Ten observations from the bike seat

So I've now ridden my bike to work a total of five times, twice this week and I might do it again on Friday to replace the day of cycling I'm missing on Wednesday do to a social engagement (going to the zoo for free with Diane... in choice between bikes and animals, animals always win, so long as they aren't running after my bike). Anyway, I've made several observations on my morning commute that I'd like to share here...

1. Red pick-up trucks pass too close. Always. I'm serious. I don't know what it is about the color red on a pick-up truck but it seems to radiate a message of "I ain't movin' aside for any of ya'll [insert expletive of your choice] cyclists." These are the people most likely to express their feelings of distaste as they pass. In fact, just about a month ago, one such gentlemen passing in a red pickup truck on State Road shouted rudely told us all just how he felt about us as we ABCers regrouped at the top of Truxell. This gentlemen did not hesitate to share with us his other prejudices by using an abusive word for homosexuals. Nice. Also, I'm pretty sure that the guy who threw trash on me last year was in a red pickup truck. It was dark and I couldn't tell the color, but it was definitely a pickup truck--one of those "big bubba" kind with the diesel engines--and my guess is that it was red.

2. Suspected fellow commuters. There is a gentlemen sporting a uniform like an auto mechanic's on a hybrid or mountain bike who passes me every time I ride at about where the bike path crosses Bridgewater Blvd. I'm guessing he's commuting too. I'm wondering if he likes to do it, or--I know, I'm overly suspicious--he's forced to ride to work because he has a DUI. He seems pretty nice. He always nods at me as I pass.

I also see a few other dudes with rack packs or panniers passing along the bike path. I wonder if they are commuting.

3. Deer like Boston Mills Road. Not a day--morning or night--has gone by without a sighting of a deer along Boston Mills Road to send a jolt of fear through my body. You never know what those suckers are going to do--are they going to cross the street? go back from whence they came? come charging at you? Either way, it scares the crap out of me, causing me to unclip. I even saw one on my climb up Boston Mills this afternoon. Right after I saw a dude go whizzing by me in that really steep part after (for me but before for him) the I-80 bridge. Yikes!! That's why I can't get myself to speed between the two hills before the bridge. (Which you kind of need to do to get up the next hill.)

4. The valley is quiet in the morning. Which makes for great, pleasant travel. In the evening, it's more busy and less pleasant. But I'm used to it since I ride in the valley with ABC.

5. An hour goes by fast when you're enjoying the commute. No one seems to understand that at work when I tell them how long it takes. They're thinking in terms of being bored in their cars. They don't understand the exhilaration from a morning work out and the view of the world seen slowly (slower than a car, anyway) from the bike seat. Everyone should do it, there'd be a lot less road rage.

6. Snowville is a frakking long road. I thought the little "steps" on the road make it easier, but it really makes it harder because there's a lot of gear-changing going on. I have to do the first part in granny, then for about a mile I can handle my middle ring, but at last I must switch into granny again to get up a few small but tough parts, most notably, that hellish little bump in front of Old Orchard Road. Ouch!! I almost think Columbia would be better because after the really hard part at the beginning, it tapers off into a steady steepness which is easier to manage. Still, I am not complaining. I love the fight!

7. The long way home is an adventure. I've been taking a direct route to work and the not-so-direct route home on these beautiful days I've been afforded. I've learned some new streets and explored. My route to and from work is "general." I can chose what hill to climb or descend and there's several different ways, so I can't get bored with the same-old, same-old route. I didn't have such choice on my commute to Boulder from Broomfield.

8. Once you're on the bike, you feel inspired to not use your car at all. Just this week, on the way home from work, I purposely directed my route to allow me to stop at an ATM to pick up some cash; today I rode from work to a meeting I had at my church in Kent, adding 6 extra miles to my route and taking me on parts of the Bike & Hike trail that I don't use so much. I like not using my car for a day or two. Not only do I feel more "green," but that's less money in gas I have to pay for a very short commute to work.

9. I'm filled with energy! Gotta love the endorphins! The extra energy helps me better deal with the day at work. I find myself more patient. Even though I'm still stressed. In the evenings, I feel like I can still take on the world. Which makes it hard for me to get to bed. It's like going to work out after work... it gives you almost too much energy.

10. I love the freedom of cycling more than any other activity. Duh. That much is obvious. But the commute to work in the still of the morning, while the rest of the world is hardly stirring, awakes within me a zest for life. I know that I should take up some other activities--I'd love to learn to kayak, I haven't gone hiking in forever--but I just can't stop myself from getting into that saddle. It feels so good. Work out and freedom of the road. What more could you ask for?

Well, pleasant motorists and a lack of road rage. Keep dreaming, I know.

Life isn't a movie

Perhaps I am selfish. But were I the one to die, instead of my husband, I would never have told him in my dying breath, "I want you to find someone else. Don't grieve me too long."

