Just forget about it. 

Tonight Mr. Hay told me to just forget about it.

Mr. Hay lives next door to my mom, and he and Mrs. Hay, Ester and George, were my first bosses. It was this time of year but forty-five years ago. It was 4th of July weekend and they needed some extra help at the beach club down at Atlantic Beach, and so they asked me if I wanted to work. Beach club members had cabanas and access to the Atlantic Ocean, and they also had the beach club food that Mr. and Mrs. Hay provided.  I have no idea what was at the other end of the food line, but I helped at the drink end, with ice teas and ice coffees and, if I was lucky, mixing the milk shakes as well.

That was the summer I was thirteen turning fourteen. I worked weekends for the Hays. The following summers after 9th, 10th, and 11th grade, I worked down at a neighborhood beach club in Baldwin Harbor, a much smaller establishment than the one down at the ocean. This beach club was very local, so I could ride my bike there, and I worked five days a week. I’d start around ten and do the prep for lunch — the boiled eggs for egg salad, the chicken and tuna salads, the cut-up fruits and vegetables. We’d be ready at the grill and the salad bar for the Jewish mom’s down in Baldwin Harbor to order their health salads and ice teas. I was a Catholic girl who lived up above Atlantic Avenue and had gone to St. Chris. The beach club was a whole new cultural experience for me.

There were lots of kids at the beach club too, who’d come up to the candy and ice cream window, but lots of the neighborhood kids were off at summer camp. My best friend Mary Chris worked there too with me. Mrs. Hay was our beach club mom. The life guards were our summer amusements. We were thrilled by our paychecks. I saved money from those summers working for my first 35 mm camera and for graduating early from high school and going off to Paris.

Mr. and Mrs. Hay taught us about working hard. They were the best first bosses I could imagine. They taught us how to cut tomatoes and cantaloupes, how to work efficiently during lunch rush hours and weekends, and the importance of prep and clean up. Mrs. Hay was always happy to see us and kept us on our toes. On the weekends after busy Saturdays, they would mix up some sangria during the end-of-the-day clean up. We might have only been fifteen and sixteen, but the drinking age was eighteen back then and we were hard workers. We learned how to enjoy an end-of-the-day drink with them and to do so in moderation. And then we got back on our bicycles for the ride home.

When I went off to college, Mrs. Hay was always there for me next door. I’d visit my parents, of course, but I was over in the Hays’ kitchen eventually. Mrs. Hay would call to Mr, Hay, “George, get some Duckie from downstairs. Carol’s here.” And Mr. Hay would go downstairs to their walk-in cooler and pull out a bottle of sweet and sparkly Cold Duck wine. I would catch Mrs. Hay up on my life. She was always there with a smile, enthusiastic to hear about whatever I was telling her. She was one of my most enthusiastic early supporters.

Mr. Hay was quiet and in the background, but now it is he who is still alive and who I See each time I return to Baldwin. It must be twenty years ago that Mrs. Hay died from an auto-immune deficiency syndrome. I came back up from Georgia for her funeral.

I never learned to call Mrs. Hay “Esther,” but I now finally call Mr. Hay by his first name George. I am 58 and he is 90. Tonight I asked to use his gas grill for hamburgers for me and my mom. In the south shore suburbs where I grew up and where I am now with my mom, our neighbors’ back doors are quite close. I can be at George’s back door as quickly as I can be on the front porch, and his gas grill is even closer.

When I went over to check the temperature of the grill just one more time, George came out to suggest that I light up the other two burners. He always knew how to grill burgers, and so I followed his advice. I turned to Mr. Hay and asked him if I was a good worker way back when, and he give me a definite “yes” in reply. Perhaps it was the wine from my happy hour with them cousins that loosened my tongue, or just my ease with sharing my personal stories, but I told him quickly about the awful bike tour leading experience I had this spring. I don’t think I have ever cried in front of Mr. Hay, but once again I got teary thinking back on that awful bike tour leading experience, without a doubt the worst work experience of my life.

And that’s when Mr. Hay said, “Just forget about it.” He was so certain that it had nothing to do with who I am. I appreciate his reminder that this two-month tour-leading-from-hell experience is not who I am. IF the dice had rolled differently and I had been paired with a different co-leader, the whole experience would have been different.

