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 51^st 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 1^st 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