Life and How to Live It

It's been a while. Sometimes life throws a few extra balls into the mix, and one of them just has to get dropped for a while. Here I am, though, bending at the knees, keeping the other balls going with one hand as I pick this one up.

Good to see you.

Bike riding has been at nil for a couple weeks. I went down, hard -- I mean very hard -- two Saturdays ago, riding the Vaya on trails that were, in fact beginner-level. That was, in fact, why I'd driven down there. A beautiful place, but let me tell you, I learned a lesson about riding in the fall: Leaves are treacherous. One second I was up and enjoying, the next thing I can remember, I am on my back, pulling hard for air, but only making this horrible sucking sound. No air. As in, none. For a good 30 seconds or so. I tore muscles in five different places around my shoulder and ribs, and haven't slept a normal night since. At first, a lot of "sleeping" sitting up on the couch; lately, I can actually lie on the bed.

Meantime, my body is so busy trying to patch itself back together that I catch my first head cold in a year. It was, let's just say, a humdinger. All the more fun because I couldn't blow my nose -- ribs hurt too much -- and coughing or sneezing produced such a blast of pain, you could hear my whimpering all over the house.

All of this would have been par for the course if my Dad's fight with cancer hadn't taken a serious downhill turn. A couple weeks ago, he made the decision to stop treatment, because it simply wasn't working. The cancer had spread from liver to both bones and lymph system.The Hail Mary treatment they offered him seemed like a cruel joke. Another round of chemo after four or five months of it with negative results? Um, no. Basically, at that point, you try to make the end as clean and dignified as possible. Your ticket has been punched, and you have to sit back and experience the ride. It's all over but the waiting and decaying.

As soon as I heard that, I picked my tuchus up out of my sick-bed and hauled ass down to NYC. Dad and I managed to have a conversation that, I now realize, will be our last real one. He's still talking, but hardly. It was an intense and wondrous and excruciatingly difficult talk. I went down knowing what I wanted to say, and I said it. I had no idea he was going to say so much -- it shocked me, really. I'm so grateful to have had that chance. But I was brain-dead for a good few days afterward.

There's even more big stuff going on elsewhere in my life, but I'll spare you. You get the idea.

As recently as few weeks ago, I'd just run my first 5K, with a decent time, and was getting stronger every week. I was riding like a champ, strong and true. Today, I went "running" and barely made two miles, with lots of walking breaks. I'm off bikes until my shoulder and ribs can support me more reliably. I'm very grateful to be running at all; I went down so hard, I'm pretty blessed not to have broken something.

I have good days and bad days. A bad morning can be followed by a great afternoon. I'll get a decent few hours, and then hear from family that Dad no longer can get out of the bed, can't really see anymore, and isn't making much sense when he talks.

I take it as it comes. My practice right now is to say a big "YES" to all of it -- the periods of clarity at work, the hikes with my wonderful wife, the bad news, the frailty and decay of my beloved dad. It's all YES. It's all life. Life is the middle-of-the-night doubts and pitch-blackness, and life is the surreal beauty of a technicolor morning run in the brilliant foliage, sun caressing the hills in the distance. I remind myself that I am not the one dying, that in fact, I have a great life, a better life than I ever imagined possible. That tends to work pretty well.

Maybe tomorrow I can even go for a ride. The one ride I've had recently gave me goosebumps -- 25 minutes of flat terrain that was more scintillating than the 50-mile charity ride I did back in September. I remembered, "Yes, this is how I experience the beauty of life."

No time to waste, man -- gotta stay busy living. When Dad needs me, or his wife needs a hand, I'll be down in a flash, and I'll try to live all of that, too. And I'll bring my running shoes.

A Wire From the Front

HOME-TOWN YANKEES BROKE MY HEART STOP RAN MY FIRST 5K LAST WEEKEND STOP PLANNING TO RUN MY 1ST ORGANIZED 5K THIS MONTH STOP RIDING LESS ENJOYING MORE STOP GONNA GET ME SOME DIRT THIS PERFECT NEW ENGLAND FALL WEEKEND STOP TELEGRAM STYLE OF WRITING IS ADDICTIVE STOP CAN'T STOP STOP

BikeFest 2011

Yes, yes, I'm still here, lock up the messenger pigeons, and put away that cattle prod. I've been absorbed in, shall we say, "other stuff." Life stuff. You know -- what we do when not staring at a glowing screen? You do remember that, yes?

