An epic ride, a milestone, and a wind called Gale
It was the first early spring day in over two weeks that finally dawned clear and bright and sunny here in northern Virginia. We had been waterlogged for too many days already, and the brilliant blue skies over the quiet open rural roads were too inviting to pass up. Today was the perfect day for an epic ride. Perhaps even a metric century a little voice in my head suggested. Well, why not? Was there anything holding me back from hopping on my bike first thing and then pedaling off to explore the emerging springtime scenery before the forecasted wind came roaring in to spoil the perfect day?
Well, yes. There was, and it involved a post hole digger, some new post and rail fencing, and a lot of sweat. A project that consumed the best part of the morning to accomplish, until the sun was high in the sky and the afternoon was, in other words, “nigh”. But that little voice in my head never relented, insisting with ever greater urgency that I needed to ride today. Why, I didn’t know at the time. I was to learn later.
By the time the project was finished and farm tools were put away, I'd had time to plot out the rest of my day. And it all came with a view from the saddle.
The wind was already waltzing in, setting up to be a bother, but I was too determined not to waste another precious moment on chores. Everything else could wait for another day. I was ready to ride my planned metric century.
Loop 1 – 25 miles.
Chased by the wind, a guinea fowl, and a goal.
Best cycling music: Graceland by Paul Simon.
My game plan was a simple one. Do my ride in a series of loops, each loop in a different direction on different roads. My pit stops would be at home to refuel, refresh, and check in with my SAG team member. Namely, hubby dearest. The first loop called for me to head south into the next county, enjoy their quiet roads first, and then see what the rest of the afternoon brings.
I shrugged into my cycling jacket, plugged in my music, set my GPS, and aimed my bike south.
In a few miles I was in the next county, cycling a loop of 25 miles of paved road that encircled some of the richest estates in Virginia. Endless stretches of green pasturelands lined the road, most fields dotted with expensive Thoroughbreds, all but the most pampered finally rid of their winter finery to graze in the warm sunshine, their sleek coats shining under a brilliant sun. The road unrolled in front of my wheels in an endless, undulating ribbon of blacktop pavement, taking me from open vistas to secluded woodlands, through hill and dale, hither and yon. It was a road that had been left to its own devices, laid directly on the untouched earth as if the very thought of preparing a road bed had never occurred to its designers, after which they had simply left without a backwards glance. No paint marred the surface, no traces of civilization forced the road into submission. It was a free road. A peaceful road. A road without restraints. Inviting, entertaining, and perfect for cycling.
Or, it would have been except for the rising wind which was gaining ground on me with increasing alacrity.
There is an old song “They Called The Wind Miriah” about old time pioneers enduring the fierce prairie winds during their journey westward. Well, I decided a better name for the wind that was building in intensity with every passing second, and intent upon knocking me and my bike around for its own sport, should be “Gale”, a name stolen directly from Frozen 2. A far more apt choice, especially when a middle name “Force” and a last name “Winds” was added. And depending upon the frequency in which Gale rudely slammed into me while I rode along, making my bike wobble in alarm, or slyly gusted past me trying to flip my patiently waiting bike to the ground when I had stepped away to take a picture, her middle name morphed into something less flattering, more of an expletive than a noun.
Still, her unwanted intrusion into my peaceful ride was thwarted whenever the road decided to take pity on me by ducking down into a woodland, letting the trees be the ones buffeted rather than my bike. I was grateful for every diversion the road offered, and I could relax and enjoy the miles of views.
There is a particular affinity for the land owners in this part of foxhunting country to name their estates. Many names are designed as bold statements, proudly announcing their personal estate via artfully designed signs poised in regal splendor at the entrance. Other names are historical, whimsical, or sometimes just downright strange. It was at the signpost of one of the strange names that a trio of guinea fowl had gathered, doing whatever it is that guinea fowl do. Which, I assume, is walk about in confused formation as an impromptu team, screeching play-by-play instruction to one another with no clear idea what they want to do, or, for that matter, making any sense at all. My less then sudden appearance on the road took them by surprise, sparking a great deal of frantic running about in tight formation with no apparent direction of travel, creating a massive traffic jam in which each fowl was running into the others with increasing panic. And for just three birds to create a screaming mayhem of such utter confusion that they had no idea where to go or how to escape the completely innocent benign approach of my bike, was one of the best comedy acts I'd ever witnessed. I passed them by with a smile, enjoying their brainless antics. My smiling passage, however, appeared to be taken as a direct insult by one of the trio who saw his group’s collective idiocy as a serious endeavor not to be dismissed by my lack of respect. Thus, as my bike whipped past, this one fowl decided to show me who was who by fluffing out its feathers in an act of bravado, and giving my retreating bike the “bum’s rush”. Unconcerned by the puffed up fowl’s ridiculous rendition of “after the fact” intimidation tactics, my bike continued on down the road, leaving the trio behind to congratulate, with exceptionally loud screeching cheers, the tough guy bravado of their member who had returned with proud boasts of having vanquished the now fleeing bicycle.
