Paying it backward 26 years

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am still basking in the glow of the work of others. The unveiling of the talented Hoover clan’s limerick writing was fun and always generates a lot of readership for the week. It is sad to admit. However, it is true. I do not write for the creative outlet, the opportunity to let my mind soar to new heights, or to gain and express insight about the human condition; at least not exclusively. A part of me writes for the attention. So last week, I was able to ride on the creative coattails of others, copy down their fabulous words and still get a lot of readers for the week. Also feel free to reach out to Bill Hoover, winner of the 2014 cousin’s limerick contest. As of writing this, he still has not claimed his pie prize or let the lovely Miss Beverly know what flavor he will savor.

As mentioned in the opening paragraph of last week’s blog, life has been coming at a fast and furious pace. In fact, I have three of four topics backed up in line, waiting on exposition. This is a new and welcome phenomenon. In the early days of the blog, I would struggle to have any idea for thematic topics. In fact a time or two, I had to set down with a blank screen and just start typing in hopes that, like spaghetti, some of the words would stick together on the wall and something coherent would emerge from the mental soup.

Last weekend was big; very big. Last weekend I had the opportunity to pay off a debt that was approximately 26 years old. No it wasn’t a mortgage. Although if I had had the good sense to stay in that same house since then, we would have been rounding third and heading for home on owning the house that we live in. 

It seems that many couples in their early married lives move around so often that they out maneuver their friends. Friends go off to their own worlds. The car that takes them off to a honeymoon is followed by a Uhaul to destinations far flung. Inevitably, with each move, the pool of moving friends shrinks. Until one weekend, you find yourself with a house full of boxes; you and your significant other looking at each other; both coming to the realization that you need to get more friends.

So 26 years ago, the lovely Miss Beverly and I came to that realization. After my Purdue graduation we had stayed in Lafayette while Bev finished up her teaching degree. Many of our friends had moved off. We found a nice little house a block from where we were renting. Because of poor planning on our part the lingering friends still in town weren’t that weekend. So we had a very small crew. Plus, I was very cheap. Rather than rent a Uhaul and make a couple of trips, I figured that we could just walk all of our worldly possessions across the street and down the alley; easy peasy.

By mid afternoon, we had had it. We were tired. It was hot and muggy. The stress had caused me to find the lovely Miss Beverly not so lovely any more. That is when mom and dad showed up. This was a time when they probably didn’t have time to come up. Central Indiana was in the throes of an eight week drought. Dad was milking 100 cows at the time. Time was at a premium, and they showed up. After that the move went easier. We finished around three and were giving the “this is what we want to do to the house tour.” After mentioning that we wanted to put in a ceiling fan in the bedroom, dad suggested that he had time for that. 

I don’t know if you know where milk comes from. While it does come from the dairy aisle at the grocery store in plastic jugs, its journey actually starts on a farm with the most time bracketed people in the world. Every day there is a hard start and a hard stop to all activities. 5:00 a.m. to start milking the cows in the morning, 5:00 p.m. in the evening, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. While a cow’s udder is somewhat elastic, there are limits. It starts to get pretty full at the 12 hour mark. As a result, dairy farmers, through the ages, have tried to keep to that 12 hour schedule. 

If my parents had left at about 3:00, the milking would have started at 5:00. The two hours spent getting to the hardware store; making the proper selection and hanging a ceiling fan would definitely make for a late evening and some tight udders. At five the light came on, the fan started whirring and the rain started to fall. Nothing smells as sweet at rain that breaks a drought. It is like the country side exhales a sigh and on its breath is a sweet, loamy, tired scent. A rain like that is to be enjoyed on a front porch swing with a pitcher of iced tea. That is what we did. Mom, dad, Bev and I sitting on the front porch listening to the soaking rain wash the dust off the maple tree, while swinging on the porch swing and sitting in wicker chairs. Five became six and dad announced that it was time to get going.

Time being time, I figure that the last cow would have been milked around 11:00. Dad would have crawled into bed around midnight with a 5:00 a.m. wake up call to get the cows back on schedule.

Last weekend, the Kozaks and the Sharritts had the opportunity to help their fiercely independent son and daughter. Being fiercely independent, I don’t think that it was necessarily easy for them to accept the assistance that was joyfully given. That is okay; independence being what it is, it would be difficult.

Isn't that the challenge with raising fiercely independent children. They don't turn out that way on their own; no matter what they may believe. Philosophically, those parents sit back and watch. The kids fall. The parents wait to see if they can dust themselves off and get back in the race. Over time, one finds that there is little that cannot be over come with time and tears. Yet the falls are watched, breaths are held, hands are wrung. Then one day when help was needed we had the opportunity to pay back a helping hand 26 years later. 

