What the Hell?
July 8,
2026 Postcard Cabins to Frankenmuth
Miles
167-198
We are up by
5:30 AM, knowing by now that afternoon cycles have been miserable.
We are packing
the bikes. Heidi is loose.
Then she is
gone. Nowhere to be seen. We call and call and whistle. I check the nearby
cabins. I say more than once “I don't know what to do.”
We can't leave
her here. We don't know where to find her. I crash around the brushy woods. No
sight or sound of her.
We sit on the
grey plastic Adirondack chairs, desolate. Suddenly we hear a crashing through
the woods. Heidi reappears... smiling... and stinky. She is thrilled. She has
found fresh poop in which to roll.
After we clean
her, we are long past our desired 7:00 AM departure. Relieved to finally be
going, I use the exit code to close and lock the cabin. I get on my bike… and discover I left my
phone in the cabin.
Our entry code
no longer works. The phone number to the host is on my phone locked in the
cabin. I use Wes’ phone to check their website: no phone listed.
Perhaps the
neighbors?
No sensible
person is awake at this time on their vacation, so when I rap on the door, I
hear a sleepy male voice aggressively respond, “Who is it?”
--I'm sorry.
I'm your neighbor and we're locked out of our cabin. We need the hosts number.
It takes a few
back and forths until a calmer female voice patiently reads the number from the
info sheet through the door. Back in the
Adirondack chairs, I call. Ten rings. Nothing.
Maybe they are don’t open the office until 8am, Wes suggests
Time
passes. I call. No response.
I text. No response.
I'm getting
desperate. I then remember that Postcard Cabins are now part of Marriott. I
call customer service and end up in a voicemail hell that wants to know what
credit card bill I want to dispute. I mash 0 over and over until I get a call
center somewhere in Asia.
After hearing
our plight the operator says, “I don't
think I can help you.”
Do you have a
number for the hosts? In Michigan. In the Thumb.
“Maybe.”
She disappears
for a few moments. When at last she
comes back on the line, she gives me a completely different number from the one
the neighbors provided.
We call and get
an immediate response. Mandy says she will be right there.
Two minutes
later, she drives up in a new maroon SUV. opens the door and grabs my phone
from the counter.
--What was that
the number on the info sheet? I ask.
She's sheepish.
“Ohh, we haven't updated the sheet since Marriott bought us last month.
The ride on the
Southern Lake Trail is gorgeous. We ride
in deep shade past lakes and ponds and marshes resplendent with deer
and
rabbits and frogs.
The trail ends
in Millington. We take lunch at a
Harley-Davidson cafe whose main decor is 1950s Harley-Davidson posters
featuring a variety of buxom beauties.
My phone is low
on battery, so I use Wes’ to find lodging for tonight. We had hoped to stay in Vassar, but the only
motel in town scares me with its multiple one point ratings. The mansion where we stayed on our cross
country trip years ago with its multiple cats cat smell and somewhat odd hostess
seems to be out of business.
Frankenmuth is
the only choice available, but it's quite a few more miles.
We ride on the
shoulder of Michigan 15, which is never much fun, and land in Vassar just as
the heat starts to pound. There’s
nothing open but some derelict-looking bars.
The cute town we remembered from 2013 seems to be gone.
We have already
travelled 20 miles. It is hot and we must cycle on the road in the sun. I tell
Wes we have at least 10 more miles. He says OK. I think he means it.
The ride is hot
and hilly. After a long stretch past corn, bean. and wheat fields. I stop under
a tree to wait for Wes. At this point, Heidi has had it. She crawls out of the crate and runs into a
nearby barn
Nervous, but
determined not to lose her again, I follow her in there. It is piled with grain
bags, abandoned equipment, and furniture including a green porcelain stove from
the 1930s. I have a vision of the farmer chasing us out of this barn, but I wonder if he could give us a ride to Frankenmuth.
Wes arrives
just as I collar Heidi. It is hot and we
are tired.
Wes says, “How
much further?”
I guess 7 miles.
He shouts, “I
can't make it!”
Well, he can
shout all he wants, but there's no choice but to keep going
A few miles
later, we spot a small general store with a few umbrella tables outside.
We inhale cold
sweet drinks, but I don't feel the surge of refreshment I expect. I am not
ready to go
Wes complains
his phone is nearly out of battery.