Those guineas were the Three Stooges in feathers. No wonder people keep them around. They are an endless comedy act.
The wind was still whipping around the countryside in her enthusiasm, so I was grateful that the road was hiding me from her attention, allowing me to look around at interesting things reroute. One such thing captured my attention, almost causing me to run off the road because I was too busy craning my neck to see it better. What was it, you ask? Honestly, I wasn't entirely sure myself. As best I could make out, someone had planted, for lack of a better word, a very big, very imposing swirling glass type sculpture smack dab in the middle of a field on the side of a hill. As if Elsa from Frozen 1 had created a swirling ice sculpture for her mountain ice palace, and someone here bought it at auction after Elsa abandoned the ice palace, selling off all the fixtures before going back to live at Arendal. It was honestly that strange, and that out of place in this bucolic southern locale. A curving driveway passed by the sculpture, keeping its distance and rushing away up the hill as if embarrassed to be seen in the vicinity of that weird…thing. I didn't blame the driveway one bit. I kept looking at that glass, or was it plastic, sculpture even as the road carried me on, turning my head frequently to see if it looked any less weird from a retreating angle. Nope, it didn't. Didn’t have a good enough view for a picture, either. So you'll just have to use your imagination. Whoever put that sculpture in that field certainly did.
By now the road was tired of hiding from the wind, and ready to send me back to civilization. It stretched out the remaining miles through open fields where Gale was too quick to find me, making me drop my head and hold on tight to my bike as she tried to wrestle it from my grip. I pedaled as fast as I could to reach the relative safety of the local town where the centuries old building were more than capable of thwarting Gale’s increasing attempts to unseat me. The highly civilized highway through the town, calmed from racing speed at the town limits down to a sauntering 25mph to allow traffic to catch its breath, afforded me both protection from Gale as well as smooth sailing all the way back to the roads taking me the remaining 7 miles home.
25.04 miles on the GPS announced the end of Loop 1 as I safely cruised up my driveway, ready to enjoy a half hour of lunch, restocking of snacks and drink, and switching my bike's used battery to a new fully charged battery. Even though my first battery still offered 20 miles more to go, it was not going to be enough for the second loop, nor did I want to carry it with me. So I plugged the used battery onto the charger, walked down to the barn to put my mare out on the back field to enjoy her 3 hours of grazing, then walked back up to the house to enjoy lunch before I embarked on the second part of my ride. Namely, Loop 2.
Loop 2 – 30 miles
Country roads, outwitting the wind, and personals bests.
Best cycling music: Thriller by Michael Jackson
Two weeks ago the state road crews had energetically fluffed and groomed the miles of gravel roads surrounding our western end of county, removing the potholes and laying the framework for some wet weather, and a bit of traffic, to smooth out the roughened gravel into a flat surface just perfect for cycling. It was on these roads I would cycle now. Slower, more rural, less pretentious, a bit more wild, a touch rougher, but no less charming.
My goal was to head north, taking the gravel roads in a looped configuration to encourage Gale to shove me along rather than slam me in the face and scream in my ears. But Gale had other plans, and she now ambushed me from the side, still trying to topple my poor unassuming bike each time I left it standing in its own while I stepped away to take photographs of the countryside. Each attempt was met by my abandoning the photo at hand and rushing back to the defense of my bike, grabbing it each time, just in the nick of time, to keep it upright.
Luckily, the mean spirited wind could do little to diminish my enthusiasm for the ride. I found myself rocking and bopping to the catchy music pouring into my ears. Toe tapping, shoulder rocking music that kept brilliant time with each turn of the cranks. The miles passed under a collection of playlist favorites, and I found, much to my enjoyment, that my springy seat post made a pretty darn good dance partner with the more hip hopping tunes. I'm sure I would have presented the strangest sight to any passing motorist or walker, my head nodding and seat bouncing, singing aloud to an invisible tune in my ear. But there were none but the trees and grass, and only vaguely interested livestock in the surrounding fields to witness my decent into melodious madness. I didn't care anyway. I was having a grand ol time cycling along. Mile after mile. It was all perfect as long as Gale found something, or someone else, to torture.