I am sorry, but I'm just not that magnanimous. I loved Mike. I would never have wanted to contemplate him with anyone else but me. Perhaps it's the Ugly Green Monster of Jealousy, but that's just how I feel. And I stand behind it. I don't care if I was dying and knew that he would continue to live his life. I would feel bad for his grief. I would hurt with his grief. But I'd want him to feel his grief, or else my life meant nothing to him. I would not want him to drown his sorrows in trying to find a replacement Mars Girl. God knows I've done that too many times. If you date too soon after a loss such as what I've experienced, that's what you end up doing. I started dating way too soon after Mike died--about seven months after his death. If I had to do it all over again, I would have waited a year. And then, I'd still mess up as I've done repeatedly in my ensuing relationships. But at least I'd have better armor to deal with the dating process.

If I had died instead of Mike, I would have wanted him to wait a few years before he found someone else. I would want him to wait to remarry at least as long as I have, but maybe that's asking too much out of a guy. Guys just don't seem to feel things as deeply as women and perhaps I'm a fool for feeling as I do. Guys seem to want to fix something and in this case, fixing it would mean finding something to fill the hole left by the loss. I think they are ready to date again quicker than women.

I just feel that if he was too quick to replace me, then I meant nothing to him. I feel that not being married again, after eight years, is proof of my love for Mike. He really wasn't easy to replace. Finding someone that makes me feel even remotely the way I did when I was with him is no easy chore. And I'm not talking about the high, fuzzy feeling one has at the beginning of any relationship--I've had those many times since he died. I'm talking about the closeness, the understanding we had. The relationship. He was the ying to my yang. At the risk of sounding like a bad line from a movie, we truly did complete each other. Where I was weak, he was strong; where I was strong, he was weak. We were the spackle that covered each other's character flaws. We so quickly became apart of each other that the loss was like losing my own arm. Half my body. Part of my soul. I suffer its loss like a phantom limb. There's no one on this planet that I share that kind of closeness with. I even seek the mental part with friends. It's not there because it can't be. I was a better person with Mike.

Maybe Mike is up in heaven, laughing at me for being such an emotional wuss. Maybe he's screaming, "JESUS, Fritzy, stop dwelling on me!" My heart breaks think about that. In two. I want him to be saying, "Fritzy, sweetie, I miss you too. I don't want you to be with anyone else."

Even though it's okay for me now to be with someone else. I would still want him to be jealous if he saw me with someone else. I can't imagine him looking down on me getting married again to another man and smiling. I will never invoke the spirit of my dead husband in my new husband's ceremony. There's no way that Mike could bear to watch without feeling a twinge of regret, no matter how "heavenly" his spirit has become. A human is still a human, dead or alive. I can't imagine it any other way.

I sometimes think I'm too loyal. I fall too hard. I feel too much. I expect way more out of people than I can ever expect to get. My standards are too high, my expectations too grand. In a way, that's why I ended up with Mike in the first place. Our love was grand. Our romance was a tornado that swept across my world and caught me up in it. It was beyond the kind of thing that happens normally. All my relationships since have snuck on me slow. Slow doesn't impress. So it never feels right. Colossal is what I expect, that eureka moment that smacks you in the middle of a lazy dream. My biggest moves in life happen at eureka moments. I'm an all or nothing kind of person; I don't know how to handle the shades of gray or in-betweens, even though I'm fully aware they exist. I'm in love or I'm not. He's everything or he's nothing.

He literally DID fit everything. I had a punch list of things I was looking for in a man and he fit 95% of them. Most guys I meet now are somewhere in the 50% range. They all treat me well. But they aren't enough. I wonder, too, if Mike would have felt the same way. Probably not. He's a guy. All guys care about is a nice body and someone who doesn't give them a lot of traditional girly bullshit. Maybe that's the only criteria Mike used with me. I didn't give him a lot of bullshit. I had a decent body. We shared similar interests. Maybe that was just a bonus to him.

I know I'm not giving him a lot of credit. I'm just flash reacting to the typical comment I get from people, the whole "Mike would want you to be happy" comment that seems so dismissive to me. It actually translates to, "Oh, would you get over it already?"

And who says I'm not happy the way I am? Happiness is subjective. I could have crawled into a corner and wallowed, but I didn't. I lived with the grief and, as always, pushed on with life because I'm a survivor. I didn't let his death stop me from doing the things I wanted to do. I moved to Colorado when the whim hit me; I got homesick and came back to Ohio. I went to Germany and Amsterdam, which Mike and I had always planned to do, and then I didn't stop there, taking a trip to Italy as well. I've become obsessed with cycling, an activity that I seeded within myself while Mike was still alive but fully blossomed in his absence. I've done a few high points without him, though I intend to do more. I've learned how to ride a motorcycle. I continue to ski. I've bought and sold two houses. I clearly have not stopped living.

So happy, yes, I am. For the most part. I've then fulfilled that requirement spouted so often from others' mouths. I did not let Mike's death destroy me. Yes, it changed the way I look at the world (and sometimes maybe I live in terror of death). But taken life away from me, it has not. I remain alive. I do not need to have someone else to feel fulfilled. It would be nice, but if it never happens that I am blessed with someone with whom I want to spend the rest of my life, then so be it. That's the way the dominoes fall.