“Just forget about it.” I’m trying, George, but it’s taking some time.

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A 4th of July in Baldwin, NY

I didn’t expect so much from the Fourth of July.

I have been with my mom in NY for the last month. Age is finally taking its toll on my mom and she has been weak and in decline over the past month.  When I retired two years ago, it gave me a little peace of mind to know that I would be able to be there for my mom when she needed me. That time has come. And so the days have been quiet.

But tonight sitting on the screened porch, there are fireworks all around me. And no crowds. It’s as if all the people in a radius of a mile who are into fireworks spent wads of money on large piles of explosives, ones so impressive that they light up the sky in different colors and with different effects. Above what I still call the Pepper’s house, there were just about fifteen fireworks that went off in row. I’m sitting here alone. The streets are not full. Stars exploding raining down in silver, purple waterfalls in the sky, bursts of thousands of little stars. And when the sky is dark above the Pepper’s house, the sounds of fireworks are non-stop in other directions, fireworks exploding that I cannot see behind the trees. This is not the Baldwin I grew up in. Then there would have been a crowd of kids in the street with me as we lit sparkles and someone exploded a few firecrackers and a daring cherry bomb.  My mom sat with me here for a bit on the porch and then returned to the fireworks broadcast from Brooklyn with the Manhattan skyline behind them.

Earlier in the evening, my mom and I went over to my cousin Clare’s for a small 4th of July celebration with my cousin Gracie and her husband Charlie Bamford, visiting from Belfast. It was a big deal that my mom had the energy to get over there, but she did and we had our happy hour drinks and snacks followed by hot dogs, potato salad, corn on the cob, and broccoli slaw.  Happy hours with my cousins have become a regular part of my day, a gift of family that I wasn’t expecting when I headed up the east coast at the end of May.

I thought I’d overlap with Charlie and Gracie just a few days, but now it’s been almost three weeks. They have been here for me with support and good cheer through a couple of tough weeks – time that will transform forever my relationship with them. We talk about our days and catch up on our children’s lives, but there’s been more, so much more, that is awfully hard to put into words and perhaps too private as well. For a week too, we had their son Patrick, once the older cousin running through the sprinkler with his sisters and his younger Georgia cousins Clare and Anne. Now he is grown, and he and his wife Joe were here with two-year old George. As happens when there’s a toddler in your mist, George provided easy amusement for us with our glasses of wine. How easy it is to chuckle over a cute two-year old grabbing potato crisps and cherry tomatoes and handing them out to each of us.

Once again something special has come into my life when I wasn’t expecting it. Thank you, cousins.

 

 

 

 

 

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Homage to the South Shore and my mother

I am visiting my mother in Baldwin on the South Shore of Long Island. She still lives in the house we grew up in on Silver Lake Place. We are a short walk to the canals that were carved into the shore of the bay that separates Long Island from its southern barrier islands. Across the bay from Baldwin and Oceanside are the towns of Point Lookout, Lido Beach, and Long Island that face directly on to the Atlantic. Further east and across from Freeport next door to us is the barrier island that houses the state park of Jones Beach and Gilgo and Cedar Beach and Captree. Further east still, you cross over another bridge over to Robert Moses State Park on the eastern point of Fire Island. All IMG_1740these areas are the playground for my mom and me when we take our drives. We have special stops where we take out mom’s rollalator so that she can take a walk. We sit on a bench and watch the water, the boats, the birds, the people fishing. We get to sit outside in the sun or just in the fresh air with a breeze on a cloudy day. Outside time is good for all of us.

Yesterday my mother and I did a usual route of our, through Freeport and south on the Meadowbook Parkway to Jones Beach, about a fifteen minute drive. We continued on to Tobay Beach where we at lunch at the now upscale Tobay Seafood Shack on the bay side of the island. We chatted a bit. I have been showing my mom photos from my Southern Tier trip, a couple of days at a time. She knew all the characters and was eagerly waiting to find out what would happen next. The day before we had reached Austin in the photo show and so that led into the whole story of the traumatic ending to my trip, my early termination in Tallahassee. She like everyone else was appalled and shocked. She is my mother, and she knows my work and determination. Something wasn’t right, she said. Even incidents prior to my dismissal, my being 45 minutes late arriving in camp with the van and trailer (I did send text messages from the Walmart) and an emotional response to yet another accusal with mean-spirited words from one of the riders, did not warrant the firing I got. She is absolutely right, and so at the restaurant, she would ask me a question about the trip. But then we’d end up looking through the binoculars and the swimmers training for a triathlon and the birds at the water’s edge. There were laughing gulls and my big sighting, a black skimmer with a its long, partially orange beak. It would fly low to the water, dropping its lower beak into the saltwater attempting to skim some food to eat.

