The "Like" Checklist
Yesterday my Gazelle hitched a ride on the electric car for a dawn trip west across the mountain to a 2nd annual charity bike ride in Winchester VA. This was my first time at the ride and, while I was told the ride was very pretty and on nice country roads, I chose to be choosy and enter the half metric division on the sole principle that if I "liked" the route and the organization behind the ride, I could chose the Half Century division next year.
I believe the "Like" box has been checked for 2023 based on the scenery alone:
We lucked out with a gorgeous morning sporting a temperature well below the most recent highs this past week. The ride had (tried to) limit the number to 200 cyclists, but I guess "someone" forgot to turn off their online entry spigot once the limit was reached. 250 cyclists showed up that morning, resulting in a managerial panic of not having enough "swag bags" to hand out to the riders at check-in. A hastily written note tacked up on one of the tent poles at the registration table explained the situation, along with an apology, that the t-shirts and goodies were to be given out after the ride. Not a big deal to me. I was there for the ride, not the merchandise.
The vehicle parking was in the spacious lot of a local (huge) hospital complex with plenty of trees for shade. I left hubby to enjoy his book in the peace and quiet of the parking area while I joined the other riders gathering at an adjacent lot where two state troopers on their motocycles, with all the attending police lights flashing, escorted the ride out of town. The county sheriff's department had deputies stationed at all the local crossroads to allow the cyclists a free pass through the lights and stop signs while motorized vehicles obediently waited in lines until all the cyclists were through. I will admit that was another plus checkmark for me.
Within minutes the urban scenery of tall buildings and pristine suburban houses and various business enterprises gave way to rural farm lands, rustic fields, and wide open vistas with gorgeous mountain backgrounds. Traffic disappeared almost entirely (it was Saturday, after all) and the rare vehicles that did pass by were polite and careful.
The roads changed, too, shedding the standard crisp painted lines framing and dividing geometrically perfect urban traffic grids to become unadorned roughly laid blacktop wandering around the rural hills and valleys with not even a hint of a painted line in sight. Ancient farming equipment popped up randomly along the way, usually posing as rusty out-of-commission decorative art alongside dirt roads leading to oftentimes tired old farmhouses or even older barns that hadn't seen a paintbrush in decades. The majority of the farmed fields were filled with corn, miles of tall stalks tightly packed, still green, still growing. It would be another month or so before they would be ready for harvest. Angus cattle huddled in the dark shade of trees in the weedy, unmown pastures making them hard to spot. Easier to see were the amazing variety of wildflowers blooming along the roadside. Tall spikes of mullin with their stingy display of only one bright yellow flower per day, delicate Queen Anne's lace in brilliant white almost outcompeting the miles and miles of wispy purple flowers of chicory. Every now and then a symbol of suburbia shoved its way forward into view with a precision cut lawn and towering McMansion plopped in the middle of an acre or two, looking as out of place as a whale in a woods. Such astartling anomalies were quickly left behind as the uncut fields and sagging barbed wire on ancient fence posts struggling to remain upright but failing miserably recaptured their rightful place alongside the roads escorting the riders deeper into the countryside.
At one point our route took us under an immensely high power line that must have been 100' high. In a group of three, not all identical but instead configured to the era it was raised, the towers climbed a nearby hill, a prelude to the mountains the towers would soon have to surmount to send zillons of kilowats on a journey spanning thousands of miles. A reminder of how, as a society, we are all tied to The Grid for our daily lives. Out here in the rural countryside it wasn't hidden from view, buried underground as it was in the city being considered an eyesore, but instead demanded the air space as it's own. It was still an eyesore, but also a testament to progress at the same time. Worth taking a fast snapshot or two before I cycled onward back into more pristine vistas.
By the time the temperatures had started to rise into the less comfortable range, the 30 mile route had circled back to the beginning. In the company of another lady rider who I had shared several miles and nonstop conversation with, we rolled into the finish together, laughing. A quick check-in to record our finish, our swag bags secure on our handbags, we cycled together back to our cars which were (remarkably) right across the parking lane from each other. Met our respective husbands there, shared more conversation as we loaded our bikes up for the journey home, and waved goodbye with expressed hopes of seeing each other again at next year's ride.
Yes, with all the plus checkmarks this ride achieved, I will certainly put the half Century on my list for 2023.