten a path to the Grill Bar’s door. I went it and it looked like only Hoosiers cared about world class burger cuisine. Maybe the rest of the world was lactose intolerant. No matter my “world famous” skepticism, I must admit that the cheese burger was pretty good and after my blog goes viral may live up to its name.

After Franklin, I entered the dog days of the ride. The terrain becomes a very flat mix of farm fields and suburban sprawl. Also I turned into the wind for the last 30 miles. An eight mile per hour wind isn’t very strong, but any wind from the front is unwelcome during miles 70 to 100. The miles passed quickly enough. However, I knew that I wouldn’t reach my goal without some silliness at the end.

100 is a nice round number. We use it to mark mile stones of great import. We use it to mark our centuries. People who live to be 100 are celebrated in the local newspaper. Among amateur riders, 100 miles is a big deal. Last year when I rode to Bloomington, I stopped when I reached my destination. The odometer reported 88 miles. I was good with that. It wasn’t a century ride but there was plenty of time during the season to fit in a century. Besides, I was pretty tired after assaulting all of the hills surrounding Bloomington. I was ready to call it a day. As the season wore on, I started to rue that decision to stop short of the milestone. I made a couple of assaults on the mark during the summer and came up short because of cramping, heat, and general exhaustion.

Coming so close last year, I was determined to extend the ride this year no matter what. A couple of road closed detours helped the cause as I took the classic country mile hop around the closures. Still as I closed in on home, I was going to be short of the goal. It doesn’t seem like five miles would make a difference. Yet it does. Who wants to read about a 95 mile bike ride? No one does. I don’t want to write about a 95 mile bike ride for that matter. So rather than pull into the drive at 4:45, I waived at the dogs with their quizzical looks and kept on riding. Three miles later, I turned around and peddled home to arrive just as the odometer clicked over to 101.

Like all of those birthdays from when I was a kid, I just needed one to grow on.

Take care,

Roger

Sunday, April 13, 2014

what a difference a second makes?


Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I hope that if you are a Kentucky Wildcats fan that you are proud of the best team that money can buy. You should be proud. Second place is nothing to be ashamed of. Shoot, you are proud with your painted blue and white faces. Way to go.

My mind has recently been drawn to the state, or rather the Commonwealth to our south. The lovely Miss Beverly and I spent a couple of days last weekend in Madison, Indiana. We were guests in the nicely appointed Clifty Falls State Park and Inn. Any time that I am expatriated from Sharritt land, I am profoundly affected by the geography of the place of relocation. I suppose that I lacked the imagination to be a good geography student in school. Reading about the Great Lakes never made an impact but seeing them, I got it. You could travel from New York to Minnesota and never have to take a step. In fact if you were in the rear seat of the canoe and the chap up front was pretty burly, you might not have to paddle either. You didn’t have to find a way around a swamp, or get lost in the forest with all of the trees blocking your view; easy peasy.

As I was standing in picturesque downtown Madison, I got it. Looking across the Ohio River, that small beach head where millions of years of erosion had left a two mile wide valley bracketed by 400 ft cliffs, the only thought wandering through my mind was no wonder we don’t feel very close to our Kentucky cousins. Sure our friends in Illinois are an hour behind us. And who hasn’t felt a little envious that Ohio has Cedar Point and Kings Island, and two major league baseball teams and two NFL teams; of course that fact that one of them is the Cleveland Browns evens things out quite a bit. I have wondered why Michigan was blessed with the royalties of a namesake lake when it started out as part of the Indiana Territory.

Even though there is sibling rivalry with our three neighbors, there is no enmity. We sense that there is only an imaginary line dividing us. Whether I’m a buckeye or Michigander is a matter of inches. But standing there in that valley, looking up at that plateau, I got the sense that that was the terrain that marauding hoards would gather upon while planning to plunder and pillage my Hoosier home. I got the sense that those are my enemies; no need to rebuild that bridge across SR 423, just leave it down.