So I reveled in the dense woodlands that offered me quarter, and spent the miles enjoying the vast rolling countryside that graced every bend, every curve, every straightaway that road had to offer. My bike enjoyed it as well, being careful not to dive into sudden potholes that always took advantage of my inattention to leap into my line of travel just as I looked away at something more interesting than the ground in front of me. At one point a particularly sneaky series of washboard bumps ganged up on my bike while I was somewhere deep in la-la land , throwing themselves in a unified attack under my wheel which caused my normally placid bike to abruptly throw a bucking, crowhopping fit of anger. Taken completely by surprise by the maneuver of the gravel that was clearly meant to unseat me and send me ignominiously crashing to the ground bum first, I hung on, trying to smooth my bike's furious reaction to the washboarding even as the bumps retreated behind us, cowards one and all, laughing at their mean spirited prank. Mollified by my soothing, my bike leveled out. I patted it in apology, promising I would pay better attention to the road. No more wandering into la-la land, leaving my bike to do all the pre-scouting.
True to my word, the miles were taken with more care on my part, and my bike and I rolled along heading east until we reached an intersection…and a decision. My bike waited impatiently, lounging on its kickstand while I stood on the road, consulting both my map and three wooden roadside poles hosting a confused jumble of road route signs that seemed placed by a committee of the blind. Or the insane. A whole bucketfull of route numbered signs, enough to decorate the posts on that intersection like they were Christmas trees in December. With no rhyme or reason as to what sign was placed where, or which road went which way, I walked back and forth, from one side of the intersection to the other, helplessly confused, studying the signs and their less than helpful pointing arrows, trying to make sense of them on my map. Which way to go? One gravel road headed the wrong way so I ignored it. The road I'd ridden in on was behind me, so I ignored that one, too. That left two remaining. Of those two, one seemed less traveled and was perhaps was the one my map suggested may offer a slower, more placid journey, safe from the wind by traversing mostly protective woodlands. But this other gravel road going this other way seemed more sure of itself, notwithstanding the wrong signs over its head. If it was this one on the map, then it would take me to a paved road which, while it promised much faster speeds, came at the expense of no longer being solitary travel. I would have to share my road with cars. Polite cars, but cars nonetheless.
I stood and debated, then asked my bike what it preferred. The answer came back without hesitation. It was time to put some speed under the tires and have some fun.
So fun was the plan. I studied the map once more, then tucked it away before heading down the road most traveled by, which made all the difference.
In a mile or so we hit the paved road…and the fast paced fun began. Free from the resistance of the gravel road the tires literally hummed in joy on the slick paved roller coaster road. The bike rose to the challenge, pushing the speed up to and beyond the already ramped up assist. I gleefully joined in on the frivolity, dropping into aero position on every downhill, watching in anticipation as the GPS recorded my speed. The hills rose and fell with the precision of a metronome, sending the GPS into a psychotic tizzy of speed ranges it rarely got to experience. 30mph. 32mph. 38 mph. Gale was no longer an issue. The wind was of my own making now, and a big part of the fun. I would drop into aero position to attempt to go faster each time, and the one time I actually clocked 38mph flying down an especially steep slope, I did so with an unexpected audience in the form of a stylishly cute convertible sports car following behind me in my slip screen. As we both finished swooping down to the bottom of the hill and my bike slowed to climb the uphill, the convertible sports car politely passed me. The two occupants, a nice older couple, a husband and wife, their somber gray hair being teased into a wildly inappropriate jitterbug dance by the wind rushing over the car's open roofline, happily returned my friendly wave of hello, both grinning as the gentlemen driver raised his hand to give me a big thumbs up approval for my no-holds-barred downhill bravado.
That just made my day.
Smiles and waves were happily exchanged with all the motorists who shared those couple of miles of civilized road with me. Everyone, without exception, was polite, as we all were intent upon the same goal – to enjoy what may well be our last day of freedom for the next several months. We were all in the same boat together, and there was a comradery there that showed it was our top priority. It was actually enjoyable to share the road, and I gave my friendly waves freely to all. And received the same in return.
