Autumn Leaves and Stuff

by John Whiteley, President 1995-1996

November 2000

Sometimes Autumn exists only in your mind.

You see, one of the reasons that Daisy gets every issue of The Tailwind into your hands so promptly is because she has set deadlines for those of us who submit articles to the newsletter. As a result, Yr. Obd’t Svt. is writing the November Sidelong Cycling on the second day of October which, in southern Louisiana (my temporary place of employment) is about the same as the middle of July. The mosquitoes continue to feed voraciously on any exposed skin (Slap!), any exercise produces copious amounts of perspiration (pant, pant), and the smell of the shrimp canneries in the midday heat can only be imagined, not described in a family newsletter. And, topping off the tale of woe, the Sugar Cane Truck (my very, very heavy old Peugeot touring bicycle, the Puerto Rican survivor that has been described many times in past ramblings) rests in my recreation room in Tennessee, hundreds of miles from where it is desperately needed. September was a month of running, not cycling. But my memories still serve to keep me sane....

Growing up in the Frozen North (New Jersey, but the unknown rural part of the state, far from the Turnpike and the refineries), autumn was always pretty special. School was starting again, and with the start of the school year came the anticipation of unknown and unexplored pleasures. (Wasn’t it great being young and contemplating the excitement of the future?) My family moved from the "city" to the "country" during my eleventh year, and the first sight of what was to be my home during my teenage years is still burned into my memory. We had driven for an hour or so out into the country, a countryside that, until then, was completely unknown to me. It was the end of October, a glorious Sunday when the trees were at their height of color. We crested a hill and, across the valley, on the side of the next hill, framed by stately golden hickories and maples, was a big, old white farmhouse. The smell of fallen leaves and wood smoke was in the air, the oranges, reds, and yellows of the changing trees were set off by a crystal blue sky that looked as if the bright sun could shatter it, and all was right with the world. We realized that we had just found our home. And, to this teenager, home was in bicycle riding country!

Although it was my only mode of transportation and my bicycle carried me for many a mile, it was the miles logged during the autumn of the year that provided the most pleasant memories. Almost as if the very Earth knew that soon it would be covered by its blanket of snow, a blanket that often lasted for two or three months, it began storing its resources for the long, cold, dark months to come. The sun became noticeably lower in the southern sky as my bicycle carried me over the rolling hills, and some days steely gray clouds, contrasting against the brilliant blue sky, joined with cool zephyrs of air to warn of the snow to come. As my bicycle carried me past farm gardens, pheasants strutting between the stacked sheaves of cornstalks and pumpkins piled high, the sweet smoky smell of fireplaces burning the first cedar logs of the season enveloped me in thoughts of my snug, safe home. Oh, the joyous years of simplicity! No lycra, anatomical seats, or clipless pedals. (Not even a helmet, I remember now with chagrin.) Just jeans and a jacket, and maybe some leather gloves, the kind lined with woolen fleece, if it was a particularly cold day. And no derailleurs, cantilever brakes, or computers. No, the old girl had fenders, coaster brakes, and only one gear. (Thinking back, it must have weighed more than the Sugar Cane Truck!) And tons of fun, built right into her spirit. Otherwise, why would my memories of those days be so vivid after lo, these many years?

And now, as another tour at sea is coming to an end, my thoughts are turning to autumn in Tennessee. You see, during my next vacation it’s my intention to make more memories of glorious autumn days, and to make them from the seat of a bicycle. It’s so much easier to experience, really experience, the wonderful world that surrounds all of us at the pace of and from the seat of a bicycle. Look for me savoring the bucolic ride up Dry Fork Creek Valley between Decatur and Kingston, or following Paint Rock Valley to Maggie Gap and Midway. Ride with me along Ideal Valley Road or between the hills that rim Toestring Valley Road. Or, with luck, we’ll see each other on Pigeon Mountain or out in Salem Valley. But my sincere hope, as the changing seasons draw this year to a close, is that you’ll have as much enjoyment and make as many memories from atop your bicycle as I have been fortunate to have and make with mine.

And as you ride, remember the slogan of the Ultra Marathon Cycling Association: Start Slow, Then Taper.