Pumpkin Partners

Which pumpkin do you like the best?  Funny thing is, we weren’t having a competition, we were just having fun.  After a day stomping carefully through a muddy corn maze, riding pedal go karts, playing silly games, eating deliciously warm apple cider donuts, we capped the day off by eating dinner together and carving pumpkins.  It was a relaxed kind of fun, the way I like it.

Mine is the one with the bloody fangs.

We’re having fun.  It’s been a year I wasn’t expecting.  At the beginning of this year,  I broke up with my first post-divorce romantic endeavor, an interesting sort named Deborah who taught me a few things about dating in this stage of my life.  She wasn’t a bad thing, just not the one who was going to be able to sustain my heart for the rest of my life.  When I broke up with her, I thought I was going to take the rest of the year off from dating, enjoy my free time and ride my bike more, spend more time indulging the bachelor life.

Notice that I said ‘we’.

Lisa lives in the condo building next door to mine.  I live in a cozy little community, each little four unit condo it’s own village.  The condo association as a whole is small, quite a bit like a very small town.  I see my neighbors a lot, talk and visit as we all live.  I noticed Lisa shortly after I moved her, and as I now know, vice versa.  She stopped by to talk often when I was out in my garage putzing around on a bike or cleaning my car.  We got to know each other.  I was interested in her and I thought she might be interested in me.  But she had a boyfriend.  I had a girlfriend.

He died.  I killed mine off (not literally).

Last February, after I had finished an icy ride on my fat bike and was sponging my bike off (in my tights, no less), Lisa stopped to say hi.  She was walking her dog.  I had just found her online dating profile, had found out that she is a Christian from reading that profile, and I was curious.  So I asked her about it.

Her boyfriend had died from a heart attack last November, I knew.  She knew I had broken it off with Deborah.

Coffee was our first date.  March.  We started seeing each other more frequently.  Then her youngest son was found dead of an overdose in May.  People started looking at me as the guy who supported her through that time.

The condo pool opened.  We became a ‘thing’ as we swam together, as the rumors spread around the community that we were dating.

It was strange at first dating someone who lives close enough to walk over in a few seconds just to say hello.

Her other son has grown close to me, as has her granddaughter.  She likes what we have, a bond that she never has had before.  We do things together.

Yet she is giving me the space to live my life.  We know that a relationship takes time.  My children don’t know her yet, probably aren’t ready for that.  I am not sure we are at that point yet.  That’s OK.

But I have some people that keep me grounded.  It’s nice.

 

Fregley Wants His Two Dollars

Saturday morning’s tight attire. A friend wanted me to send her a picture. I wore the same stuff yesterday….

It wasn’t a picture perfect day, at least not weather wise, but the temperature was close to perfect if you like it cool and comfortable for cycling.  Before I ventured outside, I checked my phone to determine if it was I was going to be riding in shorts or tights — 45 degrees.  Tights.  Light layers.  The weather here was rainy and cool/cold all week, so my usual Sunday trail choice was reported to still be water logged.  I loaded up the bike on my Yakima hitch rack, headed to one of my other favorite trail systems that was showing a trail status updated to yellow — I and my Salsa would be getting a little muddy.  After driving a few miles, I looked at the dashboard thermometer.  It wasn’t 45 degrees.  It was nearly 60.

Oops.  I might have been a tad overdressed.  Thankfully, it was still cool enough for tights and my old fleece pullover could be removed.  That meant I would be wearing the long sleeve road jersey that was my middle layer, but I would be more comfortable.  If I didn’t see any of my friends, who would mock me mercilessly for wearing road clothes on my mountain bike, I would be OK.

Palos has trails that are very easy, a lot of intermediate with serious challenges to them, and some that are very difficult.  I chose the intermediate for my ride.  My Salsa is a 29 plus, which means that the wheels are 29″ diameter wheels with extra wide rims, allowing for a wider tread.  The 2.6″ tire tread width, carbon frame, dual suspension make most trail features a no brainer.  I remember the days of riding my 26″ hardtail, the beating my body took on the same trails and the fatigue.  The Salsa takes it easy on my 58 year old body.  Add some years of experience to the better bike, and the ride gets not only more interesting, but longer.  The bike also levels the playing field for this semi old guy when riding with people decades younger.