From Tobay, we ventured further east, first stopping at Oak Beach to see what its ocean side restaurant offered. In the evenings, that would be beer, mixed drinks, and beach volleyball. But there was also a kitchen with hamburgers, fish sandwiches and clam cakes. We put that on our list for another visit.

A beautiful bridge brought us over to Fire Island and Robert Moses Park. We parked at the end of parking field five pointing toward the ocean so my mother could look at the Atlantic and doze while I followed a boardwalk through beach dunes and grasses and marshes to the lighthouse. For the walk back, I chose the ocean and walked through the water that would run up from the waves. There is no question for me that ocean wins out over mountains and lakes. Maybe it is what you know first that tugs at your heart.

We had one more stop, the Captree Fishing Peer, where charter boats were lined up waiting for recreational fishermen to join them for the 6-9 evening fishing sail. We listened to the pre-fishing chatter of men hanging out by the boats they would soon embark on. My mother walked the length of the fashioning pier and then I walked out to

the pier that jets out into the water and fills with Asian Americans IMG_1784catching crabs.  On our walk back to the car, a couple my age eyed the binoculars hanging around my neck and asked if I had seen anything good. IMG_4072.jpgThey were birders, new to the sport but much more experienced that I am. I hadn’t seen anything but seagulls and charter fishing boats. Still that started a conversation IMG_1785.jpgand somehow I mentioned my bike trip and listening to the bird songs and then my mom walked up and before long she discovered that Tim had delivered newspaper growing up to the only people my mom knew who lived in the Oak Island just a bit west of where we were then. Tim and Dianna were as happy to talk with us as we were with them. And it all reminded me about how if you are in the right frame of mind, that there are kind, interesting people all around to meet and learn from.

On the way home, my mom remarked on how I got such pleasure from little things, from washing my bike in the morning and sorting through a box of papers to the small day trips we were getIMG_4060ting and my delight at the light on the ocean and ordinary people we would meet. Getting pleasure from small things does make life more enjoyable. And really, are these really just small things, or are they all that makes up life.

By the time we got back to Silver Lake, it was almost 6:30 pm, and my mom remarked, “You are good for me, Carol.” Touching words for a daughter to hear.

 

 

 

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Southern Tier Memories & Trump’s Wall

On our third day of riding on the Southern Tier, we reached the Mexican border close to a town called Jacumba Hot Springs. Previous to the trip, my focus had been on finding a place for the group to stay each night and so the idea of hot springs excited me. I love water, being by it and more so being in it. But the Jacumba Hot Springs Spa and Resort no longer wanted traveling cyclists to camp there, and so I had realized we would have to ride on to Brawley where we had a local contact with the parks department who’d let us camp by their cattle arena facility.

I lucked out of the third day’s cycle vs. drive-the-van rotation with Jared once again and got do the day’s ride that had us pedaling right by the present wall with Mexico, a tall red fence. I was fascinated by the wall and the world around it and couldn’t help but be briefly brought out of the bike bubble I had already entered at the start of the trip, a bubble that had its own rhythm and intrigues but kept me separated from the drama, tweets, and daily news cycle  that had already become the norm of the new Trump administration.

Cycling gives you a perfect view of the world as you travel. Cars get you there faster, but they are really little different than planes in transporting across miles without any immersion in the geography, the culture, or the people whose worlds you pass by. I-10 is a bubble itself, revealing almost nothing about the states its passes through. Walking, on the other hand, is the total opposite, but it is so slow that your observations are not as sweeping perhaps, though I really know nothing about trying to traverse the country on foot. On a bike, though, you are part of the landscape. You see the countryside like the wolf or deer on its daily jaunt. You cover 50-70 miles and observe and compare town to town and the lands between. The trees reach out to you with opportunities for shade, the grasses show you the direction of the wind, the clouds provide needed relief from the sun and are themselves a grand canvas of beauty, your rolling screen saver each day. In the towns, you find food and water. But its really the people and their homes and businesses that trigger your imagination as you wonder about their lives, their communities, their struggles, their daily routines. The interactions I have with the store clerks, the other customers, the guy picking up trash on the road, those are the little jewels that get me even closer to the worlds I pass through, moments of personal intimacy, gifts to my soul.

