Day 22 miles to/from work: 26.8
Total miles for S4S: 567.7
I don't count on the boy who waits till October, when it's cool and fun, then decides he wants to play -Darrell Royal
Fishing families live by a certain rhythm: tides, moon phases, wind directions, cloud formations, and an indefinable something in their blood that viscerally alerts them to the smallest change in the atmosphere. Football families are similarly attuned. As the calendar turns to August, the initial stirrings begin with the practice sounds of pads thunking and impact grunts, followed by weeks of the inevitably awful exhibition games. September is struggle: summer vying with fall, players seeking solid ground within their team, and teams establishing pecking orders in their conferences—all accompanied by brassy marching bands and raucous tailgate parties.
Then October. Oh, October, you beautiful month, with your glittering skies and shocking trees shedding their leaves like pole dancers at a Republican convention; the month when football families can give themselves to the fully established arc of that quickening in their collective blood. It's here! Football season is fully upon us, and we are so happy!
You may be asking, "What does this have to do with biking?" Nothing. "Animal rescue?" Not a thing. It's my blog, and I am from a football family. I love my football-crazy sisters who can talk about screen passes, blocking, holding penalties, and fourth-down-and-long, while sharing fond recollections of college and pro-ball coaches of the past half century.
As annoying as it can be, I love that I married a man who will check the Badgers' and Packers' schedule before he will plan anything else. I love football. I love October, and October is here. I just needed to get that out there, with the admission that I am coming off an amazing Wisconsin weekend football bender. Thank you for bearing with me. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Oh, October, you beautiful month. My ride started with bright sunshine, 40 degrees, no wind. I was careful not to over-dress, but was still sweating like a porker by the time I got to work. Get those toxins out. Somewhere around Mile 6, I had to detour around a street sweeper on the bike path. While I was grateful to have the walnuts, leaves, branches, and other butt-jarring debris gone, it was a tight squeeze getting around the behemoth. As I precariously teetered around, then tottered back in front of it, I was mentally contemplating the obituary, "Cyclist Crushed Beneath Street Sweeper Brush!" Better, I suppose, than "Do-nothing, Rusted Out, Crushed Beneath the Boredom".
Scott called me late afternoon and announced his intention to meet me part way for the ride home. So we synced our destination spot (Sequoyah Library). It was 70 degrees, sunny, and crystalline when I left the office. Scott got to Sequoyah 6 minutes before I did, but not bad as such timing goes. For our homeward trek, motorists won the courtesy/safety contest (if there is one) over pedestrians and cyclists today. At almost every intersection, kind motorists waved us through, in addition to those who signaled, observed traffic lights, and were generally good citizens of the road.In several bike path incidents, pedestrians and cyclists bobbed and weaved without warning like drunken pugilists, seemed completely unaware of their surroundings, and were generally hazardous and annoying as they created a living and slightly dangerous obstacle course. We survived and even thrived. By the time we got to our parking spot at Lussier Family Center, the sun was setting, the moon was rising, and we were in sync with the maternal side of Mother Nature. It was time for an intimate dinner at home—and Monday Night Football.