Rapid Progress

Today I surprised myself. Less than two weeks after purchasing a bicycle I completed a circuit of the Harrisburg Greenbelt, a twenty-plus mile bike path that circles the capital city of Pennsylvania. The previous day I rode about ten miles of the path. Before that the longest ride on my new bicycle had been only five miles. This morning, emboldened by yesterday’s success, I decided to test my endurance and commit myself to the entire course.

This may have been a less-than ideal day to make the attempt. The temperature was in the mid-nineties. The first half of the ride was comfortable, but the heat soon sapped my strength and I was forced to stop and rest every couple miles after the halfway point. I am glad that I brought two water bottles as well as food.

Before purchasing my new Trek I had not been on a bicycle for more than a dozen years. After hip-replacement surgery two years ago I nearly lost hope of ever returning to the serious bicycling I had done in the eighties. But last year my surgeon changed his opinion about high-mileage cycling. He agreed that I could resume serious training, so long as I started gradually and stopped to consult him at the first sign of problems in my hip joint.

I am encouraged by my rapid progress. Although the strength in my legs is slow to return I am seeing improvement every day. The extra-low granny gear in the new bike enabled me to stay in the saddle while climbing hills and only once did I need to dismount and walk the bike to the top of a steep grade.

The terrain here in central Pennsylvania is hilly. Having chosen the proper bike will enable me to ride often and far. The frequent hill climbing should rapidly increase my strength and lung capacity. I am anxious to see the changes occur.

My muscles are tired tonight but I sense no protest from the titanium and chromium-cobalt hip implant. The marriages of mechanical technologies both above and below my saddle offer the promise of years and miles of flying over the asphalt. I am excited by the prospect.

Thank you God for the skill of my surgeon, my ability to earn the price of a bicycle above the cost of my needs, and for your grace in granting me this time to be alive.

A Poem About Roads

This poem was featured in a recent Writer's Almanac, the Public Radio short feature produced by Garrison Keillor, the host of A Prarie Home Companion. It is about roads, a topic which has always fascinated me. It also is about why we do the things we do.













The Calf-Path
by Sam Walter Foss.
(Public Domain.)

One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed—do not laugh—
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.
This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.

Back in the Saddle

I’ve been riding my new bicycle for the past three days, discovering that whatever strength I once had in my legs has fallen victim to years of inactivity. I am left wheezing like the old man I fear I rapidly am becoming.

Fifteen years ago I considered myself a gonzo road warrior, logging two hundred miles a week across flat Florida roads on my eighteen-speed Fuji Touring Series IV. Each evening after work I rode a familiar twenty-mile circuit through the streets of Saint Petersburg. My turn-around was at the edge of Tampa Bay; circling the inverted-pyramid visitor center at the end of the municipal pier, past the Cessna and Piper aircraft at the airport, along the cruise ship port and Coast Guard station, through the FSU Marine Science campus and ending with a long sprint to home in the northwest corner of the city.

On weekends I often rode to Fort Desoto State Park, which spanned the keys at the bottom of the county. It was a thirty-mile journey from the house to the fort. The ride home was occasionally accented by brief tropical squalls that left the asphalt steaming for an hour. Once a month I rode a century, one hundred miles in the saddle that was completed in a painful struggle against muscle fatigue and heat-induced mental confusion. Only during the air-conditioned drive home would I experience a rush of elation and sense of accomplishment.

That was then; now I marvel at how quickly my legs turn to jelly, how intensely my bottom begins to ache, how numb my palms become gripping the handlebar. But as I dismount at the foot of the driveway and remove my helmet, I feel that old familiar grin creep across my face.

Damn, it’s good to be back in the saddle.

Hello Again

It's good to be back. It has been several months since I last posted. Much has changed, especially within me.

I have begun to get physically active again. After 14 years off the bicycle I am back on the road. With a new Trek under me and a world of unexplored asphalt I am anxious to rediscover the me that once enjoyed 200 miles a week and the rush of endorphins coursing through me veins. My new titanium hip implant is finally paying dividends.

I feel spiritually renewed. I have explored my faith and reconnected with a Higher Power I had ignored for decades. It feels like coming home.

I am reacquainted with my body. A recent fourteen-day fast has helped me to recognize and abandon some bad habits. Eating has evolved into something more than just recreation or refuge.

And, I am anxious to write again.

Let me tell you about it....