I intentionally avoided the trails I know hold moisture and turn into mud bogs.  Thankfully, the people who build and maintain the trails at Palos have made a lot of improvements to the trails to correct the trouble sections of trails, so I really only needed to avoid one connector.  There is armoring, reroutes, drains, gravel.  When I rode Sunday, there were a few puddles but nothing deep (thankfully… it’s no fun to get sucked into a deep puddle).  The trails were pleasantly tacky, water crossings shallow with armoring making them fast and fun.  Since there was no Bears game and the St. Louis Cardinals had a travel day (looks like no World Series this year.. they are rolling over for the Nats), I arrived early and had plenty of time to ride.  That meant I could ride everything I wanted to ride, take some extra loops.

I felt good, had no need to be in a hurry.  I warmed up by taking trails that required a little more climbing, with the intention of taking them back later on.  They are relatively short trails with moderate incline, twisty with several banked berms.  I chose a connector that is a screaming downhill that culminates with three decent jumps at the bottom.  It connects to a newer trail called Stone House, a local favorite that features a lot of severe drops and peaceful jaunts through the woods along the sides/tops of ravines.  There is an old stone shelter in the middle where most riders and hikers stop to rest (and some use it for other things — the stories abound).  I rolled past the stone house, eager to get to Out and Back, another favorite of mine, with lots of seriously fun challenges.  Along the way, I met my friend Melissa leading a group of riders coming the other way.  She’s a great and very fast rider.  Any other day, I might have turned around and tried to keep up.  However, I just wanted to enjoy the ride, not beat myself up.

I finished Out and Back, paused for a minute at the trail head sign to catch my breath, then turned around to ride the same trail the opposite direction.  There is a connector from Out and Back, but it’s usually a mess, so it’s better just to ride back the opposite direction.  Besides, I wanted to ride Three Ravines, Zip Tie, and Campground.

A few hundred yards in, I heard a rider behind me.  Since he was going faster than I was, I pulled over and let him pass.  The rider was young, without a helmet.  He hesitated as he passed, so I wondered if maybe he hadn’t chased a rabbit, didn’t really have the ummpphhh to stay ahead of me.  That was the case.  Shortly, I had to pass him, especially when the trail got tough.  I don’t know if it was the lack of helmet, which I found out he had accidentally left at home, or if it was just a lack of experience that slowed him down on the tough stuff.  He lagged a few hundred yards behind me most of the time, only catching up when the trail smoothed out.

Fregley latched on to me.  The guy seriously looked like Fregley (from Diary of a Wimpy Kid).  Usually I don’t mind sharing the trail with someone I don’t know, but Sunday I kind of just wanted to ride on my own, set my own pace, ride fast when I wanted to, slow when fast wasn’t required.   Everywhere I went, Fregley was there.  When I stopped at the stone house on the return trip, Fregley stopped ahead of me, started again when I started, stayed on my tail.  When I stopped again, he stopped with me, talking this time with a bit of nervousness.  He followed me again, rode Three Ravines, told me he could never make it completely through two of the ravines.  It was true.  I zipped through the ravines, thought about looking back to see if he was OK, then rolled into Zip Tie.  No more Fregley.

Until he was there.  He came through the trail the opposite way, saw me, and turned around to follow me.  I swear I heard TWO DOLLARS (another movie reference) from behind me.

Do I sound like an old grumpy jerk?

Fregley was a nice kid, complimentary at the end.  He said he learned a few things watching me (probably the wrong things).  I told him it was more about the bike, plus experience.  The key is to not let your mind slow you down, tell you that you can’t do something.  I guess it was nice after all.  Usually, when I ride with others, those riders are more skilled than I am.  It was nice to see that maybe I do know a few things.

The Desire to Sort of Share

How many people who write blogs let or want anyone close to them to read their blogs.  Now, if it’s a professional blog and not necessarily a personal blog, that might be a different story, but my guess is that many people don’t want anyone close to them or who knows them to read what they put out here.  That’s what it is like for me.

At one time in my blog life, I wrote nearly every day, wrote about what happened to be on my mind for the day.  Writing daily was an exercise, an effort to build my creative muscle, a joy derived simply by reading what came out of my head.  At that point, while writing a blog was in its infancy, I wanted to share those thoughts with everyone and that included people I know.  What better what to create dialogues that I might not have a chance to spark, do that every day?  Not only that, but a blog allowed me to share as much of my own opinion as possible, something I don’t always do in a typical face to face conversation, especially a group conversation.