IMG_9090And so cycling by our present wall with Mexico, I was fascinated. I passed several properties as I got closer to the border in California that piqued by interest where their odd and quirky decorations of patriotism. Were these Americans flexing their muscle to those trying to invade our country, saying we will toughly defend our nation from you southern invaders.

Later just east of El Paso, we stayed with David Cantu in a WarmShowers place, his home that he opens up to traveling cyclists. David is real West Texas, living about 15 miles east of El Paso. The Rio Grande is within walking distance of his home. His family routes stem from the native Americans who had lived in the area for centuries and others from below the border, a mix of Spanish and indigenous peoples. He is trying in his small way to keep the culture and history of his people alive in San Elizario.

I asked David about the homes flying American flags. In rural Georgia where I live, I associate those flying the flag, not just on Memorial Day, as America-first people. The US flag has become like the confederate flag that flies on homes in the South, a defiant stand against the “others” threatening what is perceived as the American way of live under attack, meaning the American white of European-descent way of life under attack.  I thought the same would be true along the border and was thus surprised when David told me that for the most part that these were people like him flying the flag, showing their pride in being Americans and often their support for their military sons and daughters. I thought then of the names and faces that PBS would display in silent each night on the PBS NewsHour of those who had died in Iraq and Afghanistan and how so many of those faces were of men and women of color, a color besides white.  What did I really know about those people back in Jacomba Hot Springs with their quirky displays of patriotism. It is too easy to prejudge, thinking we understand others when we are all more complex than we ever know.

Trump’s budget was released today. “A New Foundation for American Greatness” is its absurd America First title. In his America, you cut budgets for the poor, from health care, from food stamps and disability payments and student loans to make the country great.. In his  America, you make the country great by spending our country’s money on bigger military and a massive  wall with Mexico. The towns around the wall with Mexico are poor and depressed. I wonder who is in there now buying up property to sell to those needing land for their wall construction

 

businesses and temporary housing for those building the wall. Like often happens, I’m sure there will be small pocket of locals who profit greatly from an infusion of money into their communities. There will be others who get jobs from the wall construction. But there are others who will be in uproar as the feds try to confiscate their land for building. There are already passport checks points all along the roads close to our Southern boarder. I passed by several on my bike. For those living their lives there and not just passing through, there already exists an eery military police state presence that doesn’t seem normal to anyone from some other part of the country.

Later in west Texas as we descended from Sanderson, TX, toward Del Rio on Hwy 90, the closest road to the Rio Grande. The river winded back and forth like a snake in that part of the country. The land was desolate, with steep mesas and scrub cactus-covered hills, hot, bleak and very windy. The day we cycled form Sanderson, TX, the winds kept increasing as the day went on. The day’s route was long at about 80 miles, but it was the last twenty miles that killed us. From Langley to Seminole Canyon State Park, the winds picked up to 30-40 mph, directly in our faces as we tried to climb up hills through cut-outs in the canyon walls. Those last twenty miles should have taken us two hours. With such a strong head wind, we were barely making 3 miles in an hour. As usual, I was in the back sweeping and had caught up with Fuat hours ago. He was having back/leg pain and struggling. I got in front of him to pull him the best I could by blocking the wind for him. The wind was incessant, the strongest head winds I’d ever ridden in. It was easy to be discouraged. 

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But we had it easy. We knew there was a place to stay up ahead, and that as long as we stayed on the road, we’d be found. We were running out of daylight and knew we wouldn’t make it to camp. That 20 mile ride was going to take six hours instead of two. We wanted to call the van and get sagged back into town, but there was no cell signal. Still, we knew the van would eventually come and get us as it eventually did. The tandem couple had already been rescued when Jared and Evan reached us. When we eventually reached camped, everyone had a story of struggle and bike despair, but we were all safe.

