All good things come to an end, but not today.

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Today, during this last weekend in July, I officially started to get ready for fall. Counting today, there are 85 days before an October 15^th frost. In the past five years, we have had a frost as early as September 29^th out here away from the stored heat of the city. That would give us 69 days before we get nipped. So I went out and planted approximately 700 sunflowers. It has worked the last two years. The varieties that I planted have 60 to 70 day to bloom dates. It could be close. But what better way to thumb our noses at the cold that is coming than to say every day on this side of the frost date is ours. We will enjoy these golden disks as they turn their faces towards the sun of an ever shortening day; take that Jack Frost.

In other preparations, I just signed up for the MS: Crusin’ the Crossroads event on September 6, in Anderson. That’s right. Bev is gone that weekend on a women’s retreat at the Dunes, and I, left to my own devices, think that it will be fun to get out and ride 100 miles. It is a fund raising bike ride for all of the Type-A bike riders out there. I could feel guilty about spending 7 hours on a bike and not getting anything done around the house. Or I could go on a fund raising bike ride and relieve all of the residual guilt. The fund raiser is a God send for us with overwrought senses of wasted time guilt. You can help out by watching my facebook page. I will post support opportunities there. I will be begging on that page from to time. Thank you in advance for your generosity.

Enough of the future; let’s live in the present. At church today, it became very evident that the folks in South Madison county have turned their calendars to August and have realized that school is just about to restart. "I can't believe that summer is nearly over." "I can't believe that school is just about to start again." "Where did summer go?" Those were the refrains sung by the congregation today.

Several years ago, the lovely Miss Beverly and I were on a vacation in South Haven, Michigan. They have a wonderful ice cream store called Sherman Ice Cream Company. It was a lovely vacation spot. I have found that I rate all of my vacation spots based on the availability of fine ice cream in the vicinity. The only problem with this vacation was that starting Tuesday, we sang the same refrain. We sang, “I can’t believe that vacation is almost over.”

I am particularly susceptible to the affliction of anticipatory regret. Growing up, I would count down the days left in Christmas vacation. Summer vacation would feel like it was over on Independence Day. This made for brutal irony; giving up the independence of summer on July 4th. 

My anticipatory regret was so strong that I would start to anticipate when snow storms would start to slacken. Figuring that the snow fell in a bell curve, building from flurries to heavy then tapering off, I would watch the heavens intently and then feel disappointment at the first perceived diminishing of intensity. I would know at that moment that the snow day was over sooner than later. All good things come to an end.

I don’t know how the epiphany came. It may have been fueled by a “slop trough” of black raspberry supreme or was it a half gallon of rocky road, maybe it was four scoops of blue moon. I am sure that it was ice cream inspired. Great ideas like this are not inspired by mere meditation or self-actualization. No, they are forged in the brain chemical bath of cream, sugar, and chocolate. So in South Haven, Michigan, we found that today is the first day of the rest of our summer vacation.

It has made a huge difference in our lives. In the old world, vacation would last three maybe four days. Now a week of vacation lasts seven days. You would be amazed at what can happen on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. There are miles to ride, blogs to write, and ice cream to eat on the first day of the rest of summer vacation. For the lovely Miss Beverly, her summer vacation now lasts ten weeks, instead of being cut off shortly after the fourth of July; that’s an extra 4 weeks of summer bliss.

So if you’re going to keep a sharp out for the onset of fall and colder weather, plant some sunflowers and let them keep track for you. All good things come to an end but not today, the first day of the rest of our summer vacation.

Take care,

Roger

160 miles, one day, one way

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. If you are a facebook friend you know by now that I finished. I finished the 161.1 miles across the state of Indiana, “160 miles, one day, one way.” The small animal sacrifices worked. The tubby gods were appeased by the hot fudge smeared on my front and back tires. The amazing thing is that I am not too sore. Thanks to all of my pickle juice pushing friends, I only had two small, tiny really, cramps on Saturday night. I have never done an exercise until I reached a euphoric state. In fact, I thought you were all lying to me. But I may have gotten to the outskirts of that place Saturday. I did not hurt nearly as much as I should have in my wrists and seat connectors. My left foot did not give me debilitating pain from a pinched nerve that developed during previous long distance rides. All three places hurt from time to time but the pain was not even close to debilitating. They were just along for the ride.