“Let's stop and
recharge them and us.” I say.
No. Let's go. I don't wanna sit here in the
sun.
“You're not in
the sun,” I say.
He’s not having
it. “Let's go. I can't stand this.”
I go to the
bikes and struggle to get the dog back in the crate. She actively resists.
Wes fusses, “Come
on! Hurry up! Quit messing around. Let’s go!”
I wallop him.
He wallops me back. I hit him again.
What the hell.
We are livid,panting.
A man who has
been tearing apart a small cabin with a sledgehammer is staring at us.
Wes hisses, “Which
way do we go?”
The trail map says
go South, but the but the road right here looks more direct.
Wes screeches, “Have you got the map the right
way? Have you got it facing north?”
I stand there, silent and seething.
“Make it face
north. You are so stupid! Make it face
north.”
I am now white
hot angry --and embarrassed-- and ashamed.
We find out
from the work crew appalled at our behavior that the road before us is the
direct route to Frankenmuth. I get on my bike and cycle away from there as fast
as I can.
Five hot miles
later, I come into Frankenmuth and go directly to our room in the Drury Inn. Let
Wes come when he may.
An hour later
my anger is replaced by anxiety, then fear. I call Wes’ number. No answer.
It goes right to voicemail. Another
30 minutes, I call again. No answer.
I call 911.
Before long, a
chunky bald police officer is at my door. I give him a description: Long gray
beard, orange shirt, tan pants riding a green Raleigh bike pulling a single
wheel trailer with a bright yellow bag. The
last time I saw him was in the village of Tuscola. He doesn't answer the phone,
but he has his charger and could call me if he recharges his phone.
The police
officer says, “ OK don't worry. I'm sure he'll show up. We've already sent someone up the road to see
if they can find him. Stay put. Try not to worry. I'm sure he will turn up.
20 minutes
later I get a phone call from an unknown number. It is Wes at the hotel I had
tried to book at lunch until I found out they didn't take dogs. I tell him
where I am. He writes it down and says he will be right there.
But he doesn't
come. Now what?
Did he not
understand what I said?
That's it! I'm
going to go look for him.
As I head out
the door, dog in tow, I see a police cruiser and I wave them over. It is a
younger officer. When I say “I heard from him,” he knows who and what I'm
talking about.
I named the hotel Wes called from and the
officer speeds away. I head that way. and I'm equal parts scared and relieved
when I see two police cars, lights blazing .
There's Wes
looking stunned, talking to the officers. In the midst of their debrief,, a well dressed woman watched by her wheelchair
bound son steps up to Wes and presses a $100 bill into his hand. Befuddled, Wes blinks and thanks her. The police officer say, “Well, we're glad
you're OK.” and drive off.
On the way back
to our hotel, Wes tells me he had a mechanical breakdown on the road, which he
had to fix by himself. Then he couldn't
remember where we were staying. His phone was dead, so he couldn't call. And by the way, this whole mess is my fault
because I used his phone to search for lodgings.
Back at the
hotel, we fuss some more. We are exhausted
and worried that we are over our heads. This
day started more than 13 hours ago and it's finally over. Thank God.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Frankenmuth Cool Down
7.9.25: Frankenmuth
Mile 198 and
holding
This is a day
to recover from the craziness and trauma of yesterday. We spend a few hours at
Prost a wine and charcuterie bar where we order a bottle of wine salad and a
plate of their favorites. I work on the blog. We gingerly return to the
elephant in the room.
Why did things
go so desperately wrong?
We were already
tired and dehydrated in Vassar. We
should have stopped, sat in the shade and drunk water, if nothing else. But we pressed on-- until we didn't have the
emotional and physical strength to control ourselves.
I come from a
family of hitters and exploders. I've worked hard to keep that anger from
taking over. Wes has always been
reactive, but since his surgery, has been hyper-reactive.
One of the
great challenges of this trip--and of our life--is not reacting to his
reactions.
We must figure
out the right distance and pacing for us on this trip. Cycling in the beating
sun in the afternoon is not a good option.
We need to start early and be done by 1pm, especially when the temperature
is above 80 degrees. Prevention is the
best cure.
Our hotel
provides free food and breakfast and happy hour. I'd ask a couple at the
adjoining table how many of these people do you think are converted from rural
Michigan? The answer I have no idea says the bald twinkly eyed man probably
most.