I had not expected the road to be such an endless, exhaustive roller coaster, however. Not a bit of it was flat, and I was beginning, after about the tenth or twentieth or one hundredth hill, to wonder if I was going to regret my decision to ride the paved road. Fortunately, my turn off road put in an appearance, just in time to start the loop back home. I breathed a sigh of relief and exited onto calmer, more sedate blacktop. This road, while still being paved, it was not a main road, and thus far less traveled. I had it to myself as my bike rolled along, still maintaining a good speed as we looped south, and then west again. A few more hills, not as challenging this time, and the road turned to even more placid gravel once again only 3 miles from home
Gale had long disappeared. I guess she had gotten tired of annoying me, and had gone elsewhere to seek someone more sporting. I hadn't notice that she had left, but now found I missed her enthusiastic challenges to my riding skills. I knew she'd be back. Probably on Loop 3.
I cruised up my gravel driveway, riding over a beautiful scattering of pink cherry tree and magnolia flowers Gale had ripped from my trees that afternoon while I'd been out riding, and had flung about willy nilly in a snowstorm of pink and white and magenta. Drifts of delicate pastel pedals lined the driveway as I passed the shell shocked trees, stripped naked and wondering why their springtime finery was now decorating the lowly grass. I rolled up next to the garage just as the GPS clicked in at 30 miles.
55 miles ridden. Just 5 left to go. Piece of cake.
I checked the waning sun, and my watch. I still had 45 minutes before I had to put my horse back in her paddock. Plenty enough time grab a snack, refill my bottles, and log the final 5 miles before I called my metric century a success.
I had barely made it in the door when my husband greeted me with the sobering and greatly worrisome news that our state had just mandated a lockdown, effective immediately. This one was serious. The state corona virus numbers had risen exponentially that morning alone, and the prognosis was grim.
I knew a lockdown was coming. I just hadn't expected it to be so soon. I had precious time to spare.
I grabbed a banana from the counter and shoved it into my mouth at the same time I snagged a carton of juice from the fridge and chugged the juice down right from the container, standing in front of the open fridge door. No time for civilized manners. Or a glass. At the moment I was in preflight mode, grabbing a sour pickle from the jar in the fridge and popping it in my mouth before throwing “I have just 5 miles to go, see you in a bit!” over my shoulder at my startled husband as I slammed the fridge door shut and raced out of the kitchen towards the garage, back to my bike.
I was astonished to see the battery that I had left charging at the finish of Loop 1 was now fully charged. Delighted, I ejected the exhausted battery off the bike and slid the fully charged battery in its place. At the very highest assist I now had a minimum of 37 miles at my fingertips, 76 miles maximum. It was the minimum that I was after, and I was bound and determined to use every available electron possible. The doors on freedom were closing as the fight against the virus ramped up. I had 5 miles left to go, and little time left.
I checked my watch and decided my horse could have some extra time grazing while I finished my ride.
I was ready to roll the final loop.
Loop 3 – 12 miles
Changing goals, outrunning a mandate, and realizing a dream.
Best cycling music: Try Anything by Shakira (played on repeat the entire 12 miles. That song is cadence worthy AWESOME. Trust me.)
I hopped on my bike and headed back down the flower strewn driveway, turning quickly onto our local gravel road, a road that presented a very nice 7 mile loop that would finish my ride in style, and give me an additional 2 miles extra as a bonus.
My wheels hit the smooth part of the gravel road, but within a half mile they hit something else. Newly topped gravel. As new as one could get. All loose stones eager to cause tires to slip and slide and possibly crash. I grabbed my brakes and slowed to a crawl, glancing with alarm at the sun descending faster to the horizon than I was at going down the road. At this rate it would take an hour to finish the 5 miles. I could walk faster.
The Fates had not yet abandoned me, though. The new gravel petered down to a few spare stones after another half mile then gave up altogether as the packed gravel came into view once again. I gave a sigh of relief, putting some speed back on the pedals. The road climbed a hill then laid itself out flat, inviting me to do my best. I smiled, turned up Shakira on my ear buds, dialed the assist to maximum, and took off.
That bike flew. Literally flew. I was speeding down the gravel road faster than I had ever gone, music pounding a snappy addictive beat in my ear when suddenly…it happened. Something I had never expected. Something so powerful and quick it took me completely by surprise.