Back when we were on the road, I couldn’t help but think of those trying trying to make it overland to the US across the Rio Grande and then across the wasteland we were cycling through. At one point when Fuat and I were taking a short rest from the wind, I remember telling him, “We are not going to die. We have enough water.We are not going to be captured by Border Patrol and put into an detention camp for illegal immigrants where the lights are never turned off.” More than reassuring either him or me, I was reminding myself how easy we really had it.  Our circumstances trying to cycling that day were arduous and exhausting but the day would become a story, a feat we had accomplished. We weren’t risking our lives because our entire lives were so bleak that we had to flee our homes and families to get to American and its dream.

What is this Trump wall really about? Those who come over our border are desperate. They take endless chances with their lives. If they have the strength of will and body to make it here, perhaps we should listen to their stories and value the courage they have to have to get here.  Who amongst us would risk what they have now for such a journey. How dyer would our circumstances have to be take the chance to travel hundreds and hundreds of miles over incredibly arid treacherous terrain and at the mercy of coyotes, wolves, and snakes. There would be no convenience stores to grab some more water at, or bike angels bestowing small gifts and smiles on you. Instead, there’d be dry creek beds, temperatures from 90-120 degrees, ruthless smugglers, the fear of border patrol agent.

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My heart is sad thinking of this wall that Trump wants to fund and build. What is in his heart? Is there no love there for others, empathy for their plights, understanding of our shared humanity?

What a different and unfriendly world it must be to live with such aggression, anger, and fear of others and such self-importance.  And how dangerous for all of us it is to have a leader as him and with so many cheering him on.

[Of course, that leads me to another blog post to come because it’s not so easy to group people like we want to….some of my closest and most supportive connections on my Southern Tier trip with good, smart, and special people were Trump supporters, while my worst companion was an anti-Trump man.]

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A Day on the Southern Tier – Emory Pass, New Mexico

Emory Pass was a surprise to me. On the Southern Tier my focus was so much on being a tour leader and the group dynamics that I wasn’t spending much time thinking about my own cycling. But the days on the saddle were my treats. I got to focus on me and my bike and making the two work together to get me down the road. Emory Pass in New Mexico was one of the biggest treats of all.

FullSizeRender 5In the morning we cycled away from Mountain Springs RV Park. I had pulled the van and trailer into the RV park and thus gotten to know the hosts better than I would otherwise. I chuckle thinking how they gave me the rules but then told me “you don’t have to follow the rules either.” They had an office rec room that we all used that afternoon and evening, the only place of the trip where came into serious contact with national news of what was happening in the new Trump presidency. Matt and Steve set themselves up on the couch in their and did a mixture of reading, writing, and watching Senate confirmation hearings for several hours.  On most trips I take, I buy a pair of earrings. My earrings from this trip were from the display case of jewelry that the RV host makes herself.

In the morning, everyone took off on their bikes for the day’s ride up Emory Pass. IMG_0942The husband host telling me that it would be cold in the shade as I climbed up so I made sure to put on layers before I took off, a good twenty to thirty minutes after the last rider left camp. There were always last-minute chores that needed to be done to get all my stuff and then the group stuff ready to go for the day.

The climb that day was breathtaking. I was on my own and turned on some music for the long climb. I would eventually catch up with someone. The climb took a good two-to-three hours to get to the top of the pass. I passed through the various state campgrounds that would have been possibilities for camping if they had not been still closed for the season. By all of them, there were signs warning of flash foods, the kind of signs we saw regularly through our travels in the southwest and until Austin. I had started making little videos as I road, thinking about how my 90-year old mother would love to watch them. She is my biggest fan when it comes to my travels and seeing my photos. She can no longer travel the world as she used to and so relishes  the the worlds I bring to her through my adventures. In those videos, my delight in this long climb is evident. Long climbs, in contrast to rolling hills, end in a culmination, the top of the climb — the view it brings and the satisfaction of accomplishing the ascent and then the reward of the descent.  Watching those Emory Pass videos now bring me right back into the heavy breathing and mindset of my long climb.

