It isn't often that I come across oddly placed things during my bike rides around my local countryside that give me enough pause to actually stop my ride and contemplate the obscure reasons why something, that obviously doesn't belong, just happens to be....well, there.
Which leads to my ride yesterday "around the block" through the sedate moneyed, and quite historic town of Upperville, the former "bad boy town" of centuries past when scalliwags and neerdowells used to inhabit the place and harrass and/or rob, depending upon the day and the amount of liquor consumed, the stagecoaches hurrying through the one-road town enroute from Alexander to Winchester. Such miscreants have not been seen in these parts since the Roaring Twenties (not the current dumpster fire Twenties but rather the fun Flapper and bootleg Twenties a century ago), so I was at a bit of a loss to ascertain exactly why this bronze (I assume it's bronze, that is) has abruptly made an appearance in an expansive field just outside the town limits:
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I suppose I could understand if we were in Texas where oversized cowboy hats, big spurs, bigger chaps, and bucking broncos are almost a state symbol, and most definitely a proud visual of "The Wild West" culture. But here in Virginia? The exhaulted Foxhunting Capital of the US? Where expensive high class Thoroughbreds graze in the pristine fields of old estates, where the ancient class conscious, centuries old rituals of foxhunting hold such a tight sway that members of the hunt dare not step one foot outside the rigid protocol rules as set down by ages of Masters? Not likely. I know a foxhunter who was admonished by her hunt's Master for wearing sunglasses one bright day after she had eye surgery and had been told by her doctor to keep her eyes protected. It was "strongly suggested" that she recuperate at home, rather than on the hunt field, until she could return without need of an accoutrement that was not part of her hunt's mandated attire. She immediately apologized and retired from the field, slinking in disgrace back to her horse trailer, and didn't return until her eyes were healed enough not to need sunglasses.
Yes, some Masters are that strict. You do not stand out, you blend in.
So here I was, standing alongside the highway that bysects this bastion of high-tone, upper crust, "new money is fine but old money is revered" foxhunting cultured town, standing next to my bike, wondering what had been going through the mind of the person who had plunked this out-of-place symbolism of "The Wild West" here, of all places. In an open field. No explanation.
I took a picture, as traffic whizzed behind me, and then rejoined the road as soon as there was a lull in the passing cars. Maybe someday I'll find out why the statue had been placed in that field. But not today. Today was a recuperation day for my sore body, tired of weeks of fencing repairs and manual labor farm projects in the winter cold, and my exhausted mind that was still reeling from the ongoing dumpster fire (if I can recycle that phrase again because it is really all encompassing) that is our political scene at the moment less than a half-century bike ride east of where I stood, spitting distance almost, plus the ongoing pandemic that has seemed to have taken a back seat to the Washington DC melee, not to mention the unconscionable foot dragging rollout of the critical vaccine that has crept along slower than your average snail's pace while my county's daily infection rate is topping 17%.
Yeah, I needed a bike ride. Bad. Besides calming my soul and mental stress levels a ride would also give me the opportunity to test the new "run flats" my mechanic had installed inside the wheels of both my bikes this past week. Plus check out the new front disk brake on the Vado, the old one having been an annoying "howler" from day one, and over time "ruined" was the word my mechanic used to describe the "repairs" done to it by another bike shop. New brake pads all around as well. My bikes were primed and ready for a whole new year.
Happily the weather had offered a respite, pushing the temps up into the balmy 50s (10c), with sunny skies and the sweetest calm one could ever hope for on a mid-January afternoon. The only breezes produced were those of my bike, which was fine by me.
Partway through this wonderful old town of Upperville is a local library.
View attachment 76722Housed in an ancient stone building smaller than my Living Room, the elegant hand lettered sign above the diminutive entryway (think "stoop to go inside otherwise you'll bang your head on the door frame" type of diminutive ) boasting the library's existence from 1804. I'm guessing the local scalliwags and neerdowells in residence back then didn't have much use for books, and as the centuries passed and the local population increased in size and wealth, those residences had their own libraries and thus had no strong need for a public library. Not to be deterred, the library continued to remain a stakeholder in the town, building pride in its own existance to the point where the tiny building has not one, but two signs, just in case you didn't notice the first.
The door was closed and locked so I peered in the window. The darkened interior was in a bit of disarray, with boxes here and there as if someone was unpacking stuff. The book shelves, which lined the walls floor to low ceiling, had a decent, but scarcely overwhelming collection, with lots of gaps in between the books. Interesting. Maybe one day I'll visit when it is open, whenever that will be because there were no hours posted.
Upperville is a really strange town.
Just a few feet further was the massive Episcopal church, the centerpiece of the wealth and privilege of the surrounding countryside. I rode my bike around behind the church to the elegant graveyard, the final resting place of many a notable landowner of wealth and prestige. My old endurance friend is buried there, granted a place in this exclusive venue by virtue of being old money and substantial estate holder in her time. Cancer doesn't care, however. It strikes rich and poor with no reservations, no sympathy. It didn't seem like 17 years since we last rode our horses together, laughing and sharing tales of the endurance trail, before cancer robbed her of her ability to ride, and then robbed her of her life. She was 2 years younger than me. I stood in the silent graveyard, contemplating her plaque where it lay nestled in the dried winter grass, the turf still looking freshly cut although I know the last time the mower passed over her grave was months ago.
Just outside the yard I bumped into an old friend who works at the church and we stood, socially distanced, to talk and catch up on the local news and how the church was coping in the pandemic (really extraordinarily well, I was told, with much credit being given to some innovative and very creative fun ways of having the congregation still enjoy their Sunday worship together, albeit outside the stunning hallowed walls of the massive stone church) until her duties pulled her away. We said our goodbyes with promises to get together again as soon as the current madness died down.
The ride down the highway (25mph through town which is lovely) ended soon enough as I left behind the beautiful historic stone and brick buildings for the more peaceful gravel roads.
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At one point I passed, then turned my bike back around, to stop and photograph, a paused moment in a stone wall repair.
View attachment 76725These walls have been a hallmark of the countryside since the first European settlers took over American Native lands and cleared the rocky fields for crops and livestock. Over the centuries the dry stacked walls have succumbed to gravity and weather, only to be restored and then left to tumble down again decades later. This wall had been in the process of being restacked before winter set in. Apparently the mason had simply left the job to wait until warmer weather, leaving behind his frames where they stood. I suppose this spring, when I ride this road again, I will see the mason back at work, rebuilding the stone wall to last yet another century before it tumbles down again.
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As peaceful and beautiful as my ride had been, only my mind had been rested. My body was sadly beyond fatigued and had not enjoyed the outting at all. I was getting too many complaints from too many body parts to push the ride beyond 20 miles, no matter how slow I rode or how high the assist. I finally gave in and headed home, taking the sweet memories of this ride and the last of the afternoon sun and warmth with me.