Take care

Roger

We have a New Winner in the Hoover Limerick Challenge

Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am getting back into the swim of things after a week of glorious vacation in SW Michigan. The week was a wonderful opportunity to unplug and get away from the daily drive to work. The lovely Miss Beverly and I were able to spend some quality beach time. In a significant development, the lovely Miss Beverly accompanied me on a 50 mile bike ride. By the end, I think that she was ready to go down to the bike shop and buy a cool looking bike jersey. You know the ones with the three pockets on the small of the back. Bev's bike geekdom is just around the corner.

Life continues to come at us at a dizzying pace. Taking my limerick judging duties very seriously, I took quality time to read all 32 submissions. I pondered and pondered. I read them out loud into my iphone. This allowed me to close my eyes and listen for the rhythm that limericks are known for. The final analysis? You guys are great and you love writing about your cousins.

In fact you inspired the following  limerick:

There once was a family of Hoover’s

County Wabash from the state of the Hoosiers

Cousin Dave was a hoot

And the women all cute

When writing limericks there were no losers.

Being a family of 4-Her’s who knew their way around the show ring, the competition was set up nearly the same way. We are going to announce the honorable mention mentions; then the second place winner and finally the best of show. The rest can pick up their participants ribbon on the way out, but you should all know that you are all winners in my book.

First off showing great promise by winning the Jr. participant category is Michelle Stilger;

Joe, Max, and Sam

Together like green eggs and ham.

They sometimes left me out

But with no worry or doubt

That I am still part of the fam.

Honorable Mention from Sam White:

A 4-H rookie name Sam

Raised a fine pig, not a lamb

It was ironic mixed luck

When Otis died on that truck

Cause the cousins all shared in the ham!

Honorable Mention from Joyce Young:

My cousin always came to bale hay

For dinner sometimes he would stay

Stacked seven pieces high

He’d eat pumpkin pie

Matt White makes us smile everyday.

Honorable Mention from Cathy Heinhold:

We once went to visit Indiana

‘Twas a very long drive in the van-a

Of twins there were two

Singing “Bunny Foo-Foo”

And more cousins, and aunts, and a Gramm-a!

And last but not least in the Honorably Mentioned from Bonnie Hoover;

Today is the day of his birth

He loved his time here on earth

I’m sure he’s a revin

The tractors up in heaven

And farmin for all he’s a worth

The second place limerick was by Sam White. As the runner up, Sam will eat the pie should the first place limerick writer be unable to fulfill their duties.

They move to the farm from the town.

For fun, they’d keep coming round.

Any game of red rover

Would bring them right over.

Or was it just Missy Brown?

That leaves us with the overall winner; Bill Hoover.

Grew up as a Hoover Cousin

Who’s counting, but almost 8 dozen

You could call yourself cool

When allowed to play pool

Cause Burt’s basement was always a buzzin.

Congratulations, everyone. You did great. I think that the only thing that could make next year’s limerick challenge better is if someone invited all of the Hoover’s to their house in late July. All of the limericks could be placed on a table (those unable to attend could mail their entries in) and the afternoon could be spent reminiscing, eating, and voting on the best entry. That way the winner would get their pie from the lovely Miss Beverly right away.

Take care,

Roger 

What Treasure is Inside?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am on the banks of Lake Indiana in Sawyer, Michigan. I know that you may be saying to yourself that there is no Lake Indiana in Sawyer Michigan. I have dealt with this topic extensively in previous blogs. It is a sore subject. How my forefathers would let the Michiganders, or Michigan goose people as I like to call them, usurp the Indiana name when it was our territory to begin with is beyond me? As I said, it is a sore subject and I find myself sitting here on the edge of this great lake contemplating how to get the naming rights back. I do take a bit of comfort in the irony that I am sitting in the town of Sawyer, Michigan not 7 miles from the Warren woods. It is an old growth forest set aside by Mr. Warren, he of the corset fortune, for the purpose of tormenting all of the “saw-yers”, who made a living, turning other old growth logs into 2x4’s

Last week was a special week in Sharritt land. We received a text from a cousin informing us that two old Army trunks were found in her mom’s garage. She had figured that they were filled with her father’s army gear but upon opening the rusted hinges all of the tags said Sharritt, which meant that they were my dad’s old Army issued gear. Having been hermetically sealed in those trunks for close to 60 years, they were in amazingly good shape. Donning gas masks to eliminate the strong odor of still pungent moth balls, we went looking for treasure.