We talk about
the signs: lots and lots of ball caps, flowered shirts on both men and women, a
fair amount of shorts, socks, and sandals (including Wes) are these the markers?
Haircuts that have been in style since we were kids.
Perhaps it's
the lack of showboating and showing off--- the almost complete statuswear or attention seeking behavior. It's the chit chat in the line, and plenty of
“pleases and thank you’s.”
But what else
is it? How do we know it when we see it?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Into the Agricultural Heartland
July 10, 2025:
Frankenmuth to Saginaw
Miles 198-218
We get an early
start and are soon cycling the agricultural byways of the Cass River, which we
have crossed and recrossed since Vassar. We pass fields of sugar beets, corn, and wheat.
The ride is pleasant, but loses its pleasantness as we get close to I-75. There must be road construction because every
east west road across I-75 is closed. We
must ride the shoulder of busy Dixie Highway, which leads us to a plasticland
around Bridgeport, south of Saginaw.
We're both
ready for a break. I turn down Wes’ suggestion to stop at a Starbucks. I want a
local establishment up in town. But the
one and only place in this rapidly ghosting town is not open until evening.
There's no way
we're going back a mile, so we press on, already breaking our commitment not to
travel where we are tired.
Bridgeport has many
solid and attractive brick buildings, and there is a beautiful ornate iron
bridge over the Cass River. But most of
the commercial buildings are empty and the overall effect is desolate.
The route takes
us towards the Saginaw River, where well-kept houses are interspersed with beat
up apartment bunkers. There are no services, not even party stores. The one
restaurant for miles is not open till noon. So we just keep going.
I stop by cornfield
to wait for Wes. A man in a truck pulls up and asks if I need help. This is not
the first time. I guess we look pitiful… or lost.
When we finally
reach the bike path along the river, the scenery is nice, but there are no
benches, no tables--not even in obvious beauty spots to watch the big river roll
by. We let Heidi run for a while on this strangely isolated trail. Wes's bike
is giving him trouble and needs service. I find a shop just over the river in
Saginaw’s Old Town.
As I approach
the busy Rust Street Bridge over the wide Saginaw River. I am already in the
car lane when I see the sign Bicyclists Walk Over Bridge. I missed the
entrance to the side to the sidewalk some ways back, and now there is 15 inch
curb to get up the. There's a slight
break in the heavy truck traffic, replete with semis and construction vehicles,
so I decide to go for it.
Bad
choice. The traffic comes barreling. I
pedal as fast as I can--while praying as hard as I can--to make it over the
curving blind corner bridge. I ride in the
lumpy gutter, while cars, trucks, and semis careen over the span, narrowly
avoiding me.
When I clear the bridge, I am panting and shaking. I call Wes who is some ways back taking a photo of the striking prismatic murals on an abandoned grain elevator near the bridge
“Do not ride
the bridge!” I warn. “Don't miss the
entrance to the sidewalk way down the block. Do Not Ride The Bridge!
“Uh, OK.” Wes replies, stunned at the panic in
my voice.
A few blocks
later, we have arrived at Shumakers Bike Shop “Selling and Serving bikes for More
than 50 years.” We are greeted by Chris and Greg. Chris is a strong woman a bit
younger than me. Greg is probably older than Wes, with a shock of gray hair
hanging in his eyes and the rangy muscles of hard everyday labor. When they find out we are long distance
touring, Greg remembers his own long distance bike ride from Saginaw to Montana
50 years ago. One of the highlights was
taking the Badger Ferry across Lake Michigan.
Chris and Greg
stare at Wes's 40-year-old Raleigh bike. Greg gives it a good look over, while
Chris whispers to me, “Why is he riding so much worse a bike than you?”
Wes asks for a
tune up. Greg sizing up the bike, “I think it need will need more than that.”
Chris continues,
“You have better components, better
structure, better gearing…”
I allow I'm
more of a gearhead than Wes. see for exam (cf. My multiple trips to the bike
shop to prepare for this trip versus Wes, “It's fine, it's fine.”)
Greg gets to fixing
while we go to lunch. When we return, Greg intones, “Your derailleur is hung up.
You need a new back tire and your brakes are about shot. I'll work on it this
afternoon and have it ready for you by 10:00 AM tomorrow safe and ready for
your trip.”
He asks if we
need a place to stay. We tell him we
have a place with friends in Saginaw Township.