I'm not going to go out looking for love. I'm not the match.com kind of girl. I believe the best possibility of love finds you in most surprising places when you least expect it. There's a desperation in purposefully looking for love. I didn't look for Mike--we found each other at a party called Woodchuck when both of us came with friends to relax. I was looking for a good time, a few drinks, some fun--not love. The whole match.com thing is so contrived. I don't like interviewing for a potential date. I like being myself. I like seeing others be themselves. If something clicks, it clicks. You can't dial up and order love off a menu. It's not as simple as the same interests or similar lifestyle choices. Love is a strange chemistry that makes no sense to even the people involved.

So if I never happen to run into love again, then so be it. Maybe it's not my destiny in this life to have the relationship thing. Maybe I'm supposed to walk alone, as I always have from birth through childhood. You know what? I can live with that. Because I don't need anyone else to be happy. I can still do what I want alone. Maybe more so because I don't have to check in with anyone.

I don't believe in Hollywood goodbyes. People at bedsides saying, "Please grieve me quickly and then find someone else to love." Or whatever awkward thing a person would say in such a moment. I would totally puke if a man ever said that to me. Like he's giving me permission to find someone else. Like I need his permission.

Does anyone really say that? If they do, they don't really know what they are saying. They're just trying to say what they think they should say in such a situation. I can't imagine that even someone dying would want to talk to their spouse about finding someone else to love. Their love hasn't even really ended. We all need room to grieve.

Sometimes I wonder if my grief has called other married friends to say to each other, "Honey, please don't behave as Mars Girl has if I die. Please move on quicker and don't grieve so much."

I hope not. I hope that my grieving has shown others how deeply a person can love another person and perhaps made them appreciate a little more the people they do have in their lives right now. Lest we forget that the world we know can dissolve beneath or feet, and rather quickly.

The good kind of weekend

Every once in awhile when you're feeling like you're the only person on the planet, and all your friends have forsaken you for other endeavors or friends, you're reminded that there are some people who remain true and close no matter what. I was reminded of this fact on Friday when, on our day off from work, Diane, Jeff, Michael, and I spent the day together just hanging out. I found that I could ride at the pace of riders who are less obsessed than me (what was the term we chose? "Recreational riders"?) without being bothered by a sense of urgency to go fast. Part of the reason I was so patient was because I rode the Beast. For some reason, once I get on my road bike, I just can't stop myself from speeding, even when I want to go slower for someone. Anyway, I think, also it was just nice to ride with friends and chat. Not every day needs to be blisteringly fast and painful exercise, dammit! And I learned that on Friday.

It was nice to show Jeff and Diane some of the beauty of the roads in the valley. Our route was 17 miles, going from Deep Lock Quarry up Major Road. Then, 303 to Black, with a nice swooping drop back into the valley via Columbia. (I think I was trying to show Diane why I'm always talking about fearing going fast.) We then went down Riverview all the way to Bolanz to stop at Szalay's for corn-on-the-cob, fresh lemonade, and the other three enjoyed sundaes (I did not partake).

We took the towpath back, which I hadn't been on since Thanksgiving when the conditions were less than ideal and my fender-less wheels relentlessly splattered mud on my back and face. It was a much nicer ride this time under shady trees and cool low 70-ish degree weather. I frequently forget how nice the towpath is since my snobbery against unpaved trails usually keeps me away (Surly Cross Check?). It actually wasn't too busy along the trail--it must have been due to the holidays.

After the ride, we went back to my place and enjoyed hamburgers (provided by Michael's stash from his share of the "family cow") and potato salad in front of a fire in my back yard. I opened two bottles of wine, sharing my Arrowhead Chambourcin (upstate NY) and Emerine's Seduction. We sat around the fire, talked, and listened to the sound of individuals blowing off fireworks around town. It was very pleasant and I haven't had that much fun just hanging out in a long time. Thanks, guys!!

Sunday Michael and I went for a 62-mile ride on the tandem. We rode from Rittman to Doylestown, taking what Michael calls the Alp d'Huez of Wayne County--Doylestown Road. It was a bit of a climb. We had taken Wall Road (off Route 57 in Wadsworth) as a warm up. Then we followed the route through Rogue's Hollow that we took on the Tandem Weekend to Clinton. In Clinton, we took the towpath, intending to use it to get to Canal Fulton. But, alas, we went the wrong way and ended up 4 miles in the wrong direction. Which we ended up taking back 4 miles. When we finally did get to Canal Fulton, we were a little behind schedule (I had to be at my parents' house) so we didn't get to stick to our original plan of heading to Apple Creek. Instead, we lunched in Dalton, and then rambled around about Orrville way. It was a nice day, despite having to cut our route short.

Today, I went domestic and mowed my lawn (it was long overdue) and gave my flowering plants some "plant food" since I didn't realize I was supposed to do this once a week and some of my plants are not flowering as much as they should. I just kind of hung around the house after that, drank a couple of beers, and read a book. It was a nice relaxing weekend... and tomorrow after a blissful commute by bike to work, I am going to have to face that pressing deadline for my manual. July 16th. Ack. I hate writing to a deadline. Thus, I suppose, why I've never become a novelist or anything else professionally with writing...

Anyway, I hope everyone else had a great holiday!