IMG_0962Up on the top, I expected there to a crowd of my fellow riders. I still did not really understood that they were not riding like I did on the Northern Tier. They were sticking to being road riders, keen on making the distance for the day. They were not soaking up the ride itself, taking long breaks for picnics, meeting locals along the route, and reading the historical markers. I was looking forward to a long stop on the top of Emory Pass with time to eat my lunch and take in the views. I was pleased to find Sue and Annie up there at the top next to the sign recounting how Lt. W.H. Emory traveled through the area on an exploration expedition for the U.S. Army.  We shared the excitement of the reaching the summit. For a tandem to do that climb was an even greater feat than for the rest of us. We snapped each other’s photos and then they were off. No long IMG_0964stop and lunch for them. That left Fuat sitting on a rock on a little incline eating his lunch. He was just finishing up so he gave me his rock to sit on while I ate. I was learning by then that it would always be Fuat at the end, simply because he was the only one cycling like I did across the Northern Tier, willing and wanting to soak it all in, to “smell the roses” and in his case listen to and watch the birds.

He and I finally took off, with me speeding down the mountain side and then stopping to take photos. He took the downhills more cautiously but we both then reached the bottom together. You kind of feel like the day should be over after such a long climb but there was still more of the day and I had a tour leader mission to accomplish as well. I needed to cancel our Las Cruces hotel reservation so that we would not be charged well over $1000 for a night’s stay. Instead we would be staying at a KOA campground instead. We had used up our allotted hotel budget for this part of the trip back in Tempe and at the Apache Casino motel. But there had not been a cell signal when I needed it for the last day and a half. I stopped again and again checking to see if I had the bars to make the call.

In Hillsboro, we met an older gentlemen in his workshop FullSizeRender 19making leather chaps. He headed me toward a rise out of town where I might be able to get a signal, but it wasn’t until Fuat and I made reached the last ascent to the top of the mesa that I found a strong signal. Up there thIMG_1031ough, the wind was blowing hard, at least 20 mph, and I needed Fuat to hold my reservation confirmation sheets while I finally got through to a hotel.com support person in the Philippines and cancelled those rooms one by one.  What a funny site that was, that long conversation to Southeast Asia from the top of a mesa in New Mexico.

We still had a descent to the Caballo Lake reservoir and then seven miles south into a head wind but we finally made it to camp just as dinner was served.  This was IMG_1042probably one of the days that was marked down in the black notebook someone was keeping on me as a day I arrived late to camp, but we did save over $1000 and I did have a beautiful day of riding.

http://www.nmts.org/rides/emoryPass.htm

A few more photos and then a short video on my climb up and then one on the descent.

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Kind words as I return to Nitty Gritty ride leading

Last night I led a Nitty Gritty bike ride. My recent role as a cross-country tour bike leader did not end happily and so this first time out with Nitty Gritty had special significance for me. Once again my bike community helped me on road to recovery.

We were a group of 23. “They are coming out because it’s you,” Diane, Georgia and Evan said. I don’t think that’s totally true but a happy ride with no grumbling about the route or directions was very reassuring.

Later in the ride, Steve chuckled to me as he told me I was “bossy” after I had made some comment to the group. He was referring to an incident from the first days on my cross country trip when my co-leader had a “difficult” conversations with me because he felt he needed to tell me that some of the riders had been saying I was “bossy” when I had told people to look at the sunset, the first magnificent one that we could see from camp. The tour participants were all in the midst of conversation pre-dinner while I was on dinner duty with another rider, Evan, and so I said the same thing I would have said if hanging out with a bunch of friends camping. This “difficult conversation” with my co-leader was irritating and hurtful, if only because I knew we had weeks and weeks to go working together. I have worked with and supervised hundreds of people and students. This was not a difficult conversation that needed to have occurred.

And so when Steve laughed and called me “bossy” for some inconsequential comment I made on last night’s ride, I smiled and then asked him why this was making him chuckle so much. He told me that I was one of the most relaxed and laid back persons he knew and that “bossy” was basically an absurd adjective to be used for me.

Steve and I have ridden together for a only a couple of years, but we often ride at about the same fitness level and place in the pack.  We don’t know each other like family and co-workers but we know each other well enough.

It is words like those from Steve that are making all the difference to me these days as I recover from my first cross-country tour leading experience.

Note: Isn’t “bossy” one of those words that are used derogatorily about women and not used for men?

