Author: Tom Saccone

I drove to the start of today’s ride, a bit of a luxury for me.  But the course for the team ride was south and west, had 1600 feet of climbing, there would be a headwind on the run out of town and I had taken most of the week off the bike.  So, discretion being the better part of valor, I easily slipped the bike on the rack.   They’re not really team rides, per se, more of a community ride.  I like that.  We try to keep Saturdays as more of a social ride.  Steady without being difficult.  It was good to see a wide mix of riders on an unseasonably warm day.  Several teams were represented so it was a good opportunity to share stories and connect on what would ultimately wind up being a meandering ride on a new course on some unfamiliar roads.

So I couldn’t get an old song out of my head….”Jessie’s Girl” on today’s ride.  And that’s not the bad news.  The weekend went by in a blur, however, thanks in part to a moderate ride yesterday with Guy East, Chris Kroll, Colin Allen, Lynn Allen, Gary Palmer, Emily Palmer, Kevin Hays, Jeff Thompson and Mark Powell.  We did a meandering ride in incredibly cold temperatures clockwise around Monroe and Owen counties.  I was lucky to have made it out there at all as I was invited to a party Friday night at our sponsor’s and left late at night, alone, thinking it best not to drive home.  I have a fixed gear bike in my office nearby, which I attempted to ride, but thought better of it (no helmet or lights handy).  So, I walked the three miles home, arriving at 2:00am.   We have a guest room in the basement, nicknamed the dog house, which is where I ended up.  There is a good chance that I’ll be there again tonight.  My only solace, a tv and a refrigerator stacked with Belgian ale.  That song was still ringing in my pounding head as I looked for a blanket.

A friend told me a joke the other day.  We were in a conversation about Hemingway, (often where my thoughts turn prior to a Sunday ride !)  She said If you asked Hemingway, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”  The response would have been, “It didn’t.  It died.  Alone.  In the cold rain.”   For some reason, despite the beautiful mid-November warm spell, this tidbit was floating in my gray matter today on the difficult parts of the run in back home.  But so was Puccini’s Nessun Dorma on the way out during the brilliant parts. The mundane with the miraculous.  You’ll see why later in this report.