‘You are old, father William,’ the young man said,
‘And your hair has become very white.’
Louis Carroll; 1866
On my ride from Lake Otty to Southport I passed a sign that read: “Caution Endangered Species.”
At first I thought, naturally, it was referring to me.
But then somebody told me that the Canadian government cared more about preserving some miserable creature called the gray rat snake than Moi.
Still, before my ride was through with me I was taking that sign as an omen.
I’m just gonna say this. It shouldn’t have taken me two hours and change to ride 17.4 miles.
Hell, back in the day, that woulda been a before breakfast warm up for a 65-miler.
But I had not reckoned on Northshore Road.
Which is known for its occasional breathtaking glimpses of the Upper Rideau.
But mostly for its steep hills.
It’s endless procession of steep hills.
One after the other.
Ad nauseam.
“Hills!” I sneered at first.
While I still had the energy to muster a sneer.
I who have ridden Nova Scotia’s French Mountain, Virginia’s Shenandoah and North Carolina’s Smokeys. Who fearlessly topped one craggy Dalmatian island after another, and braved Scotland’s sheep-infested rolling hills…grinning all the while.
And who lived to tell about them all!
Alas, I was to learn on this day that I was not really that cyclist any more.
It was on Northshore Road that I peered into my rear view helmet mirror and saw…
…Ron 77, grinning at me from the bottom of the hill I was currently climbing.
And he shouted: “Go back! Go back! It’s a trap!”
And then, at the crest of that hill I looked ahead.
And atop very the next hill I spied Ron 79.
Who was cackling like…well, like a toothless old coot who had taken leave of his senses.
And he taunted: “You won’t believe what’s gonna happen next pal!”
Hell, I might have caught the guy and had it out with him right there.
But I had to stop.
So I could gasp and shudder and shake.
And more or less patiently wait for my heart to climb back into my chest.
And my breath to catch up with me from wherever the hell it was I’d left it back there
I was obliged to stop and gasp and shudder and shake and wait three or four more times on that uphill, ever uphill, journey to Foley Mountain, overlooking the placid lakeside resort town of Westport.
This despite the fact that the entire trip involved an elevation gain of a mere 541 ft.
What the hell’s happened to me?
No question, I was out of practice.
You have to be crazy to be doing much riding in Gainesville this long, hot summer of heat domes and climate change and folks frying eggs on black asphalt at high noon.
Why the hell do they do that anyway?
On my way up to Foley it occurred to me that my longest GNV rides this summer were the 8.5 mile round-trips I take every Saturday to meet my buds at the Metro Diner.
But is that any excuse?
Listen, I’m not complaining (much). I understand full well that the alternative to growing older is a decidedly grimmer proposition.
And I’ve come to more or less accommodate the, um, growing pains of aging.
The constant “What the hell you think you’re doing!” yips I get from my knees and hips whenever I attempt an exotic maneuver.
Like, you know, sitting down and standing up.
And don’t even get me started on my neck, shoulders and back. Those sad losers!
But geeze….
I guess I’m like Rick and Paris.
I’ve just assumed that I’d always have my bike.
Oh, I’ve pretty much come to terms with the probability that I’ll never do another century. (Although a metric century is not out of the question, he said wistfully.)
And the last time I celebrated my birthday by riding my age was, well, a few years ago.
(I’ll never forget that time I turned 64 and spent the entire ride humming and singing that Beatles tune. Talk about salad days.)
The good news is that Ontario in the summer isn’t like GNV in the summer. The morning air is cool and the humidity low.
Every day or so I get on my bike at Otty Lake and cheerfully make the 17-mile round trip into nearby Perth for a spot of tea.
I’ve got an 18-mile route to Smith Falls mapped out for next week. And a 34-miler to Merrickville (farm roads, no hills) in case I wake up one morning feeling especially feisty.
But I gotta admit my assault on Northshore Road came close to breaking my cycling spirit.
I’d done that ride before, in the distant past, and hardly given it a thought.
Listen, I keep telling myself that e-bikes are for other people. Not for real cyclists. Like Moi.
But I dunno. Maybe if I bought one under an assumed name. In a plain brown wrapper.
Maybe if I’d had a little e-assist I coulda climbed to Foley Mt. with a sneer on my face and a still youthful gleam in my eye.
My heart in my chest and my breath still somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs.
And I coulda told Ron 77 and Ron 79 to both go to hell.
Oh pride, thou vanity doth weigh me down.
In my youth, said Father William, as he shook his grey locks, I kept all my limbs very supple
FreeGNV 