Reading the road

Jefferson and Wells,  downtown

Well, I've biked about 1,750 miles on Sally Ride so far this year, and hope to hit 3,000 before the snow flies. For me, this is pretty good. I usually ride about five days a week, between 20 and 30-something miles at a go, with a goal of 100 a week. I did one longer ride to Port Washington, 60 miles roundtrip, and suffered for it, but I'll try that again when I get my gumption up.

Sally Ride is a truck, as bikes go, made of steel and thus heavy -- built for loaded touring -- and I am routinely passed by hotshots on featherweight bikes. And then again, I'm not the rider I used to be. But none of this really bugs me. I see it as not about speed so much as a way of exploring, a way to keep in touch with the world, a way to be out in it. This is also why I really prefer to ride alone -- I can putter if I want: sit and watch the boats at South Shore Marina; do a hill twice in a row to get a little work in; watch the anglers at Kletsch Park; grab Chinese take-out for dinner; whatever. This would drive some riders crazy.

What I think holds a serious Milwaukee rider back -- someone who rides from home and can't spend all day at it -- is the lack of challenging hills hereabouts. My friend Bruce, who rode with me last summer, takes daily rides in northern Michigan and gets in 1,000-foot climbs on a regular basis -- and there's nothing better than that to get you in tip-top shape.

When I started my cross-country ride last summer, I thought I was in pretty good shape, but I was only in good Milwaukee shape, and I was easily the slowest and weakest rider among the four of us, really struggling on the hills. It took two weeks of mountain riding to abate my dread of climbs, and by the end, I wasn't daunted by much. Even so, there were a few ridiculous hills -- like climbing out of Fort Benton, Montana -- where I had to take a break, or two, or three, on the way up -- but I knew by then I could make the top.

A few findings from recent rides.

Okay, I confess, this is not from the road, but from the roof

Protestors on State Street

There's a story here somewhere

Scripture is good for the soul, they say, though I do think it's "vengeance."

62

I had a birthday a couple days ago, and many thanks to all those adherents of Facebook who wished me well! Here's the card I got from the puckish Ms. V:

Inside it said, "Why is it the older we get, the more babylike we look? Happy Birthday."

Babylike or not, it was a startlingly good fit.

My dad at my age now was still running his medical practice. It was at about this time, late in his practice, that he had to start writing things down. Of course, as a doctor, there are a million details, and keeping a record is essential. But over the next few years his loss of memory became more pronounced, to the point where he had to quit some of the volunteer things he loved, like the School Ship project he worked on, and a mentoring program for young pastoral students. I heard him making that phone call to the coordinator: "It's too complicated for me."

As the years went on, he was prevented from driving, but he kept trying. My mother described him out at the garage, punching codes in to open the garage door, code after code after code. It angered him that he couldn't get it right, that anyone would have the temerity to keep him from his car.  Finally he got to be too much for my mom to handle, and we found a place for him at Huron Woods, a placement for memory loss patients. One of the worst decisions I've ever made was to stay there that first night with him. We went round and round. He would say, "Why are we here? Let's just go, let's go home." And I would say, "I'm staying here tonight. Why don't you stay with me." Over and over again. At one point I gave him a playful punch -- just a soft acknowledgment -- and he slugged me hard on the chest, and I was startled -- I had never, ever known him to be violent.

Mom came and got me the next day, and we talked lightly and went to the mall to look at bedspreads and sheets.

The door to his floor at Huron Woods was locked, and Dad would stand at it, twisting the handle and  shouting and pounding, pounding, pounding. He was strong and he fought with the caretakers and hurt at least one woman who tried  to wash him and change his clothes. He could not stand being fussed with like that and every change was a battle, sometimes requiring several aides. Finally he had to leave, and we found another place, closer to Detroit. A young male aide befriended him there, spent hours with him. He would walk with him, talk to him, engage him, and they developed a kind of method, a rapport, a feeling of trust. He was able to do the things that needed to be done.

As time went on Dad grew less willful -- he couldn't hold on to anger or frustration, what he cared about, or even what he liked or not. We brought him back. Mom hired Catherine and her family to care of him, and they kept coming, even beyond his death, to take care of Mom, till she moved here, nearby, when her own decline accelerated.

I hope it's easier for me.