Certain the Final Run to Home

"Not knowing where mount and rider end,
or where they come together,
I see myself as statue weathered,
sitting its saddle like an Ichabod."

William Kloefkorn, Uncertain the Final Run to Winter

This title poem, by a prominent Nebraska poet, came to me as I turned toward home Saturday, halfway through my planned half-century. Once I made that turn, any uncertainty as to the immediate future vanished -- I could watch the landmarks, so hard-won on the way out, reappear in reverse order, and I knew both where I would end up, and how the ride would end. And having spent time enough on the saddle as of that point, I did indeed feel weathered and one.

The ride began under grey and uncertain skies. I parked the car at Lake Monona, caught the Capitol City Trail, and took it north and east. About three miles in I came upon trail-pass checkpoint, which I greeted with great pleasure -- only the night before I had decided to buy a pass; the debate had been,not so much a moral one as a practical one -- whether the odds of anyone really checking passes was worth parting with $20. I felt so damned vindicated and proud as I showed him my spanking new pass, the ink barely dry. And I ended up being checked twice more.

The trail wound on past Anna's school, and through a long wondrous patch of deep dark woods. The sensation was like one of those dreams, in which unexpected vistas open up behind doors one never thought to open. The smell was green and pungent, the paved trail wended, the birds sang, and I saw very few other cyclists. Past water retention ponds, through a wildlife preserve and a public hunting area (that gives one pause), up long hills and down. Until I came to the Military Ridge Trail, not far after which the paving gave way to hardpacked gravel and clay. I rolled along nicely, paused briefly at the second trailpass check, through patches of woods and prairie, over small bridges over burbling streams and moss-topped ponds. I entered a more urban area, swatches of the city of Verona, pausing briefly at stop signs before charging across roads and streets; being on a bicyle trail tends to give me a sense of unexpected priority -- instead of being on constant guard against dangerous cars, I find myself as the dominant life form, cautioning hikers and slower bikers, letting down my guard just a bit.

With that attitude, I darted across an intersecting pathway, leading on one hand to a small carnival and on the other to a residential development. I noticed with interest that it was the pathway that had the stop sign, not me. At the same moment, I caught a flash of color on my right, coming from the residential area, a flash that solidified, in seeming slow motion, into a man on a bicyle, a large, Simian-browed Nordic sort, short blond hair and a ruddy face, on a cheap hybrid bike. Everything moved so slowly, as I slammed on my brakes and he began to skid. Somehow he stopped, the merest fraction of an inch from me. We both stood for a moment. "Sorry," I finally said, and he murmured. "But you had the stop sign," I added a bit defiantly. He murmured again, and looked blearily sheepish, a sort of Budweiser enhanced expression. I resumed pedaling. "Moron," I said under my breath, when I was sure he couldn't hear.

About 23 miles in I began to suspect I had miscalculated the mileage. I found a wondrous spot by the trail, a monstrous old cottonwood tree in a clearing, with two round picnic tables made of large-stoned cement. A sacred spot if there ever was one, the faint rustle of breeze pushing the weeds, and an undertone of clicking, chirring insects. I consumed a tube of Gu and a Clif Bar, and spread out the map. I'd never make it to Mt. Horeb and back in the time alloted. So I rode another two miles on, ensuring the certain fifty miles, and turned back toward home. For the most part the miles and markers clicked by, but I began to feel it, a bit tired. A familiar pain recurred under my left kneecap. About ten miles from home the gray sky began to spit, and my ride was punctuated by the stacatto of rain drops pelting my helmet. But I spent much of that time back in the deep trees, and it never did rain much. Three miles from home the cell phone rang in my back jersey pocket, and I knew I had passed my allotted arrival time. I ground on toward the car, the stroke of my pedals accompanied by strains of a CD Daniel insists on playing in the car, paens to various numbers and mathmatical games. "Adding with seven is easy, it's a very special game. . .." I was amazed I knew so many of the lyrics, and hated the fact that they crowded out my ostensible choices, like the Beatles or even the Bonanza theme song.

Finally I arrived at the car, called home to announce that fact, and was done. Feeling, perhaps, a bit Ichabodesque.