"Surely not...", I thought to myself.
It was like betting against the Harlem Globetrotters because you thought the Generals were due.
But this ride was going to happen come hell or high water, since my previous plan to be up at the north shore to do a century along Lake Superior was sunk like the Edmund Fitzgerald. I was relieved though, upon hearing that there were tornado warnings all along the route I had planned. Better I stayed home.
Even so, I thought I was exaggerating when I told people it had rained for most of June, but then I heard the weatherman say that very thing on the forecast last night. I felt vindicated.
Waiting a few days to write about that ride was a good idea, if I had done it right after getting off the bike it would've been a dramatic and probably rather purple entry...but thinking about it has (as it always does after a ride settles) allowed me to see a little of the comedy and a lot of the Zen that the day held.
I read my friend Eric's blog entry about riding in high humidity and then immediately experienced it first hand.
When I woke up to the call of nature Wednesday morning at around 5...it was raining. Of course.
The morning sun was slow to simmer all that rain off, and the shoulders of the street and the asphalt of the bike path were both taking their time releasing all that moisture. There was little wisps of mist lazily ascending into nothing; only about a foot or so before it dissipated.
It was very cool to look at, but if taking a breath in was like 'inhaling a Buick', then I was dealing with a fully loaded 1952 Super. Had to stop a few times to clear my glasses and wipe the cocktail of condensation and sweat away from my face. The Buick never really left my lungs and it was a good 30 minutes before my legs finally warmed up and were no longer balking at the pace the ride was taking.
I used to dread that feeling early in a ride. You know, that acid in your thighs. Your lungs feel like they'll pop out your ear. Even though it feels great after it burns away, it always makes me think "maybe I'll only do 20 miles today..." or "perhaps just one lap this afternoon...". It never lasts, but lately I've welcomed the sensation and try to push a little harder to get through to where they feel warm and really ready to go...but the air was so heavy that the burn lingered like the last drunk at the party, and I felt as though my heart rate and breathing would never relax into a normal level for a long spin.
I had decided to take the official Google maps route into Stillwater. I had taken side and back door routes in before; I navigate by landmarks and stumbling onto things by accident...and I'm awful with directions and maps. For example, I can't tell you where many things are in Minneapolis, but I can lead you by the hand to the In-N-Out Burger in Auburn, California.
Every previous trek like this I would get lost in the sound of the chain and my heartbeat thudding in my ears or my breath, heavy in my mouth. Then, after realizing I'd passed the turn off I needed long ago, I'd think "I'll just take the next right and see where it goes. I mean, how far can it be?"
I'll tell you. In these instances...pretty far. A ways and a bit.
Those other rides I had to kinda follow my nose to get there, but this route was well signed. I mean, how could I get lost? Here I am at the corner of 60th Street N and...60th Street N.
Coming into Stillwater this way, there is a hill that takes something like 8 blocks or so to reach the river at the bottom. Its a commanding view, and the speed limit drops quickly as you get closer to town so you can really enjoy it. They have one of those radar guns attached to a speedometer that shows how fast you're going. Since I don't have a cycling computer (let alone a speedometer) this was my first speed check of the day. I clocked in at 22. I have no idea how accurate it was, but I was the only object on the road so I'll take it.
I kinda like not having a speedometer. This way, if I feel like I'm really kitin' along, I never look down and find out I'm going far slower than I thought. Disappointment is avoided, and every ride is a good one; I ride how I feel.
At 4th and Churchill is The Bikery, a pretty cool little joint that was deserted by the time I got there around 1:30. Mushroom quiche and a glass of cold press (and some Jelly Belly Sports Beans) went down easily and sat nicely in my stomach for the rest of the day. I think I ate the quiche in about 4 bites and finished the cold press with half a dozen gulps. Through it all, my station was playing on their stereo just loud enough, and I heard my boss do several breaks...each more artful and clever than the one before it.
Looking up, I saw my bike on the rack outside. The headlight strap had loosened, and it made her look a little sad sitting out there...like a dog that had been waiting a little too long for the master's return.
I took a couple other pics, trying a couple different compositions, and looking back over them on my camera I noticed the clouds building up in the distance. Rather than press my luck, I decided to start heading back. "Maybe I'll beat the rain after all..." I thought, plus I was meeting a friend for a pint later that afternoon, so I had to hustle.
True to form, I got turned around trying to get back to Myrtle Street. I didn't mind though, I just took in all sights...so many beautiful houses in Stillwater. I snapped this picture when I had absent-mindedly turned onto a dead end street, just as the breezes were stiffening into winds.