It's still windy in Toledo: MS 150 2009

Me at the finish line of the first day--Port Clinton High School.
100 miles and still smiling.

It is written in some lost text from the Bible that God hates cyclists. The Gospel of Velo, I think it is called. But the proof is in the world all around us for it is Law that on multi-day bicycle trips, the wind will always blow from the direction in which the cyclist will travel, despite what the local weather reports the night before. Don't believe me? Then you've not been on any of the bike rides I've been on.

Example one: TOSRV. The first day heads south to Portsmouth. So which way was the wind blowing that day? South, of course. The second day, on the return to Columbus, can you guess from which direction the wind was blowing? If you guessed north, you're getting the hang of this.

So let's all take a guess as to the direction of the wind this past weekend. Saturday, cycling east from Toledo to Port Clinton: the wind was due east. I'm sure you've already figured out what happened the next day... Yes. An even worst wind out of west. God hates cyclists. Plain and simple. And Mother Nature laughs her ass off. It's all in good fun. Of course, if I were a supernatural being, that's what I'd be doing--harassing poor helpless humans as they tried to go about their daily business. I'd strike a few people with lightening just to validate a not-so-secret fear of my own. I guess that's why I haven't been granted god-like powers, eh?

Anyway, the MS 150 started out innocently enough. I arrived at my good friend Sue's house at 7pm on Friday night. Sue proudly proclaims her residence as "Sue's Bed & Breakfast" and she offers it up to all cyclists from ABC venturing up for a little "wind sport" (read: cycling) in the flatlands of Toledo. Additionally, she offers her house to random cross-country cyclists as she is on the Warm Showers list. And rightfully so for I can't think of a more hospitable host than Sue. She's great company and a great cook with an appreciation for fine wine. We split a bottle of Dark Horse Cabernet Sauvignon... and what a soothing, smooth bit of wine was that with our barbecue feast of fillet mignon, corn on the cob, asparagus, and tomatoes and onions. Food, conversation with a fellow cyclist, wine--I couldn't get anything even remotely close to this treatment at the Days Inn I stayed at for many years the night before the MS 150.

I was glowingly happy because I was fooled by the weather report that claimed the wind on Saturday would be out of the south at 4mph. That's perfect condition for NW Ohio. And, of course, too good to be true! Remember, God hates cyclists. But I didn't embrace that fact fully until after this weekend. So I thought for sure I was going to get away with something.

Saturday's weather was also predicted to be sunny and a warm, toasty 85 degrees. At least the weathermen had most of the weather predicted correctly. With Sunday showing the possibility of rain and t-storms, I decided that if I were to do 100 miles one of the days during the ride, Saturday would be the better choice. So I told myself that I need only do the 75 mile route on Sunday. Once a plan is in motion, it's very hard to get yourself to change it. But I figured if I were feeling spry enough on Sunday, I would do the second century; if not, so be it, I would be happy with 75.

Right off the bat on Saturday, I seemed bound and determined to break personal speed records. It all began with my late start. I didn't roll out of the starting gate until about 7:45am, which is kind of later than I would prefer to start 100 miles, but I had been dawdling a bit at Sue's as I was over-tired and reluctant to get my butt out of bed (long week previous). So originally, I was just speeding to get to the century split-off, 15 miles in at the second rest stop, to pick up for any time I lost with my late start. For some reason, though, I just couldn't stop myself from the general push. The wind was there, but it didn't really start to pick up until I was well into the century, and then by then my legs had found a comfortable pace that seemed to be busting out some serious speed. At least for me. To be fair, the wind on Saturday was maybe 10-15mph. It seemed bad at the time, but it only brought my speed down to 14-15mph from the 17-19mph I was easily busting when not facing the wind. Or maybe my legs were fresh. Either way, I was passing people all over the place.

I knew I must have been a little late into the century because during that neck of the ride, I hardly saw anyone. The century route is usually pretty quiet, having a lot less riders on it than the traditional 75 mile route, so it's not entirely unusual to ride awhile without seeing anyone, but usually I'm getting passed every twenty minutes or so by strings of riders in pacelines or small groups of people drafting. I didn't see much of this during the century route stretch, just a few lonely straggler like myself. Actually, I was a little relieved about this because I'd already come up with several lines I'd use if asked to join a paceline. I'll write them here so that the thought generated for them is not wasted:

- No thanks. I'm not the paceline sort of gal.
- It's too much pressure. I'd rather ride alone.
- Could you please not ride so closely to me? I'm not comfortable riding so close to other cyclists. Thanks.

There's also my grouchy set of responses to the unwanted wheel sucker:

- Looking at the back of someone's wheel for miles and miles turns my fun ride into a spin class. (Okay, this one was a little long and I'm sure they'd have already passed me by the time I'd finished saying it.)
- I hate pacelines.
- Get the f**k off my f**king wheel, dude. (This one comes to mind when you're tired and battling the wind, but yet feel the need to prove how tough you are...)

Yeah. I'm the happy cyclist, all right. On a charity ride. To support MS.