I've also been touched by the classic end-of-season malaise, but not as bad this year as previously. I'm still riding, still enjoying, but I have to double-check before I go out: Do I want to do intervals, or do I really want to cruise to the library and check out the latest Batman comics? More often than not, it's quirky rides, like 'splorin' new roads, riding to an event, or just slow-pedaling to the top of the hill by my house and checkin' out the sunset. Love it -- bikes were built for fun and transportation, back before the Victorian jocks got hold of them and decided they were one more way to prove their mustachioed manhood.

I did do a great little ride this past weekend, Northampton Cycling Club's annual BikeFest. Decided I was only in shape for the 43-miler, which turned out (of course) to be 48-miles-plus. Met up with a couple buddies, who promptly disappeared over the horizon about three miles from the start (no worries -- it's part of the unwritten group ride contract). Rode my own ride for about five miles -- as usual, floating in that no-man's land between the fast and the merely fit -- waiting patiently for a group of riders up ahead to realize that they'd let adrenaline get the better of them, and to start drifting back to a more humane pace. I saw them at the top of a hill and worked my way up to them; we finished together, more or less, and some of them were quite friendly and fun to ride with.

It was an ugly day, warm and soupy-humid, but the scenery -- distant, jagged peaks dressed in thick rolls of cotton-candy mist -- was fully up to par.

Back at the start/finish, we gathered for excellent jambalaya (speesy-spicy!) from the Lone Wolf in Amherst, and local hero Roger Salloom's excellent little combo doing rockin' Lonnie Smith and Chuck Berry covers, which added a little sunshine to a drab, wet day. Spirits were high, conversation was good, and I was glad I'd been talked into the day.

Here's to people getting together to do what they love!

What I Did for my Labor Day Weekend



Artifact of Tropical Storm Irene: Blocked trail in Monague on Saturday. Time for some hike-a-bike through the woods!



Cranberry Pond in Sunderland, on Labor Day. Dirty roads, dirty weather. I tried to climb the fire road up Mt. Toby (in the background) but didn't have low enough gears or fat enough tires (okay -- or strong enough legs).



When you have a bike that thrives on faux-roads, you have fun exploring under highway trestles.



And you find mysterious inscrptions on stone blocks by railroad tracks.



And you turn off trails or roads onto newly-discovered single-track networks. See that footbridge way at the bottom? Hike-a-bike, from there upward. Fun!



The Pioneer Valley Three-Oh

Been well over a week since I stared at the blank screen with some kind of momentum building up behind my eyes. I've been in bike hibernation or something. Maybe it's the coming of September, all my young clients going back to school, sending me back into some kind of youthful transitional period. Just not thinking in terms of writing. Then, of course, tropical storm Irene was a bit distracting last weekend. No damage to house or property, I'm glad to report, unlike many towns close by, which are torn asunder. I'm sure I'll be finding washed out roads on my rides well into the fall.

Also, I've been writing up rides and tech and philosophy like a house afire since mid-February, and I think I'm feeling the psychic wear and tear, much as I feel the season wearing on my body. Mrs.V. has returned to her public school librarian job and needs some support. And we have other demanding stuff on the docket right now, too.

But don't worry, folks, I'm riding. Mostly on the Vaya, because both my road bikes are on the D.L. I've done what I can for them with my tech skills, and now have plans to haul them both in to a good local bike shop tomorrow and see what experienced hands can render.

I think that's one more reason for burnout: I haven't been able to take advantage of the diversity of riding because I've only had my gravel/dirt machine for the last few weeks or more. I had that brief fling with the 29er, but it didn't work out. (Flings rarely do.) I was hoping that would provide me a whole new angle on riding -- woods, mountains, trails. Turns out, I'm really only suited to a little of that, at least for now. The Vaya mostly scratches that itch pretty well.

I did three or four hours on hurricane day (Sunday) to plot out an extended dirt road ride here in the Valley. It turned out to be way more vertical than I was hoping; dirt roads in this part of New England generally lead upward. I haven't been able to find many of those lovely lo-o-ong, rolling roads they have out in Kansas and Iowa, where you could easily put together a century without ever riding pavement. So, we'll see if I'm up to what I have tentatively titled The Filthy Fifty. 4,000 feet of climbing, and composed of 75% dirt,gravel, and a smidgen of single track. Rigorous.

Aside from that, I'd like to go for a few long leaf-peeping rides this fall; I love kitting up with arm warmers and embrocation and rolling out in the chilly, clear weather. It's inspiring after a summer of sweat pooling incessantly under my helmet pads. I also find myself looking forward to the infamous cyclocross races at Look Park in early November; perhaps I'll attend on my Vaya and take a stab at the course in-between races, as many spectators do. 'Cross is coming, bundle up!



That's the three-oh from the Pioneer Valley today.