It was at this point, pulling a couple gulps from my CamelBak as I put the camera away, that I heard an older woman's voice that sounded vaguely like my Grandma Allen's. Grandma's first name...was Myrtie. "You're gonna get wet, hunky..."
I looked around slowly, as if I was on a hidden camera show...saw no one.
For all I know, she probably said 'honey', but my ears aren't so good. That part isn't important.
"What's that?" I said to the disembodied voice.
"You're gonna get wet."
I finally spotted three old gals, partially camouflaged by rose bushes, sitting around a picnic table in a completely brilliant little garden with a pitcher of lemonade and a box of ginger snaps. I rolled a little closer and we jabbed about the weather for a moment. When I asked if they knew the forecast they said that they hadn't paid attention, but the temperature had dropped 10 degrees in the last 10 minutes, and the winds were picking up. They didn't need the forecast to know it was going to rain.
They offered me lemonade and a ginger snap snack. I thanked them, but thought it would be better to get going. I wish I was able to stay...to maybe hear a story or see if they had spiked the lemonade.
Pedaling away down the street, I was nearly knocked off my bike by a memory from when I was a kid. It was of my Grandma Allen (Myrtie), calling me inside just before an afternoon rainstorm started...for ginger snaps and cranberry juice. When we would visit grandma in Ohio during summer vacations, the weather was like this almost every afternoon in June. Dim and sultry. Thick humidity, afternoon thunderstorms were assured. They'd last for about 20 minutes, and during that time grandma always got my snack together. Always ginger snaps and cranberry juice. Lord, the faces I must've pulled with that pairing. We played Go Fish to pass the time.
I suddenly felt warm against the cooling gale.
It didn't take too long to get back on track, and I chunked into the big ring and started grinding. I felt nimble and strong as the inky black clouds gathered ahead of me on the horizon.
On the way out of town as the houses began to thin out and get newer, as Myrtle Street turned into 75th Street, I thought again of how this year's June has been almost all rain. But it seems like so much longer...and all I could think of was a scene from Forrest Gump:
“One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain....and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. It even rained at night.”
I am certain I rode through all of these that day. At first, the drops were the little stinging nettles, and cold. Got a good soaking when it evolved to big ol' fat rain, and when I got to the rain that seemed to come right up from underneath, I got an encouraging sign.
Suddenly, upon seeing that, I knew right where I was...in more ways than one.I began to feel like I was winning some sort of personal battle (see Eric's comment from my first post, if you're confused as to the significance). The only thing I had left to encounter was the rain blowing in sideways. That was the challenging part, because I had to turn left and deal with a vicious crosswind along with the rain. At points it must've looked like I was a sport bike racer, constantly leaning into a sharp turn.
Even though it probably wasn't the storm I thought it was, at the time I was a bit like Lt. Dan. Just as Lt. Dan sat perched on top of the shrimping boat's mast as all hell broke loose during a hurricane, shouting “YOU CALL THIS A STORM??”, I sat atop a carbon fiber mast of my own, refusing to pull off into one of the shade shelters or the occasional convenience store.
I've ridden through worse, like during my first mountain biking trip to Crested Butte. Eric and I were just finishing a four hour ride, pointed back into town on a pretty steeply pitched fire road. We were in the big rings on the front and little rings on the back, pedaling downhill, yet maybe reached 5 miles an hour. The winds pushing against us were nothing short of nerve-racking, rain brought visibility down to perhaps 15 or 20 feet.
This was different. I broke through a plateau that day. I fought the weather and would consider it an even draw. About a half hour from home the clouds broke up and the sun managed to come out and start simmering that moisture on the path again. The Buick parked in my lungs just as I breezed past this little cutie.
We were both startled to see each other you could say. I took this as a sign to stop, so I just stood there and rested. Drank a little and finished off the sports beans I bought earlier. I'd say the two of us hung out there; just watching for about 5 minutes, 20ish yards apart, before she casually turned and walked off. All in all, that day was full of small victories.
Instead of feeling like a fishing bobber batted around a stormy sea I felt more like I had set up a beacon; something to remember and come back to when the time is right. More importantly, I received a few messages in a couple different bottles.
-I broke through a plateau in my riding.
-I got a visit from my Grandma Allen (Myrtie).
-Like Lt. Dan, I fought a little personal battle and didn't lose; instead I had a little taste of peace...and I still have my legs.
On top of it all, I came up with a name for the Fuji. Forrest Gump was told it was bad luck to have a boat without a name, and I think that is true for cars and bikes and motorcycles and whatever you can think of that needs personification to facilitate a real love affair. All my other bikes have names, so should my Fuji. I have dubbed her...Spodiodi.
Blank