Do we need a ride? They’re coming
to get us. I think he would have loved
to talk old time touring with fellow codgers.
Our friends Tom
and Ulla have offered us lodging, so we take our first auto ride in two weeks
to their house in Saginaw Township. Tom leads us to his backyard where we are
stunned by two things: the unhappy, scared yapping of their big-headed little
dog and the massive, majestic white pine standing nearly 100 feet tall with a trunk
3 feet across. This tree was here long before
this house was built.
The tree has a
few sisters nearby, but there are none so sheltering and space defining as this
beauty. We all gravitate to sit within
this Pines graceful space. I try to imagine living in a forest of these gentle
giants.
The night
passes quickly with conversation, storytelling, nice food and good beer.
It
is morning before we know it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Worth the Effort
July 11, 2025: Saginaw to Donohue Beach
Miles 218-238
Back
at Shumakers, the bike is ready and Wes is hot to trot. Both Chris and I
encourage Wes to take a trial ride, just to make sure.
“Nope!
It's fine” he says, “It's fine. I pay the entirely too low cost for all the
work done by Greg (Another subsidy for our odd journey.)
Wes
tries to ride. Can’t. Brake problem. Chris and I exchange glances, “Told ya.”
Greg
sighs, “They don't even make brakes like
this anymore.”
The
cantilever brakes on Wes’ 1980s bike were a short-lived innovation. The center-pull
brakes very easily slip out of balance then are hard to return to balance. Greg frets, “I don’t what you’ll do if they
fail up the road. There’s no way to put
a newer system on this bike.”
While
Wes and Greg mess around with the bike, Chris shows me pictures of the stone
cottage she and her husband built by themselves. It has a sinuous organic shape
and is completely iconoclastic.
Greg
says, “I tease her she'll never be able to sell it.”
Chris
retorts, “Just throw my body in there when I die and cover the whole thing with
dirt. Problem solved.”
When
we do go, Greg and Chris tells us at least five times to be safe. Greg warns us
that it's tricky getting to the Saginaw/Bay City rail trail, but definitely
worth it.
We
wander our way through downtown, crossing the river unnecessarily to
immediately be accosted by a shirtless 60-year-old panhandler whose aggressive
approach and grimace look all the world like someone in pain from withdrawal.
As
we try to figure out how to get past I-475, we interrupt two men lurking in the
entry of a closed nightclub in a stately old bank. The young dark headed one is
talking shit, while his older compatriot says, “Ohh I know, I know!” several
times.
Back
across the bridge, we cycle through industrial Saginaw on the banks of the
river. I spot a sign directing us to the Iron Belle Trail. We take it and are immediately led away from
the river into the suburban hinterlands. What?
We
wobble back and forth, trying to find our way back to the river, until we get
to Zilwaukee where we at last where encounter
the path. Of course, there is no
signage. We make several rough railroad crossings
before we realize we are headed south instead of north. Sigh.
The
trail disappears at a crossroads, but we know it follows the river, so we head eastward
knowing we will find it sooner or later. At an industrial port with piles of a
dark mineral and suspiciously named Kochville, the road says Dead End.
“This
has got to be it,” I say more confidently than I feel.
A
few miles later, when the road ends in a small outpost of riverside houses. We
finally spot the trail.
Then
the magic begins.
We are riding between waters. On one side wetlands, ponds or swamps, on the other side, the big Saginaw River. We spot an egret and are pleased. A little while later, we see several great blue herons. As I ride within six feet of one old fellow, he gives me a baleful look, then irritated, slowly lifts himself from his spot. “See!” He seems to say, “You ruined it here and now I have to leave.”
Then,
in wetlands on either side of us, we see dozens of egrets and more great blue
herons, along with a plethora of ducks and geese. Red-wing blackbirds whistle on both sides. Rabbits and frogs cross the path. It starts to drizzle. We are one with the waterbirds, frogs, and
dripping skies.
In
west Bay City, we are the only customers in an empty bar. “Can we bring our dog
in?
The
waitress says, “No. But you’re the only
ones here, so what the hell.”
We
connect with our Warm Showers hosts and who tell us we need to ride straight
north to the shoreline of Saginaw Bay.