I also thought to myself, “man Abraham Lincoln must have really wanted to get out of there to cross that river.” The Ohio River is a boarder to be reckoned with. You don’t just wait until the middle of summer for the river to dry up and walk across the creek. No you are going to get your back wet when you cross it. We spent a wonderful hour sitting on a bench overlooking the river pondering the golden orb in the sky the brought warmth to a winter weary bones. The lovely Miss Beverly stretched out like a cat sleeping. Me, brooding looking out over the river to the other side, thinking about what a difference ¾ of a mile of water makes.

Later in the day, room was made in the Inn. Bev and I went up and checked in. Then it was time to hike, or as I like to say, time for topography to kick my butt. Clifty Falls has some of the most intense hiking that I remember enjoying in the Hoosier state park system. All of that run off from the glaciers down the limestone bedrock makes for some steep ravines. They also do a pretty remarkable job of hiding the falls. You have to work at it to see what all of the hype is about. After checking in, the lovely Miss Beverly and I set out on our quest. I do like hiking in the early spring when the sun has warmed things but not enough to bring out all of the foliage. You can see a long way through the trees which is important when you are that close to Kentucky. In the middle of summer, the marauders could sneak up on you and do you harm with all of that foliage for cover.

As we were walking down trail 4, it struck me how different the lovely Miss Beverly and I are in our physicality, the lovely Miss Beverly a gazelle and me an ox. She was lithely picking her way down the ravine; never a misplaced step. I was plodding down, trying to keep my center low, sure that my feet would slide out from underneath me as gravity pulled me to the valley floor. She, able to stop and look at the jack in the pulpit, left me 60 yards behind as I hunted for every inch of ground that was a little less steep.

Deep in the floor of the ravine, we were faced with a convergence of decisions. We could hear the falls up the stream bed. Mapless, we could go off to who knows where on trail 2. Or we could head back in the general direction of the Inn on trail 3. We chose the path less traveled and headed for the falls. In a foreshadowing of the next day’s excursion the gazelle like Miss Beverly leapt from stone to stone seemingly above the babbling of the brook. I was slowly picking my way through a mine field of shifting stones, unsure of my balance. Fifteen minutes later, our efforts were rewarded with a streambed view of Hoffman falls. Hiking back out, we were left with one less choice. After being stopped on trail 2 by a sign that said “No Hiking Beyond This Point; No Swimming.” We headed up trail 3 where my ox like skills paid dividends.

An ox can plod up a hill just fine. Thank you very much. I have never fallen up a hill. Even Jack fell down with Jill tumbling in the same direction. Back bent, legs churning like pistons I could hear the Clifty Falls restaurant buffet calling me. A tractor beam of swiss steak and fried chicken had firmly attached itself to my belly button and there was no stopping me. The gazelle like Miss Beverly was having a more difficult time. Gravity was holding her back. Her pace had slowed. If we have been chased by coonskined topped, long rifle toting, tree splitting pioneers, she would have been overtaken and taken to the land of blue grass, where smitten by her ravishing beauty Davie Crocket would have stayed home never knowing that he was supposed to remember the Alamo, thereby altering the course of one of our earliest jingoistic wars. With so much at stake I slowed my pace and allowed the lovely Miss Beverly the opportunity to catch up.

Early the next morning, we were up in time to watch a glorious sunrise as the sun slowly spilled into to river valley as it crested the horizon. The sun above the valley mist was a sight to behold as we were 400 feet above the valley floor. It was one of the most perfect sunrises I have had the chance to witness. As I fueled up with a tall stack of buttermilk pancakes and the gazelle like Miss Beverly nibbled on eggs, bacon and toast, we plotted our strategy for the day’s hike. According to our map, the sign prohibiting hiking and swimming was in the way of our goal to walk to the Clifty Falls and get a close up look at God’s beautiful creation. We decided to check it out.