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Maggie, the river is free

MaggIe, the river is free

Yesterday afternoon, I planted some okra seeds in the vegetable garden. The temperature was near perfect and my river beckoned me to it. The North Oconee isn’t mine, of course, but the part that runs through our backyard does feel like mine. And it’s the river MaggIE and I used to paddle on. Not a big paddle, anything we would plan out in advance. For us, it was the equivalent of taking a walk; we’d paddle upstream and then mostly float back . MaggIE lived across the street from us, and the river makes a big horseshoe right past our house and then runs behind Maggie’s house. We used to say we would secede from the rest of the world when things got bad in the world. We’d hunt deer and fish, and I would go off on my bike and barter with the other survivalists beyond out wall.

I pushed the kayak down into the river. The water was a perfect depth for paddling and I navigated through the shoals. My mission was to check and see if the river was clear of the trees just upstream that had been completely blocking the river for months and months. It was. The river was free and so I paddled further up into the secret world of the North Oconee River where Maggie and I would go on paddles after work in early evening. We’d chat and be quiet. Maybe we’d see a beaver pop its head out. We’d look at the plants and she’d point out birds. 

Maggie died of colon cancer six years ago, and I still miss her. I thought of her on the trip a lot and how she’d loved so much what I was doing. It was six Mays ago when her cancer became really aggressive and killed her in early June. The last normal talk we had was out on her deck and I told her all about my first Athens Savannah Double Century ride. She told me all about her week at the beach, her last trip.  

Yesterday on the river, I saw two crows chase an owl out of its perch and sprint in front of me to the trees on the other bank. And I thought of the owl that I saw the night Maggie died. The hospice nurse told Gary, Dottie, and Theresa that maggie might stay in this in-between state between life and death until dawn, so I thought I’d go across to my house and rest some. First though I sat on Maggie’s steps to look at the stars for a bit. It had been a very intense evening. An owl flew from a tree close by across the sky, and I said, MaggIE, go off with that owl into the next world. I walked across the street and the phone rang almost immediately. Gary told me to get back over there. MaggIE had died.

It was a coincidence, I guess, but I like to think that Maggie did fly off with that owl, that her spirit is out with the birds soaring about and resting on tree branches observing the natural world that gave her such comfort. 

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Another way I love bikes

One thing I know, I like bikes.

Last night I returned to the Bike Athens shop across the street from the Varsity. These days recovering from the trip have been rough. The mornings are good but by mid to late afternoon I get tired and moodier. I should basically not grab on to any emotions that arise during that time. The first half of the day I feel calm and focused and optimistic. Those are the feelings to focus more on. 

Late yesterday afternoon, I almost changed my mind about going over to Bike Athens after going to the allergist. Dr.Hunt confirmed my own diagnosis of what happened to me on the trip. Daily exposure to high pollen levels was bombarding my system across the country. A little over two weeks ago at Blackwater State Park east of Pensacola, Dr. Hunt explained, the mast cells in my bronchial tubes were totally overacting to a combination of pollen, cold and damp air, and stress levels and released extra high levels of histamines causing my bronchial tubes to restrict. Understanding the physiological explanation for the tight chest and restricted and shortened breathing I experienced makes me feel less crazy about what happened. 

Anyway, I made the effort and went over to Bike Athens instead of returning home. How comforting to return to the bike shop and work on a cheap Huffy kids’ bike. The bike will eventually go through one of our social services agencies to some child in need or desire of a bike. ( Shouldn’t every kid have a bike?) Last night Diane and I struggled to fix its cheap brakes and then just ditched the originals and installed some new ones, not new but recycled from some other donated bike. Don served as our bike mechanic expert for our consultation and occasional turn of a bolt. So refreshing to work with kind people who worked with me and laughed with me. I’m definitely in recovery from that ST trip.

I made occasional mean comments about my trip, and Don poured me some PBR beer in a coffee cup and then topped it off for me a bit later. Eventually Diane and I had it ready for a test ride, and I rode it around the parking lot. The huffy had been being worked on since the start of May and other volunteers had okay’d its drive train but it wasn’t shifting into the big ring. We fiddled with its limit screws way too long and finally got it right enough so we could sign off of it being ready for some kid. Back in Mississippi I had to adjust my limit screw on my back derailleur to keep the chain from dropping off the small ring and jamming into the frame. I guess expensive bikes do have better components. That adjustment took just one turn of the screw. 