There were times a blog would blow up, when the comments and conversation regarding a certain blog became heated, when I would feel like I needed to defend my position.  Usually that came when I wrote something about my faith or related to that faith.  I spent a brief period of my life as a Christian church pastor, after all, my college education focused on the bible, and a part of me still wanted to preach.  I still do feel that tug, evidenced as I sit in church, a sermon forming in my head as I listen to the sermon.  Those times of blog conflict taught me a lot about myself, helped me to ‘mature’ (a process that will be constant until the day I die).

This may seem strange to say now, but when I started blogging I was not consciously aware of the social aspect of blogging.  I did like the thought that someone out there might read what I wrote, would say something about, help me to become a better writer.  In those days, blogging was more of a social media platform than it is now.  Facebook and the other social media platforms were not really popular yet.  That social aspect was something I was not really prepared for.  I was naive.

It was that social aspect that my now ex wife didn’t like.  When she finally read my blog, something I encouraged her to do, wanted her to do, her reaction was extreme to the point where it almost destroyed our marriage.  She didn’t like the thoughts that came out of my mind and told me so, but she also didn’t like that other people read those thoughts, commented and followed my blog.  Even though I didn’t think of it the way she did, she thought I was being unfaithful in some form.

That day, the day she started checking my blog, is when my writing changed.  I quit telling people about my blog.  When Facebook came around, I shared my blog posts there for a while, then realized that some people I did not want to read my thoughts… could.  My ex and I shared a FB page, so her sisters could access those thoughts.  It’s difficult to communicate the judgement they are capable of.

Not only did my style of writing change, at least when it came to my blog, but the frequency of  writing changed.  She was jealous of my time, didn’t like that I would immerse myself into my PC or journal for an hour in the evening, convinced that I was somehow unfaithful and my writing was the cause.  I took to writing early in the morning, wrote less on my blog, more on fiction, especially short stories.  Some of those stories weren’t too bad, at least I think so, but then I learned something else about creativity — it’s personal.  Sharing something personal isn’t as easy as one thinks.

I remember the day that my creepy boss discovered my blog a few years ago, on a seemingly random Google search.  He oozed into my office, the stench of manipulation preceding him, and I vowed to be even more careful.  This blog became less personal (yes, it is).  Prior to my divorce, I really needed to let my soul out, and I created a totally anonymous blog for that purpose.  It’s one I will never let anyone who even remotely knows me read.  A friend who I know only through sharing that blog, told me they are amazed that I dare to share what I share.  It’s intensely personal, but it works for more, and I like that people can read it, benefit from what I share.  Strange, but true.

I remember the day when I read a portion of a NaNoWriMo novel that I was writing to a group of friends.  One of those friends had asked me to write her into the story, so I did.  She was a power walker, my novel was an apocalyptic story where demons were in a battle to take over, and my protagonist rescued her.  After she resisted, he shoved her out of the moving car, where the hordes took her over.  It was funny, believe it or not, and those I read it to laughed… but I hated it.  I will never share my writing that way again.

I wonder, do you share your blog?

 

Karma

I wore my Cardinals jersey to work for the first time yesterday.  It sports the number 4, Molina, perhaps the best Cardinal catcher ever, perhaps one of the best to ever play the position.  This is appreciation week at work for my department, my cell of 5 unique but included in the whole, with a super hero theme.  My super hero costume for yesterday was that Molina jersey, a celebration of the Cub killer.

All day I was willing my team to win, a hope that the energy I was sending their way would carry them to victory in game 5 against Atlanta that evening.

10 runs scored in the first inning.  There was never a question.  A playoff record.

I should probably sleep in that jersey.

Bed Magnet

One of the reasons I ride a bicycle, or exercise at all, is that I believe it gives me energy, maintains my body, keeps my joints and guts and mind all working the way they should.  God made us to function, to move, and to be alive means to move.

