Tour De Me

Do highway overpasses count on the Tour de France?  They should.  I did three Wednesday, along with two rises away from the Fox River.  None of them seems to have killed me, yet.

I bike different trails for different reasons.  Wednesday, I wanted something more challenging than the lakefront.   I found it on the Illinois Prairie Path leading out of Wheaton; the path alternates between semirural and rural areas in northern Illinois.  A variety of trees and wetlands makes for some pleasant scenery.  The coyote that jumped on the path fifty yards ahead of me was more of a surprise.  Then again, (s)he probably wasn’t expecting to be chased by an old guy on a Schwinn ten-speed.  Our encounter lasted for about fifty yards before the coyote made a quick exit off the path.

By way of a humble brag, let me say I don’t see how people bike in Iowa with all that rolling countryside; the two rises were enough for me.  The first one climbs nice and steady for a quarter- to a third of a mile.  There’s a fairly long bridge right before the rise, the wooden boards so loose its’ all but impossible to work up any speed before hitting the incline.  By the top, I looked like Marcel Marceau, pedaling while hardly moving.  Oh, and my lungs felt like they were on fire.  I could feel the burn.

The only thing that makes it bearable is the knowledge that what goes up must come down; the descent after the rise is just as steady and a good deal more enjoyable.  That’s probably what gets the folks through Iowa, along with stronger legs than I’ll ever have.  Anyway, the second rise is a lot shorter, and steeper.  By the end of it, I look like Marcel Marceau, totally gassed.  I swear the Schwinn was standing absolutely still at the end of the rise.  How I managed not to fall over is a mystery.

The trail, or series of trails, is about 45 miles long, most of it wooded and with little company.  At one point, I turned onto a county or state road and passed a large dairy farm.  The cows enjoyed what diversion I provided them—look, it’s Marcel Marceau wearing a helmet over his baseball cap.  Their owner had a sign out front, Our farm exports.

An hour later, I saw a bumper sticker that offered the perfect rejoinder:  Elect a clown, expect a circus.  Marcel finished his trip in just under four hours. Oui!