We
never enter the lovely confines of downtown Bay City, and are soon heading up Bangor
Road to Donahue Bay. Our host, a cherub-faced men with sandy brown hair, greets
us. We put our bikes in his garage and notice a handmade wooden kayak in the rafters. We meet their bouncing, barking golden
retriever, Lacey, who overwhelms Heidi with her energy and assertive sniffing.
He
takes us to our room at the end of a long 2nd floor corridor. It overlooks the Bay and the blooming garden under
the protection of a four-foot plaster Mary. Our room has a bleeding Jesus crucifix
complete with a Palm Sunday palm.
Catholics live here.
After
a while, mom Jenn and the two towheaded boys return from a day trip to the
Detroit Zoo. Mom is beat, but the kids and dog are soon running back and forth
across the backyard, over the sea wall and into the Bay. A neighbor dog comes to visit, making a riotous
family cacophony.
She
is a pharmacist at what used to be Ascension Hospital in Saginaw. It is under
new management, and she is anxious about the transition. She, hubby Chris, and
kids are headed to Nova Scotia next week.
“We
are going to look for some land there,” she says, “Just in case.”
She
has dual Canadian and American citizenship and is hedging her bets.
“If
things keep going the way they are, I want be able to raise my boys in a stable
environment.” She muses. I hear the Trump
anxiety in her statement, but all of us are too careful to go there.
After
dinner, we visit with the parents. We
ask about the kayak and learn that Chris made it himself. “Do you still take it out?.”
He
pats his small pouch of a belly, and says, “Can’t fit in it anymore!”
We
are shocked to learn that Chris is 54. He
could pass for 35. Jenn is a bit younger. They met online 15 years ago when both were about
to give up on ever marrying and having a family.
They
exude joy, love, and gratefulness that they found each other and made this free-wheeling
fulsome family. She was raised in Midland. Both her parents were Canadian who worked for
Dow Chemical. He grew up just down the street from their current house.
It
is shocking such deeply rooted people who love the life that they've built
together are nonetheless contemplating emigrating to Canada. “We just want our
kids to be raised in a stable, wholesome environment. It's hard to see that
happening here in the USA.” Jenn says again.
Around
8:30pm, the whole family starts flagging. Mom says bedtime and within 10
minutes, the house is silent.
All
of us are soon quiet, then sleeping in our bedroom while the moon shines over
the silvery Saginaw Bay.
-------------------------------------------------------
Birthday Bike
July 12, 2025: Donahue Bay to Pinconning
Miles 238-260
We
are off early on my birthday. We find
the Iron Belle and it takes us to lovely forests aside the Saginaw Bay. That ends much too soon.
Our
hosts have told us we must eat at the Turkey Roost, which has been in business
since the 1940s.
“It's
Pepto Bismol pink!” Chris says, “You can't miss it!”
Indeed.
The
whole vibe is early 1960s—plastic booths and formica tables, no winking irony. We bring the dog in. No one blinks an eye.
After
we order, Wes sings me a sotto voce Happy Birthday and we pretend the giant fluffy
biscuits are my birthday cake.
We're
back on the road through layers of worker suburbia-- small cape cods and ranch
houses dot the streets. We plug along. It’s not an unpleasant ride, though we wish
we could be closer to the Bay and in the forest, instead of on a moderately
busy highway.
I'm
still riding quite a bit faster than Wes. He tells me, “Stop early and stop often!”
Which
I do, but to no avail.
I
stop at a General Family Dollar Tree and buy another pair of sunglasses, (Is
this pair four or five?) and make sure they are good and ugly. The bright blue frames with pink lenses should
make them harder to lose.
I
look and look for Wes but don't see him. I push him on until I come to Wilson's
Cheese House, the oldest cheese maker of
Pinconning cheese.
A
small man swathed in voluminous puffy bonnet, gloves, apron and a white jacket
comes from the production room and asks if I am riding the bike outside.
I
am. I then answer multiple questions
from him and his coworker, a late middle-aged woman with a peculiar color of
red hair mashed under a net.
“Oh,
I could never do that!” he declares, “That takes guts.”
I
assure them it doesn't, just persistence. It’s just taking a bike ride every
day. (I don’t say anything about the
daily challenge of finding lodging.) I buy their most sharp cheese and go out
to look for Wes. Again, I don't see him.
I
call and wait for Wes. What the heck? There is no way Wes can be that far behind me.
I
push on, increasingly anxious about Wes. Did something go wrong? Is there a problem with the bike?
