Mile 3: As I start to cross over the small bridge the fragrant honeysuckle invades my senses, It is sweet and relaxing and takes me back to sunny warm days growing up in the south. As my legs continue to turn the pedals I think about times where I would jump on my bike at sunrise and not return until it was so dark I could no longer see, completely wasted of energy, caked in dried sweat and dirt and grinning ear to ear, ready to do it again the next day.
Mile 4.2: As I make the turn onto beech I’m settling into a good groove, the blue sky has slowly but surely beaten back the black beast, but her presence is still felt in the form of a wicked headwind. I’m turning my pedals but it feels like I’m going nowhere. The cool breeze continues to be inviting on my sun warmed skin, I put my head down and keep churning.
Mile 5.8: I glance up and see a handpainted sign on the side of the road: Doran Farm Market, 1 mile and an arrow pointed to my left. I get the urge to just explore today, to see what new things I can find, so I turn around and take the rolling country road. I roll into the gravel parking lot of the farm and lean my bike up against the side of a white washed barn. I grab a list of the “pick your own” fruits and veggies they offer and check out the rows of homemade preserves, chow-chow, and pickles, and one treasure: apple butter BBQ sauce, and had I been able to load up the glass jars into my jersey pockets would have cleaned them out of their entire stock. I settle on a handful of fresh strawberries and sit down beside the barn and my bike and dive in. The strawberries are so juicy that the juice runs down my chin, but I don’t care, the moment is perfect and I soak it all in.
Mile 8: As I cross the storm swollen Blacklick creek I see the old barn and farmhouse up ahead. I love the place. I have photographed it covered in snow, but the warmer weather has revealed a whole new look to it and I stop to admire a true representative of a time long gone. A time when simplicity was enough, before we were all in such a hurry.
Mile 10: As I reach the village and cross over Market street I start to feel like I’m crossing back through time. The houses are more modern here, bigger, every amenity. I pass the golf course with the 18 holers out in their Sunday golfing best. I keep pedaling.
Mile 11.6: As I approach the house I see the back of a giant sign that appears to have a message painted on it, as I get closer I see that it is about five feet tall and six feet wide and says “Jes is” on it. As I pass the front side I glance back and the front says “JESUS IS RISEN” in day-glo orange and black. As I continue on I think to myself that we are all just trying to get it right, sometimes we just have to start over until we are happy with the result.
Mile 12: I hit the roundabout that swings me around and starts me headed back and as I approach the old neighborhood a car comes no more than five inches from completely changing how my day goes. I yell in protest, but the driver doesn’t even slow, doesn’t even glance back, doesn’t even care.
Mile 15: I make the turn onto Market Street and head into the center of the village. As I approach the coffee shop, I decide a mid ride doppio sounds about right. As I pull to a stop and lean my road bike against the brick wall, the contrasting click of my mountain bike cleats alerts the small group of “euro roadies” that have been celebrating their post hammer fest. As I step directly through the viper pit I sense their disgust as surely as if I had a giant tattoo on my arm that said “Campy Sucks” and had my jersey tucked into my bibs. I don’t mind, I don’t ride for them, I don’t count the grams that my bike weighs, I don’t have a coach, I simply ride.
Mile 17: Climbing the hill up to the bridge over the highway I imagine as my own little roubaix, except the beautiful age old cobbles are replaced by loose gravel and flat inducing potholes, and the team cars are large trucks, but soon I make it through back on to open roads.
Mile 18.2: I make the turn towards home and notice that the black beast has decided to sneak up on me from behind, and wants to race. The last eight miles is pretty much a flat straight shot so I tuck in and give it everything I have left. A red winged blackbird caws at me from a lamp post and I imagine him cheering me on saying “Allez, Allez” and I punch it up another notch.
Mile 26: I roll into the garage just as the black beast catches me. She’s not happy, she couldn’t ruin my ride and she’s letting me know it. She opens up and howls and bangs her fists and cries in anger the rest of the afternoon…