This morning I continued my bike work and finally got my touring bike back together. Peter at Joe’s Bikes in Tallahassee did an incredible job packing up my bike and using all my bike related gear as packing material. To do so, he had taken off several components, thus, giving me more opportunity to practice my bike mechanic skills. I succeeded and clean the bike thoroughly as I did so. Very satisfying and calming work, with NPR’s “On the Media”‘ and our neighborhood birds keeping me company.

That’s it, another way I love bikes. 

My bike still in the box from Joe’s Bike in Tallahassee. Thanks, Peter.

I put my bike back together today. It is all cleaned too.

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Goodbye, Moby Dick

I just finished Moby Dick this morning.

I continue to wake up early as I did on the bike trip, but now instead of not falling back asleep, I return to slumber eventually and continue to regain the hours of sleep I missed on the Southern Tier trip.

Moby Dick was my companion on that trip, the audio book that transported me away each night to a thoughtful narrator and the tale of his journey. I would put the timer on each night; it would eventually shut of the book after an hour, well after I had already fallen asleep. Moby Dick became my sleeping pill all, sending me to sleep after just a chapter or two. The next night, I would scroll back through the list of chapters and attempt to find where I had left off. In reality, there were chapters I heard again and again and others I missed almost completely. 

IMG_1317.PNGMoby Dick was my constant throughout so many ups and downs of this past journey, and it’s helped me make the transition back from those last days in Tallahassee through to this morning when I finally finished chapter 135 and the epilogue. For years, I couldn’t get much past the opening pages after “Call me Ishmael” and Ishmael’s first days in New Bedford and his sharing that bed with Queequeg, who soon became his “bosom friend.” I don’t think I ever even had read to the day they boarded the whaler Pequod.

Like on my own trip, the tension rose until the very end when the white whale obsessed and maniacally haunted Captain Ahab had his final meeting with Moby Dick. Perhaps now that I have finished Moby Dick, I can go beyond the tension of my own epic journey tense climax in Florida.

This morning at 5 after I returned to bed from the toilet, I scrolled to the last chapters and then fell asleep again. When I awoke around 7 am, the novel was over but I had missed the ending, so again I scrolled back one last time and listened to the last few chapters. I thought then of my own recent journey and opened up my blog on my Iphone. I was still snug under the covers.

On WordPress, you get reports on how many people are reading your blog. Yesterday, I got a notification that my stats were “booming” and could tell there were people reading more than just my recent posts. I wondered what they would see if they went back to the start of my Northern Tier trip so I clicked there and got pulled back into my first cross country trip.

How wonderfully refreshing to read those first blog entries through the Cascades. After the very awful ending of my first tour leading experience, I have been in need of some serious healing. My Athens community has helped me with that again and again — to see people who are happy to see me and who respect and enjoy my company. I have started talking about what happened at the end of the trip,  and without exception, there has been nothing but incredulousness. Here I have friends and people who know who I am and the work I do. They have no doubt that someone screwy was going on, as it was.  With each interaction, my self-doubt dissipates a bit. 

Reading those entries from my Northern Tier trip provided more healing. On my Southern Tier trip, I again had wonderful times like I did on that first cross-country trip. Riding across the nation, you can’t help but thinking about the landscape around you and the people who have lived there over centuries, about the harsh outdoors they survived in, about the cruel ending the Native Americans nations experienced, about the motivations, strength and loneliness of the settlers who kept pushing further west. I met other cyclists on the road, traveling solo like I had two years previously and felt a connection to them that I never felt with my fellow Southern Tier cyclists.  On the days I drove the van, there were my conversations with Walmart staff across the country that transformed my feelings about Walmart and there were the kind helpful people who checked me in at RV parks, state campgrounds, and motels.

And like on my Northern Tier trip, there were the wonder of discovering what was around the bend and the picnic lunches and convenience store stops and the wind and sky and birds and trees beside me and rivers and creeks I crossed.

What a journey it was. So, goodbye Moby Dick and thank you for the constant comfort you have given me these past two and a half months.

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Healing bike love

Today I rode with my Nitty Gritty bike friends and was enveloped by love, friendship, laughter and happiness. How soothing and healing that was for my soul

We were happy to be bike riding and together before, during and after the ride. You wouldn’t think it would be that hard.

Thanks, Evan, for your fine leadership and great attitude. And thanks Georgia, Carmen, Karen, Melanie, John and Steve. Such a joyful afternoon.

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