Before I go any further, I want to take a minute and sing the praises of the lovely Miss Beverly. She, of the lovely, sleek, jet-black, hair, and gracious hostess spirit, was a fantastic support crew during the weekend. She picked me up at work Friday evening, drove me half way across the state to Terre Haute, woke up at 5:45 a.m. on a Saturday morning, delivered my anxious self to the start line,  went back to the hotel to take a nap, followed the green dot from my Iphone ½ way back across the state to meet me at the 94^th mile lunch spot, stopped by home to pick up Grace, stopped by Walmart to pick up some stuff that I was going to need to survive the 40 minute car ride back home, gave me a morale boosting visit along Highway 40 after a demoralizing huge hill 10 miles from the finish line and then raced ahead to the finish line to provide photographic proof of a job well done, and did it all in one sentence with lots of colons. Thank you Beverly.

SOME OF THE NOTES FROM THE RIDE:

It is a little intimidating when you turn on to the road where the start will occur and they have signs queuing up participants who will ride 160 miles in less than 7 hours, or 8 hours, or 9 hours. I chose to start with the humble who “just hope to finish”. Those were my people. People who chose animal sacrifice over training and weight loss.

It is a bit ominous talking with a fellow finish hopeful before the start; asking if he had ridden before. He had ridden last year. They had a significant headwind so the riding was very difficult. He had gone 140 miles; was riding in a large pack to lower the wind resistance and had missed the looming pothole. He crashed and was unable to finish. I made some excuse and made some space. I didn’t need his bad karma hanging over me during this ride.

One cannot image the joy of finding out that the event organizers provided unlimited pop-tarts for energy bars. There were shouts of joys emanating from my young boy self. I have had a love affair with pop tarts since my grandmother had introduced me to their empty calorie decadence some 40 years ago. True; cinnamon frosted tarts are a bit self-regulating; not a favorite. Cherry or strawberry frosted tarts might have kept me from ever progressing on from the 1^st stop.

As I passed the Putnamville Correctional Facility and saw the sign about not picking up hitchhikers, I was glad that I only had one seat on my bike. It eliminated the conundrum of should I or shouldn’t I. “I’m sorry I can’t. You see I only have one seat.” Then I immediately started wondering that if I had a tandem bike I could do my part for rehabilitation and force one of the inmates to pedal the rest of the way across Indiana. 

That led me to wonder if a tandem is better than a single wouldn’t a triple be better?

There are some big hills between Putnamville and Plainfield.

I just finished the easy 80 miles.

Gatorade leaves you with a very sugary mouth after 84 miles.

A roast beef on a hard bun never tasted so good. I think that I will have two of them. I am very tired of Pop Tarts.

At the 115 mile rest stop, I had to look at the Rain Participants sign a third time because the first two times I thought it said Pain Participants.

Turning back onto Highway 40 in Greenfield thinking the 45 miles of mostly flat wouldn’t be so bad.

Trading positions with a father and his 16 year old daughter over the next 35 miles; they were faster but I was studier. She was starting to flag and her determination was waning. They would pedal ahead of me. I would pass them when they stopped.  Dad would have his arm around her shoulder. I heard him say one time. “You are so close. Just hang in there a few more miles and we’ll see then.”

Seeing a sign at the last rest stop, 30 miles from the finish, it read “Nick Norris has never ridden 160 miles in one day in his life.”  It made me cry. We walk past the milestones in our life without ever noticing. This was a mile stone that I had been moving towards since last November. It was moving to know that Nick and I were probably going to make it if we could just keep pedaling.