Treasure item number 1 was a pair of blue silk toddler pajamas. I suppose that he was planning ahead. I know that mom wasn’t pregnant with me at the time. I am a little disappointed that they had already been relegated to a sister’s garage and forgotten by the time I came along. I would have been stylin in powder blue silk pajamas with Korean hooha on the lapels.

Treasure item number 2 was a five year diary. I opened it carefully, hopeful and expectant of the details that I might find about dad’s Korean adventure. Before I go further, I have to say that for dad it was an adventure. Hostilities were over. Dad was there for the rebuilding. He was part of a construction battalion. He drove semi’s and heavy bulldozers all over the south end of the peninsula. He would have been the first to admit that he was fortunate to not have been in the contingent of brave men, my father-in-law included, who were thrown into a violent and desperate situation and fought bravely against overwhelming odds.

While revelatory expectations were high, they were not to be fulfilled. There were just two lines written on one page of the 1825 available for posterity. On the very last page, on the back cover, Herman Lloyd Sharritt was written just below the “Property of” imprint. The hand writing was terrible, a trait passed on to his son. Just below his name in much neater script was written “Who is property of Estella Mae Sharritt.” That is all that it said, but it said a lot.

The rest? The chest was filled with dress greens, field greens, warm weather gear, rain gear, wool socks, everything that a soldier needs to help rebuild a country. Everything was in pristine condition. It was like he had not spent two years in Korea wearing army issue. This made perfect sense to the lovely Miss Beverly. She astutely pointed out that dad would wear one shirt until it fell apart and it was time to get a new one. He had no concept of a laundry rotation. He had his reasons, and we kids had our embarrassment.

That was all. Move along there is nothing else to see here folks. It appears that dad brought home some stuff from Korea. It appears that his sister thought that they should be kept for posterity. Fifty year later the posterity has worn off.

However, dad did bring back something else, or maybe left something off for the kids to sort though. It is a story that was told on the back of a tractor in farm fields and repeated from time to time to eager kids who wanted to hear a story that reverberated in our collective world view DNA.

Dad was the rookie; new kid on the block. His platoon was to go down to the depot in a 6 truck convoy to pick up a load. The company had a fleet of trucks; all grade A Army issue. However, all trucks are not created equal. They have different sized motors, different gearing ratios. Some trucks suck. It was the tradition in the company to saddle the newbie with a particularly sucky truck. The convoy would take off and leave the newbie who was to dutifully follow the others to the destination. Unable to keep up the newbie would become lost, wander around in a foreign country with road signs that made no sense on a road system that had been designed for oxen and carts. The befuddled newbie would finally get back to base with no load and then get yelled at by the sergeant for being an incompetent.

Dad had heard rumblings of the upcoming initiation. He had vowed to not be the butt of the company’s jokes. In today’s world, he decided that nothing parties like a rental, especially and US Army rental. He got behind the wheel; instructions in hand; follow the truck in front of you. Everything will be fine and don’t get lost. Being a farm kid, he quickly diagnosed that the problem was one of insufficient power for the gearing that was set to high. So when you shifted the transmission into a higher gear, the engine would bog down and never recover. The solution was to have more speed before shifting into the higher gear.

Hat pulled down low over his eyes, he pulled out behind all of the other trucks. They immediately sped off in an attempt to leave him in their dust. With them pulling away he needed more speed. So he stamped the pedal to the floor and refused to shift. As the tachometer climbed to the red line, he was gaining speed and his brothers in arms were no longer pulling away so fast. The truck was screaming now and starting to shake. Dad said that he thought he would either keep up or the truck would blow apart. If it blew apart it would be the army’s problem so keep it in the red for another second. Then with things shaking in the cab, he shifted into second. The truck, with the gearing needed to carry speed, leapt forward and he was catching up.

He followed the same pattern all of the way up through the gears. 20 miles later, he pulled into the depot with the other guys. As he got out, he received the slaps on the back of the entire convoy. They loaded and everyone headed back.

The trip back he did the same thing pulling into base right on the heals of his buddies. The sergeant came storming out of the barracks and started to tear into dad. He was told to follow the convoy all of the way to the depot and he had obviously stopped outside base and waited for the convoy to return. He was derelict in his duties. The others came over to the sergeant and got him to calm down. They assured the sergeant that he had indeed kept up. “Look in the back. He has a full load.”

Nature or nurture? It is hard to say. But that story 40 years later still makes my inner motor hum.

Take care,

Roger

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