It was a weird Easter weekend, sandwiched around the stupid Final Four encounter that saw my son’s Spartans head for the exit and the Home Opener last night between the Red Sox and the hated Yankees.
 
As I mentioned yesterday, I took the bike down to the farm on Saturday- found that the country roads were empty and much less terrifying than the city ones.
 
I rode about eight miles on Saturday, till my hands went numb and could no longer operate the brakes or the gear shifters.
 
It did not take long, in measured time, and I have to re-calibrate my notion of distance from the days when I could run and the present day when I have to peddle.
 
It was less than an hour’s ride, though close, and the longest stretch I have put on the bike in one stretch since a 26.2 mile jaunt a long, long time ago in Hawaii.
 
The little computer said I had made good an average speed of about ten. Really strange, and I got to meet some of the scattered neighbors on Raccoon Ford Road. They are black, and from what I can see the boundary between the nice estates on is the old guy’s place with the two bold red fire hydrants out by his driveway where Cedar Grove Road cuts across. Cedar Grove turns gravel there, so to keep riding the road bike on pavement you have to turn right.
 
There are several tiny homes along the way, half of them abandoned and half neatly kept. There is a primitive Baptist Church up near the junction with Virginia Route 522 where some folks were doing work on the lawn.
 
I said hello to a young man ambling along the road and to a women working in her yard, but I was not confident enough to take either hand off the death-grip on the handlebars. The gel pads on the gloves had stopped working and I couldn’t feel my fingertips, though the smooth transfer of power from my legs through the pedals was satisfying.
 
The people seemed nice enough, and I wondered about their relationship to this land and the Mitchell family whose big house is just up the road and whose name it attached to this place.

I took the rest of the afternoon off, and sat on the back deck in one of chairs from the big table. It was warm enough to take my shirt off, and I finished an interesting murder mystery titled “The Man from Beijing.” In addition to nineteen Swedes who were hacked to death in the first chapter, it included a discourse on the prospective Chinese colonization of Africa.
 
Strange. We have been so concerned with the rise of China of late. I heard on the radio that only 6% of the Chinese population makes more than $20K a year, which of course is a vast number, but the real issue is the 94% who don’t.
 
That is a time-bomb, according to some, just like the mis-matched bulge that favors baby boys in the one-child China. It makes you look at current developments with a bit more of a skeptical eye.
 
Each time the American economy grows a modest 2%, goes the argument, the Chinese economy must grow 8% just to stay on pace. They are not going to pass us any time soon. I heard that from a very earnest man before the basketball came on.
 
I don’t trust statistics. The ones that the odometer on the bike told me were weird enough.
 
I exchanged a short and bitter e-mail with my son about the the Cinderalla Butler Bulldog victory over the Sparties. I threw open the windows to the marvelous coolness of the country night, and consequently was up long before the dawn.
 
I wrote the canned story about the bunker on the hill and took off early Easter morning for the ride up Mount Pony. The summit of the road is exactly at the gate to the facility, and precisely two miles from the mailbox.
 
I clocked it later, on the odometer to the Bluesmobile, just to confirm my suspicions about the grade and the distance. People ride these two-wheeled contraptions all sorts of crazy distances, and as a novice, I am in a constant state of amazement.
 
There is a slight downgrade from my gravel driveway to the course of one of the two little streams that embrace my five acres and I felt a little guilty resting on the pedals at the start. Chilly in t-shirt that early in the morning, the low trees still obscuring the bright morning sun.
 
I had to peddle after crossing the stream, and working the downshift to accommodate the long gentle grade up to Woolen Lane. I am still nervous on the bike. My unease extends to the Harley as well. Maybe this is not for me.
 
At the moment, I was concerned about dogs. I have heard the barking in the night, and wondered about what to do if an alert hound took umbrage at my passage and charged.
 
They talked about canine attacks in the motorcycle class down in Richmond, and if the topic had to be taught, it must be something real.
 
