An intersection off Highway M, north of Madison and Lake Mendota.
Thursday night I was all but ready to depart for Omaha and the renewed attempt at a Century; Rocinante was clean and primed, the car all but packed (knowing my propensity for forgetting, I had already stashed my helmet, gloves, and other gear). The weather forecast for Omaha was ideal. CDs at the ready, books and music for the 7 hour drive. Little remained but to put the kids to bed and get some sleep myself.
Then, "Kaboom." Literally. A noise from the family room. "I can't walk," Daniel said in his usual businesslike tone. His voice was calm but his face white. Mei and I helped him to the couch. Before long his leg began to swell and it was time to visit the ER. Six or so hours later he came home with a bright red cast, and my trip was over -- it had all rested on the presumption of healthy kids, in school all day Friday.
Instead, the only spoked wheels rolling within my ken were those of Daniel's wheelchair.
This is not a complaint, just an observation. Daniel, the one with the right to complain because of his myriad injuries and other issues, is unfazed by it all, taking everything in stride -- or at least with a dignified limp. After all, the reason we had the wheelchair in the house was because of his hip surgery two years ago and resulting full-body cast. And he has another skull surgery set for early November. Makes any whine of mine seem pretty cheesy.
Still, as Mark pointed out, my century quest appears to be as cursed as baseball's Cubs, doomed to fail for reasons unexpected. A freak storm at the start of the Centurion, and then a freak fall by my son. Perhaps we could sacrifice a goat, but neither Anna nor Madison's ordinances would allow that.
Ah well. I haven't heard yet, but I like to think Mark and Paul went on the ride without me, towing along a riderless bicycle in memory of me, cleated shoes backward in the pedals, bound in black bunting. Probably though they went without ceremony and had pie and beer and fun. Bastards.
I did get in a short ride Sunday after noon, circumnavigation of Lake Mendota, about 30 miles in all. Balmy weather and I felt strong. Coulda done 100, I know it. I came up alongside a guy about in his 40s, and we chatted a bit; he was on his way home from downtown, a quiet morning jaunt.
I left him at Allen Boulevard, and charged down the hill, past the wetlands conservancy and back east along Highway M. Few cars, and I was reminded as I passed a few tall stands of trees, and caught glimpses of the lake shimmering in the sun, that this area is close to paradise for biking and outdoors, and it's been far too easy for me to take it for granted. In honor of the Slow Biking Movement, I stopped frequently, at Governor Dodge State Park, in Maple Bluffs (wide and quiet tree-lined boulevards with huge houses and boathouses), and finally at the UW Union, where I had a brat and a coke and watched the lake and the boats, and the mermaids.
"I have heard the mermaids singing each to each/I do not think they will sing to me." T.S. Eliot.
The homeward stretch involved riding along the University trail beside the lake, which was being set up for the final stages of Madison's Ironman event being held that day; the lead riders had been, in fact, at or about mile 63 of the 112 mile bike run as I gorged myself on bratwurst. I climbed up to Lake Mendota Drive, through upper crust Shorewood Village, and ended up back at Nemesis. I charged up him with all the determination and irritation I could muster, standing in the saddle, and cleared the first summit in third gear, far better and faster than I had done before. Far ahead I saw a white-shirted rider walking his bike up the second summit; I charged onward, but the by the time I got there he had remounted and disappeared down Old Sauk Road, too far ahead for me to condescendingly comment that "this hill can be a bitch, right?".
Then home, 30 miles more on the odometer, which now sits as 875 for the year.
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