I had seen this happen only once before, on a different ride somewhere else years ago. I had been riding a relaxed rail-to-trail path in Maryland and had paused for a drink when another cyclist came up to me on the adjacent paved road then stopped, seeking direction. A nice guy on very sleek, very fast, obviously super expensive carbon fiber bike. A bike worthy of only being the mount of a well conditioned human of notable endurance. A bike of such speed and precision that it would brook no insult by being ridden by anything less than a top athlete. This guy looked the part, all right. But there was something about him that gave me pause. There was no relaxation here, no “I own the road” air of calm superiority as he straddled his beautiful bike. No, instead his whole body vibrated with suppressed, barely contained energy, his eyes alight with the look of a sled dog ready to race through the snow at speeds beyond comprehension. He had just ridden 50 miles he explained as my eyes widen in astonishment, then he inquired as to whether I knew of perhaps a different road he could take going home. I had paused with my water bottle to my lips and studied him as he explained the routes he had come thus far. He had so much energy coursing through every fiber in his being that I almost took a step back so as not to be not knocked flat by the radiating intensity. Besides that, he looked a bit demented. That sled dog look, ya know. I politely explained I wasn't a local, and didn't know the surrounding roads, but maybe he could get a map at the local gas station up the road there. I pointed my water bottle in the general direction he needed to go, and he thanked me generously and most politely, cycling off to find a map. Or go another 100 miles before he stopped to ask again. I don't know because he was gone by the time I stashed my water bottle and looked up again.
Anyway, I had seen this before, as I said, only once. But it was unmistakable when it hit me right in the face. The road narrowed to an infinite point, and the rest of the world became nothing but a blur. Nothing but a runway for the massive rush of adrenaline that abruptly surged through me as the road flattened in front of me, this weird powerful feeling taking over as if nothing else in the world mattered but me, my bike, and the road.
My whole body electrified, as if on fire. I couldn't feel anything except an awesome power surge through my legs and into the pedals, pushing the bike to maximum speed. My mental jaw dropped as my whole body cheered my legs on, my bike flying down the road at breathtaking speed. I felt nothing except sheer, unadulterated joy. As if I hadn't already ridden 55 miles. As if I hadn't already spent endless hours on my bike. None of that mattered at all. My body felt so incredible, so powerful. Nothing in the world could stop me.
My bike flew faster and faster down the road, gaining speed with every pedal stroke, taking every swing of the road and every corner like it was on rails, my fingers never touching the brakes. The bike already knew the way, every nuance of the road, slaloming with speed and precision around every pothole, every imperfection, barely touching the road surface as it raced along. The adrenaline reached my head and swept like a tidal wave over my brain. And at that moment, with both the wind and Shakira singing in my ears, my bike in full flight under me, my legs growing more and more powerful with each stroke, my body a complete symphony of brilliant motion - it all became overwhelming. At that moment I suddenly understood what was happening. I threw back my head and laughed out loud.
I was on a cycling high.
This…this was nothing short of sheer bliss. And suddenly I didn’t want it to end. I was already flying towards the 4 mile point, where the last mile turned towards home when the voice in my head seductively sang through Shakira’s voice. “I won't give up, no I won't give in till I reach the end then I'll start again” it sang to me, to my legs, to that whole mass of vibrating energy that had taken me over. “Keep going further ” it urged. “Make this a “Ride Your Age” ride. All you need is 7 more miles. That's easy. Just…keep going.”
Without thinking I passed by my turn and kept on going, fueled by that tremendous adrenaline rush . I had taken exceptional care of my body the entire ride, keeping it fueled, preventing it from doing too much too soon. Nothing hurt, nothing was tired. My questionable knee was still happily turning the cranks with complete abandon. Not a peep or complaint in the least. I had tons of energy still in the tank, and it was so simple to just keep following the road. Adding more miles. So very easy.
So…I did. Pressing on faster an faster until faster was no longer an option. Up and down and along the straightaways the bike and I flew in sheer delight, the building miles barely a blip on my radar. I was in heaven, laughing over the sheer delight of riding. I'm pretty sure I looked demented as well. No question.
I rode at breakneck speed until, at last, the road deposited me safely (which was more than a little surprising) back to where I had begun, 67 miles ago. I paused a quarter mile from the finish, still vibrating under the heady effects of the high, actually debating yet again whether to cross the finish line. The voice was urging me on. “Why quit now? You're so close to 75 miles”, it sang in Shakira‘s voice, still enthusiastically belting out a tune in my ear. “Just a few more miles. That's all.”