It looks like someone was listening to my rant on the survey for the ride last year when I stated complete frustration over the fact that the century route does not add up to exactly 100 miles (it's always under) for they re-routed the last segment into Pemberville--the lunch stop where the route rejoins the 75 mile route--and it added a mile.

I was in really good form on Saturday, though, and I really didn't feel I needed any help. I did start my usual habit of staring at the computer mileage counter at about mile 85 but that's mainly because that section of the route to Port Clinton is dead flat and largely uninteresting whereas the start of the ride has some nice scenery. Dead flat also translates to "highly exposed to any wind that may be blowing" which makes the last bit hard.

My cute bike, taken with my camera phone,
at the third to the last stop of the first day.

Michael was waiting at the finish line which allowed him to grab some great pictures for me. He planned to do the Portage River Ride starting in nearby Elmore (and for which I saw many route markers on my ride) the next day so he was camping with me at the Port Clinton High School. Which also gave me someone to go to Put-in-Bay with. I'd spent the last few years going there alone, so it was nice to have someone to hang there with.

Me, center, riding in... among "toodlers." (I say that affectionately!)

Getting closer! Nice side shot of me riding to the finish of 100 miles!

I finished Saturday's ride with a 16.1 average, which is a personal best for me over such long mileage. I guess it's a testament to how flat it was, but it doesn't explain how I managed to battle the wind. Not once did I use a paceline or take part in drafting. So I was pushing some mega muscle. I finished with the best time ever--6:17'30. With that under my belt, I think I'm ready for RAIN. 160 miles in one day? Well, I'm not ready quite yet. But you know that I'm tempted (Sue and I even talked about doing it next year...).

Here's a shot of our tents among the sea of tents on the grounds of the Port Clinton High school. My tent is, of course, purple! (Would you expect anything else?)

After a very cold shower (I must have got there too late), I was ready to hop the Jet Express to Put-in-Bay. I decided to skip the free spaghetti dinner offered by the tour in favor of a meal at Mossbacks on Put-in-Bay. And did we ever have a delicious meal--grilled Lake Erie walleye with onion rings. Hmmmm... The walleye was DELISH. Even Michael--who hadn't ridden 100 miles that day and therefore wasn't as famished as a cyclist is coming off a ride--agreed so it had to have been extraordinary. We washed it down with a Great Lakes Brewery beer, but I can't remember which one.

I didn't get a shot of the walleye, but here's a picture of us on the Jet Express instead.

And a shot of the famous Perry monument...

We also visited Del Sol, which has been my annual pilgrimage for the last three years since the store first opened on Put-in-Bay. If you've never heard of this store, it sells items of just about every kind that change color in the UV light of the sun. I'm fascinated by this store and especially enamored by the fingernail polish that goes on one color and then changes to another color in the sun. Since I bite my fingernails, I use it on my toenails. I had two bottles of the stuff--one that changes from green to purple and one that changes from light orange to a darker orange--which really amounts to one for each year that the store has been open. So I, of course, bought another bottle. This one changes from a light purple to a RED in sunlight. Way cool. I also bought my dad a swanky Put-in-Bay baseball cap, since he collects them, that changes in the sunlight. This store rocks and I hope it continues to stay on the island!

About a half our before our return trip to Port Clinton was to depart, I started to bonk. Yep, after 100 miles, you eventually bonk. It's inevitable. Once those endorphins wear off and the excitement of the ride has subsided, you suddenly find yourself incredibly tired. I could barely keep my eyes open on the Jet Express and the shuttle back to the high school. As soon as my head hit my little camping pillow, I was out. Which was nice. But, of course, I woke around 5:30am to the scuffling of other riders going to breakfast and packing it in for the day. So I got up reluctantly. I wanted to sleep another half hour, but it wasn't to be.

The second day of any ride is a struggle to get up and motivate yourself to ride again. You're usually always sore, especially when you were pushing a pretty high average over 100 miles like I did the day before. My legs were sorer than they had been the night before. I took some ibuprofen and tried to suck it up. Michael took off to Elmore to do his ride and I packed my tent up and prepared to leave. I was glad I'd decided to only do the traditional 75 mile route on Sunday...

I did briefly consider taking the 100 mile route turn-off, but the wind was way worse this day than it had been the day before. With my legs feeling tired, I decided it was really best for me to just enjoy riding at a casual, comfortable pace on a lower mileage that I knew I could do even sore. So I didn't try to push too hard and in the windy parts just dealt with my low 12-13mph speed. Thankfully, I never dipped below 12mph as I'd done on previous MS 150 rides where the wind was pretty hard. Thankfully, parts of this ride were really scenic so I at least had some distraction.

The day had started off cloudy with the sun peaking through here and there, and then, at the third rest stop in Woodville, it really looked like rain would be unleashed upon us, which made my stop there urgent. It didn't seem like any t-storms were going to happen, just some rain, which I could deal with, though would not enjoy for sure. Fortunately, it seemed like our route just missed all the rain. There was one stretch of road outside of Woodville where you could see rain falling in spots all around you, maybe 5-10 miles away, but none of it moved anywhere near us. We stayed completely dry. Which is really a testament to the fact that when you come prepared--as I was, with my rain coat strapped at my waist--the rain does not happen. Rain coats, you see, repel rain clouds. I'm convinced of it. (God's sense of humor is dry, pun intended.)

