Christmas Ride
I promise I would have at least rethought this ride had I not been planning and looking forward to it for the past three weeks. A year had past since I set out on a 13 or so mile run from our rented Christmas cabin on a windy, cold, snowy morning across Guntersville lake and around the town. It was time I did something dumb like that again, and what better day than on Christmas, right?
The forecast called for clear weather but as I've learned by now those are, by definition, incorrect. Christmas morning, in our traditional manner, came and went like a sip from your favorite hot beverage tucked under a small mountain of whipped cream and seasonally appropirate sprinkles. The roads were dissapointingly coated in a fresh, thin layer of gray rain. But I was already attired in my full body spandex type tights and shirt, preped for buffs of cold wind.
The light rain eventually let up and I headed out despite the weather channel's pridiction for more to come. The first 10 miles down Hobbs Island Road rolled past easily enough. My feet quickly lost all feeling, encased in cycling shoes meant for maximum ventilation. Fortunatley, most sensible people were inside with their families or attending the morning service. Traffic wasn't an issue today.
Heading south along a back road away from New Hope, I was flanked by old, mossy trees pushing out of marshy, wet ground under a forever gray sky; trees enduring another dull Christmas day, never to be adored or graced by red and green anything.
My turn was coming up. Wanting to avoid riding along the 65 mph speed limited 431, I would continue to ride along county roads, previously unexpolered by my eyes. Having not recon'd this area thoroughly via Streetview, I found myself suddenly faced with an unexpected looming hill. My legs, fed by some new powdery drink I recently purchased from a GNC, welcomed the change in grade. I started attacking this hill farily hard. How bad could it be? I've conqured Green Mountain, or at least finished it without dying. The road kept winding and climbing. I kept thinking it would end just around the next corner. It didn't and little time had pasted before I rode into a low hanging cloud. Visibility was slashed to 50 meters at best. I was still climbing.
Putting a lot of faith in my LED, rear-facing flashing light and having no other route to take, I huged the white line on the road's edged as closely as possible as curious motorists passed by, often too close to my liking. The hill flattend and I was back riding through pastures. I had to take my now usless sunglasses off. My eyes needed to see as much of this as possible.
My exhales periodically billowed from my mouth, seemlessly diffusing into the cloud that surrounded them, matching in consistancy and color. Snot rockets were fired from either side, perfect in volume and density, making a well distributed scatter shot bloom before colliding with moist coated grass and fense posts.
I needed to get out of this fog. As cool as it was to ride though, some apocolypticly moronic drivers decided it would be a good idea to keep their lights off as they drove along their opaque roads. Thankfully most of them were headed in the opposite direction, a full lane sparating the fragile rider from mindless, wheeled, aluminum-bodied missiles.
An older couple had just arrived at their relatives' house, short-haired brown weiner dog in-toe, not even hearing two 27 inch wheels whizzing past along the water-soaked asphault.
After maybe another eight miles, I finally road out of the cloud, or was the cloud just moving on? The road got narrower while maintaining its easterly direction, heading now into a neighborhood, just south of some town named Grant.
A fine specimen of a St. Benard lazily followed the rider with his deep-set black eyes, loose facial features pulled toward his moist turf underfoot. Thankfully, this ol K9 was in no mood to chase things today, too sleepy, too dignified.
Now in a neighborhood, dogs that didn't share the mindset of the wise old Bernard were all too common. A lab and a similar sized dog, maybe a pitbull mix, heard the faint whipser of thin tires on hard surface, moving along at a paltry 20 mph. Finally, something to protect master's house from and chase away! What a treat!
Two dogs bolted from their places of rest toward the road. I started sprinting but too late. Both were litterly on my heels, gaping maws eager to tear out my achellies if given the opportunity. I yelled, hollarded, anything to get them to move, to no avail. Fearing the worst and realizing these dogs weren't interested in play, I slowed down, uncliped and was about to give this pitbull a taste of cleat to the jaw. Knowing this would probably through me off balance and simply piss this dog off more I opted for the yelling strategy again.
The stange man in the strange reflective clothes with the delicious looking claves yelled again, a battlecry. Realizing that this game was over and masters' house was safe once again, the pair retreated back to warmth and food.
Further down the road the guantlet continued. More dogs eager for play, oblivous of danger, dashed onto to the street to catch me. I was a little more prepared this time. Anticipating another K9 attack, I started sprinting earlier, adrenal glands superchaging my thighs, hip flexors, everything. These terriors couldn't keep up. I swore as I sped off, hoping the car behind me (surely the motorist laughing uncontrollably at this point) would run them over. Not that I don't like dogs, I just hate their tiny brains that tell them it's a good idea to run directly in front of a cyclist cruising at 20 plus.
Cautiously decending the hill I knew had to be approaching, I hit Scottsboro Highway which took me on to 431. After several miles comfortably riding on a broad, suprisingly clear shoulder afforred to me unknowingly by construcsion workers long moved on, I crossed the 40ft high bridge leading into Guntersville and soon after at the cabin, where my parents awaited with warth and a smoked turkey sandwich. The rest of the fam would arrive momentarily, no cares in the world. Peace on this, our little piece of Earth, merry as can be.