No dogs sighted. Woolen Lane cuts from the farm road that leads to the farm to the higher ground that is cut by Mount Pony road. I wrote about the facility yesterday, but it was a literary device, not real. The long incline up to the stop sign had been quite enough on Saturday, and I turned around at that point and headed back downhill to explore the other end of Cedar Grove Road.
 
I have a pal who challenges the foothills of the Rockies. She rides- or will ride, when the snow is finally gone- the passes of the Front Range, which to me is quite unimaginable.
 
Part of the bike thing was to experience, vicariously, something of that sort of commitment and passion. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was having my doubts on this inconsequential rise.
 
I had to get into the lowest gear to arrive at the stop sign at the top of Woolen Lane. This time I thought I would challenge the hill beyond and get a bit of the sense of what it is like to climb a mountain on a bike.
 
To the left the road climbed in a lazy S-turn toward the government bunker. I rolled through the stop, looking nervously left and right. The graphite frame on the bike is so light and the tire area that is actually in contact with the pavement is so small that the most minute motion of the upper body is translated into directional movement.
 
I turned left onto the oncoming lane, uncertain if I should pretend to be a vehicle or face oncoming traffic. I peddled frantically. This would be the time to get up off the seat, I thought, and apply more force to the peddles and let the bike rock between my legs. I remember how that works from the antics we could do as kids on our friction-braked Schwinns, but the ability has fled with the years. If I keep this up it may come back, I suppose.
 
Chest heaving, I kept peddling. Hyper-alert, I heard the oncoming truck before it appeared around the S-curve. I wondered whether the precision machine could continue to roll on the gravel verge, but apparently it can. I got off the pavement as the white F-150 rushed past on the road to some other farm, a rush of chill wind coming in its wake. I wobbled back onto the pavement, trying to look up but feeling my center begin to sink.
 
I could not continue upward, and turned the bike across the center divider, losing all forward motion, unable to complete the turn back down the hill. The summit was to my left now, tantalizing and quite impossible. Looking down the hill was quite as terrifying as the prospect of attempting to continue upward with no momentum, out of airspeed and good ideas simultaneously.
 
It occurs to me that coming down the mountain is possibly harder, technically, than going up. Some riders are apparently comfortable at speeds coming down the mountain that I cannot comfortably do yet on the motorcycle- fifty miles an hour or more. I gripped the brakes and set off gingerly, not wanting to get moving too fast to make the turn back onto the lane, and crossing the centerline again without complete knowledge of what might be overtaking me.
 
I made the turn over the loose sand left from the snow removal of winter and headed down the long gentle downslope. The pavement was good and I stayed off the brakes, wondering if the vibration that was transmitted from the asphalt through the rigid frame up my arms to rattle my helmet was ever going to feel natural. The air was cool at speed, and I glanced down at the speedometer. Something over twenty it was, and I felt at the edge of control. Shit, I thought, this is the speed that the Big Boys peddle on the flat.

Back in the real world of gentle inclines, I upshifted to a point where my legs seemed to work in concert with the infernal machine. The legs quivered a bit, but they felt good, having been called upon to do something they once did but had forgotten.
 
Real riders attach their feet to the pedals for efficiency. I would have simply toppled over on the hill behind me into the gravel. , It was humbling While steep, it was nothing you would ever consider as an obstacle while driving your car, or downshifting the Harley for additional torque.
 
Damn.

The guilt I felt in the free ride down from the driveway was re-paid as I labored through the gentle curve over the creek and up to the mailbox. Gravity always wins.
 
No dogs.
 
I dismounted on the road, and rolled the bike up the rough gravel of my drive. I decided to get going early on Easter morning. I had an appointment with the Realtor to prepare a counter to the insulting offer on the other condo. I clicked through the menu on the odometer on the handlebars. Less than four miles and I was a quivering wreck.
 
Shoot, this is going to be harder than I thought.
 
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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