There and back again

Remember the John Prine song "Illegal Smile"?

Woke up this morning, things were lookin' bad,
seemed like total silence was the only friend I had.
Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down and won,
and it was twelve o'clock before I realized I was havin' no fun.
Ah, but fortunately I had the key to escape reality.

A bicycle! It was more like 5:00 p.m. and I wasn't getting anything done OR having fun, so I decided to try to salvage the day before it completely drained away. I had a video to return, and getting on the bike immediately felt like the right medicine for my condition, so I headed southwest in the bike lane for some Schrock Road therapy.

It takes about half an hour to get to the New New England Library; it didn't matter that it was closed on Sunday; I dropped the video in the slot, considered a longer ride, and pointed myself toward Tucker Drive. My friend/mentor Janet told me about this hidden gem of a street tucked away behind Thomas High School, a quiet half-mile of architectural good taste that leads directly to the Olentangy bike trail.

Where I turned south on a whim and went back in time. Rolling past Thomas down to Antrim Lake and beyond was revisiting my old stomping grounds. Where MacKenzie and I used to take a long run every Sunday. Where Jessi and I did our first runs together. Where he trained like a madman for three years of high school competition.

Crossing into Whetstone Park was revisiting the scene of almost daily running or cycling, many track and cross country meets, soccer practices, dog walking, taiji classes, almost an extension of the back yard up the street before it was bulldozed. But the park remains almost unchanged, thank goodness, except for an amazing wildflower prairie of tall black-eyed susans down by the river just above Northmoor.

Crossing Broadway into the other half of Clintonville, the landscape was almost as familiar, and I even recognized one of the walkers, a young mother who used to come to my class on and off a couple of years ago and is now walking her growing boy on the trail. Although I was an hour out, I couldn't stop. Crossing the bridge and passing the University wetland, I saw the sky darkening to the southwest and against all reason kept going into Tuttle Park, where there's a convenient loop to turn around.

An out-and-back is like that. According to MacKenzie's Laws, you have to gauge the time, the wind, and the distance ahead of time, and then take your chances. As luck would have it, the rain started just as I reached my turnaround, so I sought shelter under some trees beside the rec. center and waited.

Half and hour later, the rain was looking like a steady downpour, so I (reasonably) called Gven Golly on my cell. She was home, not terribly busy, and said she would be there shortly with the pickup truck. Five minutes later, as luck would have it, the rain stopped, so I called her again. She had only gotten a couple of blocks from home, so I said never mind, I'd rather ride home, but thanks anyway. To ask to be rescued and then not need it was less humiliating than actually being rescued.

The ride home was a breeze, except for the inevitable mud spattered on my butt by a wet rear wheel. There weren't as many people on the trail or in the park, and I couldn't take the corners as fast, but a few hardy souls were still out there, and I was glad to be one of them. Because I took it slow, I never hit the aerobic wall, even coming up the hill toward High Street on Wilson Bridge Road. I had just enough daylight and energy to cruise the last couple of miles on almost-deserted roads and roll into Methodistville in time for dinner.

So, what's this little allegory all about? Nothing very subtle. I'm very attached to my tenuous hold on the physical mobility I discovered at about age nine, and it's hard to let go of, given the probability of flat tires, sprained knees, and cardiovascular decline. In the meantime, it's fun to push the envelope just a little.