54th Birthday Ride

Maggie's recent musing on her age made me appreciate my ride yesterday,
my 54th birthday.

It was my turn to lead my club's Sunday morning ride from Miccosukee,
FL to Thomasville, GA. I went out at 5:30 a.m. to get the paper. The
wind was blowing from the northwest at about 20 miles per hour. The
temperature was in the 50s which, coupled with the wind, high humidity,
overcast skies and my Deep South abhorrence of anything below room
temperature made for a pretty bleak morning. Frankly, if I hadn't been
the ride leader, I would have crawled back into bed and would have
gotten up only long enough to feed our consistently ravenous cat.

Much to my surprise, we had a pretty good turnout at the ride,
including several fairly new folks that I hadn't ridden with before.
One good thing about being the ride leader is that there is no pressure
for me to keep up with my younger friends who view the ride as an
opportunity to compare testosterone levels. They don't need anyone
riding herd over them anyway, so I wish them well as I send them on
their way. I then wrangled my group of about eight riders into a
loosely cohesive group, and set off at a "gentleman's C pace" of around
15 mph.

The last time I led this ride was in February. I was about twenty-five
pounds heavier and suffered a bit on the hills. (Yes, Virginia, there
are some hills in North Florida and South Georgia.) This time,
however, the relaxed pace and warm conversation with friends, old and
new, made the miles pass with little thought to the hills that had
caused my quads to burn last Winter.

Thomasville, GA is a charming, genteel town and the Plaza Restaurant is
the perfect place to stop for a late breakfast in the middle of a ride.
The customers are a mixed group of motorcyclists in their leathers, a
family either on their way to or from church, a group of runners
rewarding themselves for their Sabbath morning miles, and various
ladies with hair as stiff as football helmets that are surely members
of the Sunday School Board at the local First Baptist Church. No one
seems to pay any attention to our group of sweaty bicyclists clicking
across the floor in our cleats.

It's fascinating to me how having something in common like riding
provides a catalyst for a group such as ours to sit down and share our
stories. Richard, who is going to retire this week, told us of his
plans to sell off most of his worldly possessions and move to New
Mexico. Jonathon, a big bridge engineer, shared stories of designing
and testing cable span bridges. The young Asian woman who works making
gunpowder and whose name I did not catch talked of how her parents in
Pensacola still did not have electricity due to damage done by a
hurricane more than a month ago.

The ride back to Miccosukee includes a couple of hills that typically
cause my heart rate monitor to begin alarming, warning me that I am
about to blow a gasket. One of the hills, Cromartie Hill, is within a
quarter mile of the end of the ride. It doesn't look like much as you
approach it, but it always causes me some considerable pain and heavy
panting. Always until yesterday, that is. My recent weight loss
allowed me to ride up that demon hill with plenty of energy still in
hand.

As we gathered in the school parking lot at the end of the ride and
thanked each other for the companionship and encouragement, it occurred
to me that my maternal grandfather did not live to see his 54th
birthday. At 54 my own father was already an old man, beaten down by a
spirit-draining job. Here I was, on my 54th birthday, in good health,
with a job that leaves me with enough energy to get out and ride with
good people whose company I enjoy, going home to a beloved wife who has
put up with my foolishness for nearly 34 years. I have to tell you, I
have never been happier in my life.

Dick Durbin