Two Beeches and a Crash in Germany

I probably could have taken the day off in good conscience given the epic ride yesterday on the dirt roads and rutted byways of Orange and New Salem, but I didn't. It's November, it was Sunday on Veteran's Day weekend and the weather was reasonably mild and the sun was visible. The Opportunity to ride was there, so I seized it.

But not a big ride, just a normal, I-have-limited-time ride, a Sholan Loop of a ride, what turned out to be 17.11 miles (27 km) of spinning under fair conditions.

Leaving from my doorstep, I have basically two options. If I ride east, out the near side of town, the roads are mostly rolling without many significant climbs. However, they are also busy roads with a lot of town-to-town traffic. If I roll west, out the far side of town, the roads are emptier but steeper. Everything to the west is hilly and to ride that direction means a good deal of climbing. The Sholan Loop, for example, is essentially a series of climbs (though the return trip home is mostly downhill).

Two Beech Trees on the Way of of Town

I opt for a western venture today. That means I work my way through a couple neighborhoods and pass by a number of old resident trees, majestic beings like these two huge old beech trees. Certainly one of the joys of long range cycling is encountering trees. Beech trees in particular delight me and a few gray-trunked behemoths tower over some of the older, more established neighborhoods in Lemonstar.

West Rd is the last hurtle before free-sailing. It's a major thoroughfare, usually busy, and often requires patience to cross it. I'm not a skilled stand-upright-on-the-bike-and-wait kind of cyclist but I have learned not to react hastily at these types of crossings. The key, I've found, is to approach slowly, try to gauge both directions, and maintain balance as long as possible. Often enough I find that a break will open at just the right time before I have to unclip from the pedals and bring foot to ground. So it goes today. The approach, the caution, the deliberation, the steadiness, then a quick burst of pedal power and I'm across and zooming across the little bridge over the reservoir drainage creek, clear sailing.

West of Lemonstar

Balmier today. Sunday morning. Few cars. I feel surprisingly fresh given yesterday's undertaking. But there's no point in making it more than it is - an hour or so spinning to keep loose and burn some calories, to stay connected to the revolving wheels and empty the mind of its preoccupations and concerns. A ride like today's is therapeutic, like a rolling meditation, like a sauna, a cleansing. The body hums, the mind calms down, the senses receive.

The day is marred, however, by a text message I receive an hour or so after returning from an uneventful ride. It's from Scrod in Germany and reads:

Cher lescaret, dear bro, greetings from a hospital bed, bad fall today crossing tram tracks in cold light rain, bike just flew off to the right and I landed hard on my left hip, breaking the femur below the ball. Op is over and I am feeling much better. Prospects good.

A terrible development! Subsequent texts reveal the whole tragic accident, the hard crash, the ambulance, the bystander who dragged Scrod's bike off the tracks before an incoming trolley drove over it. Surgery. Five days in hospital. And the long recovery.

I try to imagine his state of mind by imagining my own in such circumstances. Bleak, surely, discouraged, pitiable. How even conceive of recovery? Doubly discouraging simply because Scrod has worked incredibly hard to get in the best physical condition of his adult life. Now, the temptation will be to consume Garibaldi's like pain pills, consoling himself with a victim's right-to-binge. It's a good thing the Scrod has been sober for decades else the bottle might prove a strong allure. I, surely, would seek respite in strong drink, in the irie meditation, in all the pharmaceutical candies the medical team would dare prescribe. I am not good with setbacks.

We must generate positive vibes and send them to the Mighty Scrod whose fin may be broken but whose spine, I know, is intact. The Scrod will ride again. And if even one tiny iota of good luck can be scraped out of this dark moment it is that winter is nigh and riding season all but over.

Dear Scrod, you will not have to peer nervously out your office window wondering whether the rain will hold off, whether the snow will abate, whether the temperatures will rise enough to allow a late afternoon ride. Your sole task now is to HEAL. To lay prone and read. To scribe Ventoux Calls with quiet ruminations and mental meanderings. To vow to yourself that you will rise again. Remember what you've proven in this transitional year - that you can train hard, hone your body, and scale the Giant of Provence. Next year you will resume your Quixotic odyssey à vélo.

Ride Stats: #86; 17.11 miles, 14.1 mph, 1 hour 11 minutes. Mid 50s, damp pavement, some mild sun.