Seeing Grace and the lovely Miss Beverly drive by with calorie counting signs and a note that the 160 miles equaled 7854 calories burned and that was equal to 39 pop tarts. I could have eaten 30 more. That’s good to know.

Thinking that it is really mean to make us go up this big hill just after Knightstown. Life would be so much easier if it were down hill all of the way.

Why am I craving chocolate milk with 20 miles to go? Thankfully, I have a phone and a wonderful support crew. That was a delicious stop.

I can’t believe that Cambridge City’s stop lights are synchronized so that a cyclist riding 15 mph never has to stop. Darn it. I really wanted to stop.

Oh the damned hills. I am tired of the damned hills.

There it is; a mile away. I can do this.

I really imagined that the finisher’s medal would have been a little larger and had a neck ribbon.

Hugging the lovely Miss Beverly and lovely Miss Grace.

I did it. I really did it.

Take care,

Roger

I'm off to see the wizard

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The smoke has finally cleared from the 4thof July celebrations. You can tell that the economy could still be better. The denizens of Ingalls kept their powder dry until the 4th this year. In the years before the great Recession, the celebratory premature ignitions started as early as June 15th and lasted until July 15th in a raucous month long explosion of incendiary devices celebrating the birth of America. This year nary a bottle rocket, the penny candy of the fireworks world,was propelled into the air before the 4th. In a show of remarkable restraint, nearly all of the fireworks were saved until 4th in our small town. The dogs, for one, were pretty happy for the shortened season.

This is it; the big week, the count down to the Ride Across Indiana. The weather looks fairly promising with a wind out of the SW at 11 miles an hour, a 30% chance of isolated thunder storms, and a high of 83. That is not quite the 18 mph wind I was hoping for, but it doesn’t matter. I am going to start the race no matter what. We will see the results at the end of the day.

I have prepared as much as I can. The small animal sacrifices are continuing apace. I have smeared hot fudge over my front and back tires as an act of contrition for all of the empty calories that I have eaten over the past 6 months with the thought in the back of my mind, “This ride would be easier if there were less of me.” Oh well, no regrets. Actually, small regrets that I can live with.

During this week before, I have entered that awkward phase of any big life event; the guess what I’m doing phase, or the one track mind phase. It is that phase where one shamelessly turns any conversation to the most important topic in their world. I have entered conversations this week covering many different topics and turned them all to I’m riding across Indiana this Saturday.

“Crime in Indianapolis is terrible.”

“True. I’m riding across Indiana this Saturday.”

“I hear the swimming pool is closing for repairs.”

“I don’t know. I’m riding across Indiana this Saturday.”

“Can you bring milk home tonight dear?”

“I can’t. I’m riding across Indiana this Saturday.”

I would like to thank all of those who have put up with this repeated thematic onslaught. You patience has been appreciated. I have tried to be attentive, to listen, to join in your conversations, but I’m riding across Indiana this Saturday. I probably have not been this obsessed since I got my first pocket knife and took it to school for show and tell. I had found it. It was a piece of junk in a drawer on the farm. It had been discarded by my grandfather when the walnut facing had fallen off both sides, leaving only its unadorned guts behind. The blades were so dull and worn down that they would not have cut butter at a 4th of July picnic. But “sure I could keep it if I treated it with respect and was careful with it.”

Oh I treated it with respect and was granted the privilege of taking it to show and tell if I promised to keep it in my pocket until it was time for the show and tell unveiling. Pretty amazing isn’t it? We could take pocket knives to school way back in prehistoric times. Now, you would be expelled from school.

I would be amazed at that if I weren’t riding across Indiana this Saturday.

A Summer Soaker

Dear Blog Reader.     

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Here during the last weekend of June, I continue to watch the calendar. Two weeks left before the Ride Across Indiana; I have no idea if I can ride 160 miles in one day. Last weekend, I road the 15 miles south to US 40, National Road; the road that I will ride from Terre Haute to Richmond. I wanted to let my bike tire meet the road; to make sure that there were no unsettling allergic reactions in two weeks. That’s right. I am relying on luck and superstition rather than training and weight loss. It is a bit sad, but it is where I am at. It is not too early to start making small animal sacrifices for a stout SSW wind.