The forecast called for clear weather but as I've learned by now those are, by definition, incorrect. Christmas morning, in our traditional manner, came and went like a sip from your favorite hot beverage tucked under a small mountain of whipped cream and seasonally appropirate sprinkles. The roads were dissapointingly coated in a fresh, thin layer of gray rain. But I was already attired in my full body spandex type tights and shirt, preped for buffs of cold wind.
The light rain eventually let up and I headed out despite the weather channel's pridiction for more to come. The first 10 miles down Hobbs Island Road rolled past easily enough. My feet quickly lost all feeling, encased in cycling shoes meant for maximum ventilation. Fortunatley, most sensible people were inside with their families or attending the morning service. Traffic wasn't an issue today.
Heading south along a back road away from New Hope, I was flanked by old, mossy trees pushing out of marshy, wet ground under a forever gray sky; trees enduring another dull Christmas day, never to be adored or graced by red and green anything.
My turn was coming up. Wanting to avoid riding along the 65 mph speed limited 431, I would continue to ride along county roads, previously unexpolered by my eyes. Having not recon'd this area thoroughly via Streetview, I found myself suddenly faced with an unexpected looming hill. My legs, fed by some new powdery drink I recently purchased from a GNC, welcomed the change in grade. I started attacking this hill farily hard. How bad could it be? I've conqured Green Mountain, or at least finished it without dying. The road kept winding and climbing. I kept thinking it would end just around the next corner. It didn't and little time had pasted before I rode into a low hanging cloud. Visibility was slashed to 50 meters at best. I was still climbing.
Putting a lot of faith in my LED, rear-facing flashing light and having no other route to take, I huged the white line on the road's edged as closely as possible as curious motorists passed by, often too close to my liking. The hill flattend and I was back riding through pastures. I had to take my now usless sunglasses off. My eyes needed to see as much of this as possible.
My exhales periodically billowed from my mouth, seemlessly diffusing into the cloud that surrounded them, matching in consistancy and color. Snot rockets were fired from either side, perfect in volume and density, making a well distributed scatter shot bloom before colliding with moist coated grass and fense posts.
I needed to get out of this fog. As cool as it was to ride though, some apocolypticly moronic drivers decided it would be a good idea to keep their lights off as they drove along their opaque roads. Thankfully most of them were headed in the opposite direction, a full lane sparating the fragile rider from mindless, wheeled, aluminum-bodied missiles.
An older couple had just arrived at their relatives' house, short-haired brown weiner dog in-toe, not even hearing two 27 inch wheels whizzing past along the water-soaked asphault.
After maybe another eight miles, I finally road out of the cloud, or was the cloud just moving on? The road got narrower while maintaining its easterly direction, heading now into a neighborhood, just south of some town named Grant.
A fine specimen of a St. Benard lazily followed the rider with his deep-set black eyes, loose facial features pulled toward his moist turf underfoot. Thankfully, this ol K9 was in no mood to chase things today, too sleepy, too dignified.
Now in a neighborhood, dogs that didn't share the mindset of the wise old Bernard were all too common. A lab and a similar sized dog, maybe a pitbull mix, heard the faint whipser of thin tires on hard surface, moving along at a paltry 20 mph. Finally, something to protect master's house from and chase away! What a treat!
Two dogs bolted from their places of rest toward the road. I started sprinting but too late. Both were litterly on my heels, gaping maws eager to tear out my achellies if given the opportunity. I yelled, hollarded, anything to get them to move, to no avail. Fearing the worst and realizing these dogs weren't interested in play, I slowed down, uncliped and was about to give this pitbull a taste of cleat to the jaw. Knowing this would probably through me off balance and simply piss this dog off more I opted for the yelling strategy again.
The stange man in the strange reflective clothes with the delicious looking claves yelled again, a battlecry. Realizing that this game was over and masters' house was safe once again, the pair retreated back to warmth and food.
Further down the road the guantlet continued. More dogs eager for play, oblivous of danger, dashed onto to the street to catch me. I was a little more prepared this time. Anticipating another K9 attack, I started sprinting earlier, adrenal glands superchaging my thighs, hip flexors, everything. These terriors couldn't keep up. I swore as I sped off, hoping the car behind me (surely the motorist laughing uncontrollably at this point) would run them over. Not that I don't like dogs, I just hate their tiny brains that tell them it's a good idea to run directly in front of a cyclist cruising at 20 plus.
Cautiously decending the hill I knew had to be approaching, I hit Scottsboro Highway which took me on to 431. After several miles comfortably riding on a broad, suprisingly clear shoulder afforred to me unknowingly by construcsion workers long moved on, I crossed the 40ft high bridge leading into Guntersville and soon after at the cabin, where my parents awaited with warth and a smoked turkey sandwich. The rest of the fam would arrive momentarily, no cares in the world. Peace on this, our little piece of Earth, merry as can be.
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