Back down trail 3, the lovely Miss Beverly glided down. I plodded along carefully picking my path; noticing once that we now needed to be on the look out for Assassin deer. We were being stalked by deer that had no regard for nature’s beauty. Rather than limit the damage to the ecosystem caused by their sharp cloven feet by staying on the trail, they repeatedly ran pell mell down the hill, disturbing the erosion protecting layer of leaves; leaving precious top soil susceptible to the eroding rains and run off. I would not be surprised in these 400 foot ravines were started by the ancestors of these careless ruffians on four feet.

Getting to the bottom of the hill we walked over to the sign that had stopped our progress the night before. Looking around and consulting our map we decided that we had been the victims of a cruel hoax. The sign had obviously be hauled to this spot and propped up against a tree. Upon closer examination, the posts had rotted off at ground level. It was obvious that assassin deer had come across the broken down sign elsewhere in the park. Working together, the herd had gotten the sign up on the back of a confederate, and they had dropped it off here, hoping to detour us into a deadly trap.

We were having none of it. Stepping around the wobbly ruse, the gazelle like lovely Miss Beverly headed out on our quest for beautiful scenery. Rounding the bend we readily found the creek bed that we were to follow. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had become incontinent and was wetting the bed. The creek bed was pretty full. Fortunately, plenty of rocks were sticking up making for an interesting walk up stream. The lovely Miss Beverly with her gazelle like tendencies was making good progress. I was doing okay until I reached a place where the rocks were too small for my big feet and placed too far apart for easy leaping for an ox of my size.

Once you decide that you don’t care if your feet get wet, it is pretty easy to pick your way upstream in a creek that is a little fuller than it should be. As always, ease should not be confused with comfort. That water was cold, and my heavy, squishy shoes soon had me wishing that I was more gazelle like in my physical abilities. For an hour, I sloshed along and the lovely Miss Beverly was prancing from rock to rock with perfectly dry feet. Finally, up around a bend, we met our Waterloo. The lovely Miss Beverly would have to join me in the water if our journey was end in idyllic scenery. There was a trail leading out of the woods. Idyllic scenery had pretty much lost its shine.

We decided to abandon our quest. The point of our extraction meant that the lovely Miss Beverly would have to use all of her gazelle skills to get out with dry feet. The rock that she was to jump to was protected by 5 ft of water. It presented a small landing pad and would require an immediate 3 ft jump to rocks with greater surface area and a place to stop forward momentum; even a gazelle needs a landing pad. Bev was pretty sure that she could make it but the degree of difficulty left her uneasy about carrying her iphone across in her pocket. One false step and the iphone would be headed of a rice bath to dry out.

She took off her fleece jacket, zipped the phone up in a pocket, and told me to get ready to catch it.

Until that moment, we had been chatting about how well she had done leaping here and there. She had kept her feet completely dry. It was like she was a gazelle. She wadded her coat into a ball. I positioned myself 8 feet away on the landing pad, arms outstretched read to make an ox like catch. At that moment, as she was getting ready to launch coat and phone, Bev asked if I were going to write about her gazelle like abilities in the blog. Which was unfortunate, because as she launched the coat the light fabric was more strongly affected by the slip stream than the heavier iphone. Physics being physics, the jacket slowed faster than the phone. This put the phone ahead in the race towards my face. Distracted by the slower jacket parts, I closed my arms a millisecond too late. The pocketed phone smashed into my lip with surprising effect.

Rather than responding with a chuckle and “your gazellian physicality would be the perfect blog topic”, I let out a string of expletives that hardly seemed an appropriate response to blog topic brainstorming. “There are no bad ideas.” Thankfully, the phone left its mark. That made it much easier to explain my strong response to possible blog topics.

As we hiked out of the streambed, the sting was starting to wear off. The humor was starting to assert itself. Time was letting us see the humor of the situation. I told her that every time that I referred to her as a gazelle in this blog, my mind’s eye would see two cloven little forefeet pushing a phone laden jacket towards a date with destiny with my swollen lip. What a difference a second makes.

Take care,

Roger.