I glanced at the descending sun, and my battery level, then my watch. I had the time, the energy, and more than enough battery power to keep going. Heck, why stop at 75? Why not do 100? The world was grinding to a halt, but that didn't mean I had to as well. Just a few more miles. My body rocked with wave after wave of intense desire to keep on pedaling. To keep on riding more miles.
But responsibilities pulled me like a tether back towards home. I dropped my head, turned down the music pounding into my brain, and allowed a sense of calm to take control over the adrenaline storm. I had completed my goal ride in style and in fun. It was time to put this one into the history books, bring my mare in for dinner, and give my bike a rest.
In short, it was time to call it a day. The roads will still be there tomorrow.
I let Shakira finally finish her song as I rode the remaining bit of mile home and up the driveway still strewn like a bridal path covered in congratulatory flowers, and parked my bike at the barn. I laughed to see my mare had already brought herself in from her pasture and was waiting expectantly at her gate for her decidedly late dinner. No need to hike out into the field to find her. The Fates were still smiling on me. I fed her and the others, then walked my invincible metal steed back up to the garage to be plugged in for the night. “Good bike” I crooned, patting its saddle affectionately. “You did fabulous today. Thank you.”
I practically danced into the house and met my husband with my arms raised high in championship glee. “I did it!” I crowed, fists punching the air. “I rode 67 miles…and it was AWESOME!!” I spun on my heel and presented my back. “Here,” I ordered, pointing my hand down over my shoulder, “pat me on the back. I deserve it!”
My husband rolled his eyes, recognizing punch drunk when he saw it, but dutifully patted my back in perfunctory congratulations. “You're crazy”, he said.
I didn't care. I had done it, captured a memory that was the first of its kind for me even as the world was crashing around us, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.
Except when I tried for my first century. That was going to be a blast, too! As always, new adventures await!
The all important stats:
Garmin Edge 810 – 2018 Giant LaFree E+1 (400w battery, 5 levels assist)
LOOP 1 - DISTANCE: 25.2 miles
TIME: 2:02:28
AVG SPEED: 12.32 mph / MAX SPEED: 30.88 mph
ELEVATION ASCENT: 1732.3'
LOOPS 2-3 - DISTANCE: 42.9 miles
TIME: 3:39:53
AVE SPEED: 11.72 mph / MAX SPEED: 38.49 mph
ELEVATION ASCENT: 4,101'
TOTAL DISTANCE: 68.1 miles
TIME: 5:42:21
AVG SPEED: 12 mph / MAX SPEED: 38.49 mph
ELEVATION ASCENT: 5,833'
TEMPERATURE: MAX 74°F MIN: 55°F
WINDS: MAX SUSTAINED: 21 mph, GUSTS: 35 mph
I cannot fathom what compelled these owners to name their place this, but take a clue from the fact that this is where the guinea fowl live. Enough said.
Gale was attempting to flip my waiting bike over on it's side while I snapped this pic. Raced back just in time to keep the bike upright. Wasn't sure if I got this shot or not. Very apropos, don't you think?
Start of Loop 1, 2 and 3. I snapped shots at the start of each loop, yet somehow they all looked exactly the same with the flag flying and the willow tree elevating every trailing branch up to horizontal to the ground. Gale had been serious all day at that point. The pedals in the foreground the unwilling courtesy of my poor magnolia tree. That is one of my Welsh ponies in the background, "Flag." "Findelyn American Flag" to be precise. His breeder named him that, I didn't. Kinda nice to see the 28 year old geezer photobombing this shot.
Where the semi-rural meets true rural.
Panorama of a Loop 1 view
Someone who left a fair amount of their car's front end in among the debris. Obviously: 1. Asleep at the wheel, or 2. The victim of a kamikaze deer, or 3. Just not paying attention. Money is on option #2.
No kidding. (Hint: zoom in on the name) (Note: the color is more "intense" in person. Too much overexposure in this shot. Cheap camera that didn't care, and some heavy shade from a tree that cared too much.
Loving the roadside creeks. They were all very merry, bubbling and splashing along with crystal clear water. Looked for fish and didn't see any. Not open season yet, so they must be practicing their hiding techniques.
Road with a purpose to look very inviting. A mere two miles from home.
Used to be useful, but now just decorative. Still, what a view from the front door, looking down on everything from up high.
Looking back from where we'd come so far.
Overlooking the best view of all - the view heading home.
So now that the warranty is up all the faults will now appear...
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Congratulations!
