Too Good to be True

Yesterday I wet out on my longest planned ride yet, through Pine Bluff and on to the village of Mount Horeb, Wisconsin's "Troll City." I took advantage of my map and growing experience, to head out on Old Sauk's rolling tree-line road instead of straight out busy Highway S. At the outset I found myself attacking hills and dashing down at speeds up to 29 MPH. Not so many cyclists out, but a bit of a breeze carrying with it patches of scents from wildflowers beside the road. After leaving Pine Bluff, the road swung around a big bend and then upward toward the village. After all, there's a reason it's called Mt. Horeb; because it is UP. Not overwhelmingly, but definitely. Still the weather was nice, albeit borderline hot and very sunny, and the countryside was vintage Wisconsin, save for the ever-spreading menance of subdivisions popping up between and along the hillsides. I stopped briefly at one farm entrance, with the above photographed "Life Is Good Ln" signpost. Indeed, I thought, it is.

I arrived in Mt. Horeb and settled briefly in front of a local bakery, to sip water and eat a Clif Bar -- and consult the map. When I went in to use the restroom, I was a bit startled at myself in the mirror, beads of sweat on my forehead, hair plastered flat, my skin looking every bit of my 60 years, and I even looked almost thin, since the mirror did not reach down to my ever-present gut. Like a biker, I guess.

My road home began with my first time on the Military Ridge trail, a hard-packed dirt old railroad bed, well-maintained, with trees arcing overhead, and an essentially downhill grade toward Madison. I cruised at about 15 miles an hour, over gentle streams, through patches of prairie, birds all around, and so on, whizzing over bridges. Only a few other users on the path. Two thoughts rose up simulataneously -- "This is what it's all about, innit?" and "I'm going to pay for this." After about eight miles I turned onto Highway J, a hilly, gray sunbaked concrete ribbon. Each hill loomed up, I thought, well just this one more -- and then another one. I thought about a comment friend Mark made one time, that when you're out on bike it becomes your world, nothing else matters for those few moments. And that was how I felt, each hill, each push of the pedal, was all in itself, since there were no options. Just on and on.

But I reached Mineral Point Road, finally, and Madison loomed in the visible distance, one more big hill away. And something happened. For the first time I can remember in lo these many years of cycling, I felt, not like dragging myself home, but like the proverbial old horse who senses the barn in the near distance; I found myself equally tired, but also found some inner strength to push harder to get home, rather than forcing myself to struggle on. A subtle difference, perhaps, but a real one. And a positive, I think.

38 more miles on the old odometer.