Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am very well. The
past two weeks have seen me in a variety of noteworthy situations. Last weekend
I rode my bike to Bloomington to visit Ben. During the past 3 years, my bike
riding has resulting in an annual 100 mile ride between Sharrittland and
Bloomington. This ride has been on Good Friday the past two years, and this
year in a huge nod to flexibility, I postponed it for a day while I let the
rain pass and rode on a sunny Saturday in early April. The rain had passed but
the lingering spring zephyr came in its wake. Consequently, I rode into a 14
mph wind for 6 hours or so. Certainly not my best time. Plus, I had to get off
and walk my bike up four hills that my cramping legs would not or could not
take me up.
It was pretty humbling having all of the college boys practicing
for the Little 500 pass me. But what are you going to do? Legs that will not
turn the crank any longer are of no use to you no matter how bad your ego is
lamenting the sad facts of the situation.
While only a baby tradition, I really do look forward to
this ride annually. With the variable dates for Easter and the daily crapshoot
for predicting Indiana spring time weather, you never know what flora and fauna
will be greeting you as you pedal your way through rural Indiana. There were
plenty of daffodils. The tulips were just forming buds, but the flowering
shrubs were still hunkered down trying to wake up from their long winter’s nap.
Of course there is the lunch stop in Franklin at the Bar
Grill on Main Street. The Bar Grill is home of the “best burger in Indiana”,
and owned by completely unimaginative proprietors. They really should have used
a thesaurus when coming up with the name of their fine eating establishment.
The food is good and the service friendly. This is especially true when you
consider that I am walking into their establishment in full bike spandex after
sweating through the first 50 miles. I do leave a little to be desired on the
freshness scale.
My favorite part of the ride is turning South onto Hurricane
road just West of Morgantown. That turn takes you down into a perfectly flat
valley at the back entrance to the Monroe State Forest. This valley floor is
covered with the black loam of a glacier at its pinnacle, just before its
retreat in the face of global warming. Juxtaposed against the next 15 miles of
Monroe county hills, you get a true sense of the leveling power of all of that
ice. If it would have stayed cold, those hills that were so hard to get up
would have been ground down to easy riding prairie land also. I do love to ride
through that valley floor.
I do not know if it was the pain of exertion from riding
into the wind for 6 hours, the pain from riding up hills with very painful
cramps getting ready to jump off just before they seized completely, or the
pain of a bruised ego of being passed by others as they rode triumphantly to
the top of the next hill, but this ride opened my vision to things that have
been hiding just under the surface for a while. The lovely Miss Beverly has
been my support and gear person on many of my long rides. She has graciously
dropped me off or picked me up at the beginning and end of these long rides
numerous times. She is so gracious and loving. I am sure that I have not shown
enough gratitude.
This time the lovely Miss Beverly was coming on Sunday
leaving my care and recovery in the very capable hands of Ben. It is that care
and the juxtaposition of glacier sheared valley floor against unbowed hills
that I have been thinking about for the past week. Ben graciously went out for
milk and juice to aid in my recovery. He went out and foraged some excellent
Chinese carryout for supper. Things turned a bit poignant when he came across
the room to help me get up off the couch when a cramp hit my leg like a ton of
bricks. He supported my weight as I cussed up a storm waiting for the waves of
pain to subside.
The idea that keeps coming to mind was that this was the
first glimmer of future role reversals for us. The roles reversed where the son
is providing support for the father. At some point, the recurring scene will be
son supporting father. It is the way of things. It has also brought to mind my
father and our roles at the end of his life. My father died as a result of a
farming accident shortly after his 53rd birthday. I am coming to
that milestone in June. There were many relationship milestones that were short
circuited when he sustained those fatal injuries; providing support for my father was one of those shore circuits. As a result, I had to wait to
experience the milestone role reversal of son caring for father.
When my father turned 50, I remember wondering if dad had
lost a step. He was a mountain of a man; working 14 hour days running a dairy
farm, making a living by standing strong against the weight of weather, prices,
and debt. Losing a step might have meant that he cut back to 13.5 hours a day.
He might have sent some of the younger help up to the hay mount to throw 1200
bales of hay in 100 degree heat. My wondering if he had lost a step was born of
the ego of a 27 year old young man on the cusp of fatherhood amazed at the
longevity my father’s ability to move mountains.
No my father had not lost any step. The steps that he had to
take on a daily basis had made him more tired. It is that weariness that I
recognized a month before that tragic day in August as we were visiting the
farm with Ben his grandson. Recognizing weariness isn’t role reversal. It is a
turning of the corner though; a dim view of things to come. It is the view from
the top of the hill to the valley floor knowing that it took a lot of grinding
to make it that smooth.
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