That intersection will be my biggest temptation. A simple left hand turn plus 15 miles and I am home. The pain can stop. I know that I will be more than half way there. I suppose close to 100 miles into the ride. Indiana at its widest point is about 140 miles but it is a 160 mile bike ride long the National Road. It appears that the builders, our civil engineering ancestors, got thirsty heading out of Columbus OH. By the time they reached the Circle City they had developed a powerful hankering for adult beverages and veered off in a South Westerly direction towards St Louis with the pace of plodding Clydsedales. Sadly, they were dispirited in Vandalia, Illinois and stopped. They read the town’s name too quickly and thought that they were in the onion counties of Georgia. Haste makes waste.

On Saturday, I rode in a steady soaking rain. We have been blessed with numerous such rains recently. Things are very green. Which is a paradox, because as soon as the life force leaves, all organic matter turns brown and decays rapidly and the process starts immediately. In short, it has been the perfect year for fungus and bacteria; a compost maker’s Nirvana.

While riding in that steady soaking rain, I was swept along to one of my favorite memories of my father. He loved a real daytime soaker in the middle of summer. We are rarely blessed with steady soakers in the middle of summer. We tend to rely on those pop up thunderstorms; those gully washers that leave our streets and creeks flooded. I remember getting one or two steady soakers a year.

The ever present gully washer would drive my father and the crew to the barn where the heavy drops pounding on a steel roof would roar in our ears. We would stand in the western barn doors watching the wall of water coming across the valley; actually, hearing the rain advance on our position as it used the corn leaves for a very thin sounding board. We would watch the lightning advance counting the seconds between sight and the cannonade of thunder; steeling ourselves for the close one; the one where there was no space between light and thunderous crack and then listen as the betweens became longer and longer as the storm left town. Soon the sun would come out and we would peer around the side of the barn looking for a rainbow, hoping for a full rainbow and excitedly pointing out any hint of a double.

While a gully washer would drive us to the barn a slow soaker would drive us to the house. It was probably the only time that my father rested. Summers were tough. The extra sunlight providing the spur to the old saying “Make hay while the sun shines.” Days would start at six with milking. We would do some chores around the barn waiting for the dew to evaporate off of the hay. On dry days, the baler would start at 11:00 and a couple of hundred bales would collected by lunch. However, most days, the baling started at 1:00 and would run until 9:00; an eight hour day on top of the six hour warm up.

Depending on your job within the hay crew, it could mean 900 repetitions with a 50lb weight. On days when the task was cutting volunteer corn out of the bean field, it could mean 5 miles of walking, stopping, and cutting with a corn knife, corn that last year was a crop, but in this bean field it was a weed. That will teach you a lesson about context.

So the gentle soaker was a blessing. It released the bounds of work. It said there is nothing else that can be done; take this blessing and take a nap. We would go to the house, lay out on the floor, the couch, or the Lazy Boy. A box fan would push the warm, humid air over us. The sound of the rain lightly tapping the redbud tree outside the window would accompany us to a nap.

Finally, two hours later, we would slowly emerge from our slumbers, awoken by a change in the rhythm of the rain or the rumbling of lunch deprived stomachs, or the internal alarm of the evening milking time. We would emerge from a suspended animation; separated from work, and worry. We would sit up, wondering about our surroundings, looking at the clock, remembering the work that was set aside, slowly merging back into work’s flow.

The same sensations flooded over me on that ride in the rain. Life took me down a road so different from dad’s physical exertion. My workaday is all mental, doing repetitions of 50 lb problems instead of bales of hay. Riding in that slow summer soaker, I was returned to those naps; the whir of the chain and wheels on tarmac, the spray of water thrown by the front tire, replacing the whir of the fan and the rain on the red bud. Finishing, I embraced the blessing of setting work aside, resting, emerging slowly, and re-entering the flow of life.

Take care,

Roger