The weather cleared and the sun broke out not long after passing the distance rain falls, which made for a really pleasant and warm lunch stop. I ate my Subway sandwich laying down, which I'd done yesterday. It's my custom to lay down at the lunch stop. I like to fully rest my body so that I'm more enthused to get started again. I've managed to keep myself from falling asleep somehow. It's all too tempting.

The picture above is a, I think, wheat field somewhere on the route (I can't remember where). If you look closely, there is a cyclist cutting through it on the unseen road between the fields. Pretty cool. Too bad I didn't get it when he was closer.

The worst travel was the wind-facing west. Most of our route was in this general direction, but it did seem we got some relief with some turns south, though the cross wind in this direction was only slightly less annoying. We made some very short turns east on a few occasions. On one such occasion, I actually muttered the words, "Thank you, God!" because suddenly all the pressure of pedalling had suddenly stopped, my speed increased to an easy 18mph, and cycling was pleasurable again. Agh! But, of course, this was not to last and I was turned back into the wind about a mile later.

The last 12 miles, however, was very pleasant with a beautiful multiple mile stretch of absolutely no wind. Which must have brought my average up from its staggering 14.6. I can't say for sure what my ending average was because I can't trust my computer. At the last stop light before Maumee, where a policeman was triggering the traffic light, my stupid computer stated that I was going 84mph and it started incrementing the mileage by decimal points. Folks, heed this warning: DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT buy a wireless computer. I thought it was a good idea at the time because wires wouldn't obstruct the beauty of my bike and the Giant logo and I was ever so vein about my bike at first. Well. I've paid for it later. I can't tell you how many times that damn reader has been triggered to give me false speed readings, which really throws your average all out of wack. It was funny the first time it happened; I no longer find it amusing.

When I saw what was going on, I immediately removed my computer from the mount and pulled it away from the range of the part at the wheel that reads the signal. My mileage went to zero, which wasn't a problem as I was waiting at the light. I stuck the computer in my back pocket until I'd cleared the intersection. I think I stopped it before a mile was even added to the total; however, I am suspicious about the 14.9 average that I ended the ride with. That last 12 miles, in which I again maintained a 16-18mph speed, and sometimes 19mph, could not have upped my average from the 14.6 that I knew I had at the last stop to 14.9. So I'm going to say that I really had probably a 14.7 or 14.8. Thanks to the wireless computer, I don't know for sure, and now I will never know.

Anyway, I finished the ride feeling like I was pretty much done with riding for the weekend. I don't think I will be doing any option 100 mile rides on XOBA... 100 miles really makes it difficult to ride the following day. I did it, but I did suffer from sore butt and tired legs throughout the 73 (actual) miles of the second day. I don't want to hate myself for an entire week. And I promise not to push as hard as I did on Saturday. I did that speed on Saturday just to see if I could... It was fun and I definitely do not regret it!

The MS 150 ends with a delicious bbq chicken dinner, which is my favorite. I was looking forward to that the whole ride so I really tried to avoid eating a lot of crap at the rest stops. I did pretty good this year with not eating sweets on the ride, just sticking to power bars or bananas when needed. So I don't think I took in too many calories. I'm trying to be careful of that. I do want my exercise to be worth it and not just another excuse to eat badly.

Overall, great ride again. Despite the wind. I'll roll with the punches. I'm just proud that I completed both days without a paceline and at a great pace. So take that, all you paceline-thumpers, who claim that one neeeeeeds a paceline in the wind. You don't. I've got the legs over you. Who's the stronger individual now--the one who needs the team, or the fool who rides solo? My money is always on the fool because she's got the determination and drive. She doesn't need no stinking crutches!

A younger Kerbe at Christmas

I remembered I had a few pictures of Kerbe from the Christmas of 1999--my first Christmas as a married woman with Mike. So I went through my photo albums to find them. I was surprised with how different Kerbe looked from the dog I was used to seeing over the last several years. As you can see, he's very spry in these pictures... And, of course, he's smiling.

Above, my brother Christian and Kerbe. Notice the subtle touch to the leg. You know, because he wouldn't want to look too affectionate. (I'm teasing, Christian.)


My husband and Kerbe. I don't think Mike was much of a dog person, but he did seem to like Kerbe. Kerbe sure liked him--look how he's got himself inched up between Mike's legs. That's how Kerbe liked to sit next to "his people." Most of the time, he ended up sitting on your feet.

My mom put the ribbons on his collar. Hey, if you can't dress your pets in festive bows and ribbons (or hats, collars, clothes... etc...) every once in awhile, you have no sense of humor. Parents do it to kids, too. Personally, if I had tried this with my cats, the bows would already be torn to shreds and the tattered remains would have been scattered across the floor. And they don't even have claws.

Anyway, I've been contemplating Kerbe's life over the last couple of days... He was a good dog. He did live a full and happy life with the E's. That's more than any dog could ask for. My parents even paid for him to have knee surgery when his knees went bad early on. We treat our pets well. Too well, my dad always jokes. It's a lucky pet who ends up with any of us.