I don’t always feel that way when I get home from a long day at work.  After getting up at 5 AM, making the long trek to the office, nose to the grindstone all day, and negotiating the maze of tollway traffic on the way home, it honestly requires a bit of effort to resist the temptation to flop down on my bed and close my eyes.  If I do that, the tired buzz grows as I sink into the mattress, a fog that overtakes me and holds me like a magnet to the bed.  It’s too easy to say no to what I know is best for me, which is to change into my bike or workout clothes and get my butt out the door.  Sluggishness takes over far too easily, tells me that I am just too weary to function for the evening.  I go over in my mind what the rest of the week looks like, tell myself that I will have the time to ride the next few evenings.  After all, a nice nap and a home cooked meal will give me the rest and recuperation that I need.

Sometimes that is true.  Sometimes I do need a night of food, brew, and couch TV.

(note — I went without TV intentionally a good part of this year when Comcast decided to rape me.  The time without the tube was very good.  I just recently decided to connect an antenna.)

I resist the call of the nap more often than not.  When I forego the bed plop, change into my bike clothes and head back out the door, the transformation from weary worker to refreshed and energized as the blood begins to circulate is amazing.  Just a few turns of the pedals brings me out of the haze, my mind once again awake and rejoins my body.  I much prefer it that way, my mood transformed by the activity.

Last night I came home after a second day of overtime, a fog descending over me as I trudged up the stairs to my condo.  I didn’t realize how tired I was until my feet hit those stairs.  My plan was to take advantage of a picture perfect evening, still and cool and cloudless.  I allowed myself to be pulled to the bed, an ahhhhhh escaping from my lips as the pillow’s comfort instantly absorbed some of the fog.  Just a few minutes, then I will get on the bike.  Ten minutes later, my eyes opened, the evening’s light through the blinds in my bedroom beginning to dim.

I didn’t want it to be one of those evenings.  I didn’t want to finish off the evening with the dread that I wasted an opportunity to ride.  A quick review of the remainder of the week’s schedule revealed that I wouldn’t have another chance to get out for a ride until Saturday.  So I practically sprung out of bed, changed into shorts, tee shirt, and a fleece pullover.

I am so glad that I did.  The ride was a casual, medium paced jaunt along the beautiful forest preserve paths.  Lakes, an old stable, peaceful forests all greeted me in the waning light.  My fat bike is equipped with an adequate LED headlight and tail light, just enough to guide me home.  My energy transformed, my soul comforted, I returned home to grill some chicken, enjoy a mindless movie (The Night of the Living Dead… this guy likes zombies).

Resistance works.  Now just to completely resist that bed magnet!

Fat and Happy

I dared not park my butt on the couch when I arrived home from work yesterday evening.  It was nearly 5:30, I was hungry and tired, but I knew that darkness was less than 90 minutes away.  Instead, I quickly changed into my riding clothes, descended into my bike sanctuary (i.e. garage), donned my cycling shoes/helmet/gloves, cruised the fatty out on the street.  I love that bike, adore the soothing roar of the tires on the pavement, the satisfying security of the bulk on the crushed limestone path.

Last night was warm, nearly 90 degrees, summer’s last gasp of warmth before autumn’s cool/cold takes over.  I wanted to ride because I needed to ride.  My bum knee barked at me all day, stiff due to a lack of proper exercise and the pounding it took during Saturday’s tennis tournament.  Darkness is coming earlier and earlier each evening, so I want to get my riding in now while I can still ride without lights.  It’s not that I can’t ride with lights.  I do ride with lights, but it’s not my favorite thing, although riding with friends at night is a blast!

Riding in the cold isn’t a big deal, especially in the woods or on a path.  I don’t really like riding a road bike in the cold — it’s more of a chore due to the exposure.  Cold weather riding requires layers, however, and it takes forever just to get dressed for a cold weather ride.  Think of the little brother in A Christmas Story, when he is so bundled up that he can’t get back up when he falls over.  I also don’t look forward to seeing certain parts of my anatomy turn blue.

I digress.

Turning the pedals last night felt wonderful.  It had been over a week since I was able to ride, my riding opportunities swallowed up by my tennis obsessed friend.  I have a hard time saying no when he asks to play.  My goal for last night’s ride wasn’t speed, it was to soak up the scenery, enjoy the feel of the bike underneath me.  It worked.  The rest of my evening was better simply because the ride had been so good.  I rode past the lakes at Blackwell, then through the woods and stables at St. James Farm and the open prairies of Herrick Lake.  I crossed the Dupage river via the old Cenacle bridge, a peaceful and beautiful treat.  I wasn’t a fast ride, but the quality was precious.

More rides await.  I am ready.