Oct 12: 90 Kms; 2.57 Hrs Saddle time; 279 Metres; 3069 Calories. Mark, Perry, Raymond, Keith, Rob, Kevin, young John.

Okay, so it was cool and foggy to start until the lazy sun rose to a higher angle in the sky. It seemed to us that he laboured on the climb skyward, as if warming up to the task and not being fully recovered from his earlier travels. Eventually, he gained a sufficient height to pierce the fog and to spread warmth and light in all directions. And so, we rode our way with increasing visibility and pace to Blakeney, where we arrived in time to catch the early morning mist rising from the river—- Mystical.

From there it was onward to a very busy Alice’s Village Cafe for cheddar chive scones and coffee. Worth the wait. No question.

The return trip took us up and along county road 5, with Perry and John pulling the train as if they were impatient to make up for lost time. But, by Thomas Dolan Parkway, you would have found us in close formation, pedalling strong, and eating up the miles, with little effort. The tail wind helped. You just should have been there. And, you can on Sunday, when we will do it all again. That aren’t many riding days left. This may be the last official one of the season. Don’t miss it!

Stinsons 8am 8 am; Route to Pakenham for coffee and sticky buns via Burnstown and White Lake, Waba Road; home via Upper Dwyer Hill; Distance 78 Kms. It has been a great season but all things pass on . . . . Don’t forget to read Digging. It’s about passing on.

Okay, that’s it.
Ciao. AC. Comments welcome at Arnprior ycling@bell.net; Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/ArnpriorCycling

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look downTill his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.  Seamus Heaney

 

Conty Road 5 Regroup

County Road 5 Regroup

Blakeney Rapids

Blakeney Rapids