NOTE: Kerbe's nose changed colors seasonally. It seemed to go from pink in the winter to black in the summer. It was one of his remarkable features that we always pointed out. In addition to his "whirley butt," "spotty tongue," and "wiggle-waggle." These are all adjectives my family and I understand to describe aspects of Kerbe.

RIP Kerbe the Dog

A picture of Kerbe taken about a year ago. He is smiling!

My parents had to put their dog, Kerbe (pronounced: Ker-bee), to sleep this weekend because he had become too old. He could barely stand for longer than a minute and he was unable to get up for himself to go to the bathroom. Says my dad, Kerbe could only get up one time in a hundred by himself; my parents had to lift him to his feet. My parents had taken really good care of him over the last few years despite all of his medical problems, but they finally realized it would be better to let him go than keep him around in this state. It was a hard decision because he still seemed to take some pleasure in life. He still waged his tail when he saw you and he had a voracious appetite. But he was in pain--he had arthritis in my legs and was on aspirin and steroids constantly for the past several years. He also would start barking at nothing and I pictured that were he an old man, he'd be shouting incoherent sentences any time anyone passed too close. I also don't think he could see or hear quite well. He always jumped in surprise if you came from behind to pet him.

While not my childhood dog, Kerbe was a big part of my family life and I am saddened by the passing. Kerbe had been a member of our family since the summer I graduated from high school, 1993. I helped my parents pick him out. My dad and I had been on a mission that summer to get a new dog. We hadn't had a family dog since we had to put our dog Bruno (who was really suffering horribly) to sleep when I was 16. Despite my dad's original determination to never get a dog again, a few years later he found himself wanting one. I always wanted one.

We looked around at a lot of kennels and animal rescue organizations to find the perfect dog. We were originally looking at grown ones. My mom was resistant to the idea of getting another dog, stating that she liked being able to walk around her back yard without looking for "land mines." However, we decided one day to take Mom with us on our search because we knew we could appeal to her love of animals. If she saw a dog she liked, she would not be able to resist taking it in. So we took her to the Humane Society in Cleveland where we found Kerbe.

Kerbe was just a little puppy, no bigger than you could hold in both hands. His mom, I think, had been hit by car leaving him an orphan. He was in a little cage with another puppy orphan, not his sibling because it was a black and orange colored puppy of another type. My mom took one look at Kerbe and she started cooing. Poor Kerbe was all scared and dispondant in his little cage.

Being a puppy, Kerbe was on a waiting list. The Human Society would wait until an appointed day, and then they would call, in order, each person on the list and if the person didn't want the puppy anymore, or they could not come in when called, the next person on the list would get called. We were the fourth people on the list. Puppies are popular and everyone wants one. We were kind of sad because we thought we would not get him.

However, he was our lucky puppy. They called my dad on summer morning on a work day and my dad, being self employed, was able to leave his job site to pick up the dog. He had me and my mom meet him at the Rapid station on W. 150th to pass him off to us so that we could take him home. Afraid that he was going to pee on me doing the car ride home, I brought box to put him in. Kerbe was shivering and scared the whole way home. He looked like he thought the world was ending.

But it didn't take long for Kerbe to find his place in our home. When he realized he had a nice cage-free life running around a backyard, he soon became king of household. I still remember my brother--the last hold out on wanting to accept a new pet in the yard--trying to ignore Kerbe while he kicked a soccer ball around the yard. Kerbe, the chipper little puppy that he was, kept jumping at my brother's feet. He would make my brother love him and eventually my brother did. (My brother went on to become one of Kerbe's most ardent trainers, making him a very obedient dog.)

Kerbe started out as an outdoor dog, like our Bruno was, but my mom--like a mother with a newborn--couldn't stand his cries outside (and probably was fearful the neighbors would get annoyed) so she started taking him in. He was the first indoor dog in the E household.

For fun, we used to put him in boxes when he was a puppy to watch him try to climb out. He'd stand on his hind legs with his big paws against the side and his ears hanging over his face as he looked out at us. It was so cute. I think he have a picture of that somewhere.

Kerbe was a fun dog. He was very obedient and smart. You could leave a full plate of dinner sitting on a coffee table in the living room and he'd never touch it. My brother taught him to go to the corner of the living room whenever we were eating and there he would stay--looking at us with sad, dejected eyes--until we were done. (Yes, the E's ate dinner in the living room in front of the TV...)

Kerbe was always glad to see us. Whenever we came home, he had to find something to put in his mouth to bring us when we walked through the door. I used to tease him by saying, "Mama's home" when she was gone just to see him run crazily around the house, ripping up newspapers, and frantically trying to find something to put in his mouth to bring to her. (My dad used to tell me that was mean... okay, it probably was.) But whenever one of his people came home, Kerbe would greet us at the door with a gift--a chewed up nyla-bone or an old plastic liter pop bottle or bits of newspaper he'd freshly chewed. I think this was the Lab in him. He never chewed our shoes, though, or anything that I remember he wasn't supposed to (maybe not the newspaper).

