I write this sitting in my bed, listening to the rain. This is an appropriate way to appreciate the rain right now, in a distant non-interactive format. Because I bicycled 100 miles in it today, circling Cayuga Lake, for the AIDS fundraiser ride.
My socks became as sponges in my sandals (laugh you may, but my feet must breathe); the fenders which had for the first 10 minutes been my pride and pleasure now guttered drainage directly into my feet. The raincoat wicked water over my arms, clammy extensions that they were, though blessedly my torso stayed dry. Water beads conglomerated at the rim of my helmet and slid smoothly to and fro, primary glinting things in my vision.
And I was really quite happy. I settled into the rain and it eroded out of my priority. I was drinking electrolytes, which I've not treated myself to before (astonishingly!) and now I know why they are called sports drinks. That sugar and salt plumbed itself directly where it needed to go and my legs churned on. Gone now are those days of finishing a long ride feeling starved but also pregnant, the equivalent of 7 meals sitting heavily and unactualized in my gut. Liquid calories! I must have consumed thousands upon thousands of them today, and I felt fierce and fine. I was a hummingbird.
Humming along, i had lots of time to think and gaze out over the still misty lake, and so I decided that for me, biking in the rain is a little like learning to live with a heart break or sadness. And it has been a year of falling for and trying to get over unattainable people, so I've had plenty of fodder. Both rain and heart sadness can be startling at first, and uncomfortable and you resist it. But then, eventually, however long it may take, you come slowly to accept it. Then you look out and notice the farm houses and the misty lake views. But you're still wet, though it may not overtake all your thoughts, its still a backdrop. Sometimes it may pour, others it may only drizzle. Disappointment or sadness may in fact make the rest of the experiences more compelling or poignant in comparison. Who knows, I'm still working on this.
I was quite happy with my 5:30am decision to don myself in a sparkly sequins shirt under my raincoat, appearing ready for a dance party, and one green bicycle tall sock and one block bicycle tall sock. "Hey sparkle lady" one rider called out, and an older man, upon seeing me, cracked this huge smile: "your outfit! This totally makes my day! Thank you so much." Also, lots of: "love the SOCKS" as people passed or I passed them. I realized these non-standard wardrobe choices are a way of interacting with the world, and I was enjoying this easy excuse to look up from the pavement or away from the corn to connect, however briefly, with some other riders.
7 hours and 51 minutes in the damp saddle, and somehow the time never dragged. I celebrated reaching the top of the lake, I noticed the switch from quaint cottages to farm houses and double-wide trailers as we rowed around the Seneca falls inland area. I enjoyed the company of my indefatigable uncle, where we talk or not talk. But a lot of the ride was in solo silence, not really having thoughts concretely or intentionally ("and now I shall think about THIS") but instead sitting with my life.
I sat with how blessed I am to have so many FRIENDS, really sat with this and was warmed in the rain. And also how supportive everyone has been with their donations to this ride. Thank you! And also how this lake and Ithaca have always actually been a section in my life: as a child coming here to float whimsically around on my grandparent's sailboat, the child's imagination burgeoning of pirates or pilgrims or Columbus. Ithaca itself meant the science center, feeding the ducks, Lego's and spaceships with my highly novel boy cousins. Being shuttled around by parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents, to enjoy the time with other family members.
And now I am here as myself, forging ahead with a "grown-up" job, making friends, tending my apartment, going out and walking the commons at night if I want.
Its amazing that two very different versions of myself have existed here. I thought about that in the rain too.
No comments:
Post a Comment