The next week's ride was the first day of deer hunting with rifles;
A Saturday ride; Brown leaves on gravel roads, trying to disguise the slick mud underneath. Pickup trucks huddle together by the trailhead, waiting for the orange coats to return. Grey clouds, with lots of silver linings. A wave from friends on the road back.**********************************************************************************Now we were in November;
Saturday Ride; It was quiet, not the hair-raising quiet of a dark cemetery, not the anticipatory quiet of a pre-dawn summer's day, more a subdued quiet, like the crowd at a homecoming game where the visitors are way ahead. In the annual fall classic, Winter's up 42-7 on Summer, its late in the 4th quarter, and Winter i...s just running out the clock. Summer's big playmaker, the sun, has wandered off the field in a daze.**********************************************************************************The next Thursday I broke my Saturday pattern. I rode by Kennebunk beach and after felt the need to write a few lines;
Thursday ride (with Dan); Rode Sea Road towards the beach, past orderly houses and trim lawns. We turned left to see an ocean swell blow up as it hit ledge. The wave flew straight up before it fell back on itself, shoved back by the strong offshore breeze. Other waves escaped the ledge only to collapse and disintegrate... on the beach. Rode past the beaches, back to the trim lawns and orderly houses.
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Back to Saturdays. I had a great ride, but something I saw struck me;
Saturday ride; Low light sunlight. Stone walls and cattle pounds lost in the woods. Sign to old burying ground on a forgotten road. Headstone; Rebecca, wife of Phineas Colcord, died December 3rd, 1811, (ag)e 18 years, 3 months.
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Now we were getting into late November. I starting thinking about the Lord of the Rings and the Nazgul riding on Middle Road (Middle Earth?), but went with another theme;
Saturday Ride, climbing Ossipee Hill Road; The clouds rolled off for a moment. The sun peeked out and used the bare trees to etch-a-sketch crazy patterns on the road. It planted a hint of warmth on my left-side face, before the Northwest breeze snatched it away. The sun is teasing, knowing it will be cooking me in a few months.**********************************************************************************The Woodstock bike is a steel bike I sometimes ride that was made in Holland, maybe 41 years ago;
Saturday ride, to the coast; A quiet ride on the Woodstock bike, filtered sun, tires humming, gentle breeze. Pickups strung out on the backroads, last chance hunters in the woods. Foot down parked at Hills beach, watching waves march one at a time across the sandbar, each one curling and collapsing in rhythm. Do old bikes smile?************************************************************************************Now we are in December, and there were flakes in the air;
Saturday ride in Wells; Snow not quite up to its December task, roads still black. Heading west towards the far away pale blue sky. Woods road, the hunters gone, riding through a mud puddle and up a hill to I don't know where. Heartrate: still beating, cadence: unknown, wattage: not so much, just going, still going for a ride.***********************************************************************************Its the holiday season, and I'm still riding;
Saturday Ride to Camp Ellis: Rode by a deflated Frosty, deflated Santa, sprawled lifeless in the grass, victims of inflator neglect. Stubborn snow on the sides of the road, left over from last night's flurries. Joni Mitchell's "River" in my head, don't remember many words, but the melody floats around. At Camp Ellis; sun, still water, seagull squawk, distant boat motor, a small amount of peace.