Even though I no longer lived with my family, he always seemed to recognize me. He seemed happier to see me than regular non-family guests. My mom used to say that he knew his sister. He never jumped on anyone or became overly imposing on guests. He was just a good, easy-going dog. He also liked to sit on your foot, as if he couldn't get close enough to you.

Even in his old age and with all his ailments, he still tried to get up to greet me when I visited my parents. Sometimes I'd watch him struggling to get up and I'd just feel so bad. He was so spry and energetic in his youth. It stinks that pets don't live as long as we do. They make us grieve over and over again. People like me, though, can't resist getting more pets. In the short time they have on Earth, they give us so much warmth and companionship. I'd hate to live without that.

Kerbe was a good dog. I hope there's a pet heaven and he's running around in it, free from arthritis and pain. I hope he's chasing my childhood cat, Crystal Mew, around. Maybe Tanya's (my cat who died a few years ago, the one my husband adored) there too. In that pet heaven, there better be an endless supply of things to chew, for Kerbe was a master destroyer of dog bones and plastic liter bottles. (I had to buy him the size bones that you buy for a German Sheppard.) I will miss him--his spotty tongue and wiggle-waggley tail.

Life's blind corners

When I was riding home from work on Tuesday, I chose to go down Columbia (shown above) over Snowville because there's less traffic and it's generally more scenic. However, Columbia does have a rather roaring pitch to the bottom, though it--unlike many of the roads in the valley--does not end abruptly at a stop sign. Technically, I could ride it at speed and enjoy the drop. However, the road twists a few times during the descent and I'm completely uncomfortable with speeding around blind corners. Mainly because I'm afraid I'll turn the bend and find a deer or something standing in the middle of my lane. It's weird, too, because the highest speed I'd probably attain would be around 40mph. Fast on a bike, but really kind of slow in a car or on a motorcycle. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'd be more comfortable taking those turns at 35mph on a motorcycle than on a bike. If a deer did happen to be standing in the middle of the lane around the corner, the end result on a motorcycle and a bicycle would probably be the same:

Crash. Uncoordinated dismount. Pain.

On a motorcycle, though, you can stop on a dime. Stopping on a bicycle is much less precise. The faster you go, the harder it is to stop abruptly. In fact, pulling the brakes hard on a bicycle has the less desirable side effect of pitching you forward (which I think is how I must of fell during the Dog Incident of 2004). And once you stop on a bike, you have less than a second to put your feet down because gravity will begin working again and the bike will tip sideways. It seems that on a motorcycle you have a few more seconds to put your feet down before it will topple. It seems it takes more work to balance a bicycle.

So am I saying that I'd rather be doing speed around a corner on motorcycle than a bicycle? Or that I'm more comfortable? Maybe it's all an illusion and both activities are equally as dangerous.

I get mad at myself when I don't let myself get up to speed on my bicycle. So I brake a lot down roads such as Columbia. And while I'm doing that, I worry that I'm wearing out my brakes and that they will give out on me. Yeah, I find something to obsess about constantly. How am I enjoying these activities if my mind is in a constant state of worry?

Some people would say that I should just roll with the punches. Ride safely, but if a danger is encountered, do your best to avoid it. If it is unavoidable, deal with the consequences. It usually turns out all right, especially on a bicycle. You just end up bruised or, in my case with the Dog Incident, bumped up quite a bit with a concussion. But I am still alive. Over the last several weeks, four people in my bike club have tossed it and all of them have ended up in the hospital. But no one died. So the odds are in my favor, right?

I don't know why I am so deathly afraid of injury. I think my fear is more immediate than everyone else's. I think people are always aware of the possibility of danger, but they aren't thinking of it constantly. In my mind, during any given day--during any activity--I'm thinking about every possible scenario in which something could go wrong and I could get injured or die. My head is polluted with these thoughts constantly. It's very wearing. I just can't stop focusing on it. And it keeps my fingers gripped on the brakes of my bike on all downhills. When I can tell my speed is accelerating, my heart jumps as though I'd just seen a deer cross my path.

It's hard to live in a constant state of fear. I guess, I don't know, I'm obsessed by my mortality. I see all these deaths around me and I always feel like I've narrowly escaped something. I worry about getting cancer or MS... I mentally see oncoming traffic crashing into me when I'm in my car. I wonder sometimes if I just won't wake up in the morning. I know it's illogical because I'm healthy. But Mike was healthy too. And his death never made sense in my head. Most death makes no sense. It seems that only when someone is old does death make sense in our puny human brains.

At least I don't let my fears rule me. I live with the fear and I am embrace its warnings. But I don't let it stop me from doing those things I want to do. I will never let it stop me from doing what I want to do. If you think about it, none of us is going to live forever. I'd rather die having turned my life into a fun, exciting adventure than having sit at home afraid to leave the house. So if I ever do die participating in an activity I love--skiing, cycling, motorcycling, traveling--then at least be comforted with the idea that I did not go down quietly. Be assured that I was having a good time. I know it's cliche, but I'd rather die doing something I love than the way Mike went, dying in bed on a Saturday morning from a heart that couldn't handle the intensity of his love.