I
finally get him on the phone. He is at a Marathon gas station. I assume it is
the gas station where I waited some miles back.
Nope.
Wes is in Pinconning---several miles
ahead of me. He must have passed me when
I was buying sunglasses or cheese.
I
meet him in Pinconning and we make our way to the only motel in town. I go into
the plexiglass-protected office where a large surly Indian man greets me-- if “Just
a minute” counts as a greeting. He calls
a name, then disappears.
I
smell the rich and enticing smells of curry.
Behind the plexiglass, a Bollywood musical blares on a huge TV that no
one is watching. A young, harried woman, heavily pregnant with dark circles
under her eyes and her black hair pulled into a thoughtless ponytail, greets me.
Her name is Ananda.
We
are assigned to the room second closest to the highway. It is painted orange and the queen beds are on
twelve inch platforms. We have a hard
time figuring out how to turn on the air conditioning unit near the ceiling by
the bathroom. A switch across the room
does the trick.
It's
nothing fancy, but it'll do--until a group of raging, rowdy what appears to be
tweakers moves in next door. I watch
them as I take Heidi out to a patch of grass littered with a kiddy pool and
tiny tricycles. Surly guy and Ananda’s
children’s, I assume.
One
skinny young man with burning eyes and a buzz haircut is having a meltdown. A barely
dressed enormously obese woman tries to console him, while the normative
character in this lot, a paunchy middle-aged guy with a walrus mustache, says
over and over “Take it easy.”
They
bang and they clang and they shout. The skinny guy zooms off in the beater
Impala and comes back with two cases of beer.
Oh
no. This is going to be a frightmare with no sleep for us.
I
go to the office and ask Ananda if we can move to a different room that will be
quieter.
“No.
Everything is taken. Don't worry. I will speak to them.”
Back
in our room, as we prepare to go get dinner, I get a call from Ananda.
“I
have spoken to them and said they must be quiet as there are people on both
sides of them. I told them that they must leave if they are not quiet.”
After
our dinner at a sports bar, where are waitress is a terrified young woman working
her first shift, we come back to our room and see the beater Impala is gone.
Perhaps Ananda made them leave.
Not
quite. Normative guy returns sans meltdown guy and enormous woman.
Ananda
calls again, “You let me know if they make any noise!”
They
don't. We sleep as well as we can in the
too tall beds in the bright orange room with highway sounds all night.
Meditation On Age 69
Today
is my 69th birthday.
I
am feeling good that biking is becoming more pleasure than chore. Often in the morning, the riding is magical. It
is quiet and cool. The sound of birds is the loudest sound.
I
remember the joyful ride on the Southern Lake Trail. Trees abut both sides of the smooth and beloved
trail. I spot mama deer and a spotty
baby 6 feet away. A little frog hops across the path. My heart sings. I speak to the many, many itty bitty wabbits.
(Because
I am 69, I am required to quote Elmer Fudd--where I am sure is the first place this
little Wyoming girl encountered the music of Richard Wagner. “Kill the wabbit”
still rings in my head.)
But
to be 69 is also to be in a different relationship with my body. My body is weaker. It recovers more slowly.
We
undertake this trip to regain vitality-- to use our bodies vigorously in an
activity which we know will become pleasurable.
The first week of every trip we have taken is always tough. Even if we
have been practicing, (which we did damn little before this trip) it is never
enough and it is never the right kind of exercise.
For
example: one of the biggest energy sucks is starting the bike from standing
still. Road riding (as opposed to bike
path riding) has lots of stops and starts. Then there is being constantly aware of the
roaring industrial vehicles, idiotical jackanapes driving much too fast, and the
ordinary inattentive drivers. There is
no way to prepare for this stop and start stress.
I
want to be a strong and vital 69. I do not
want my body and my brain to slip into goo.
We have been too long inside. I
have been too long worried and focused on Wes’ recovery. Wes is 72, an old 72 at that. He needs to know he is still who he was. He needs to know that he still has resilient
strength. As do I.
On
those luminous mornings-- in fog or clear, when the bike is humming along and
my legs are working and I'm not winded, I can soar into some state of ecstasy
and hyper-attuned presence. I am listening, seeing, being. There is joy in the doing and connections
beyond myself.
I'm
69 and getting my body to go without running out of strength or energy is a
blessing in itself.
On
we go.
