Howdy …

Just asking you, “When the alarm rings on Saturday morning, where else would you rather be than on your bicycle pedalling away the fatty bits?”

To-day’s poem salutes the unselfish and loving, but unacknowledged, act of kindness of parents for their children. It reminds me of when I was sixteen in Ireland getting ready for work at Ulster Meats, and of my mother who used to get up alone in the dark to light the hearth fire. Back then, the kitchen in Drumnakelly was a cold and damp place but when I entered it was warm and cozy and inviting. I would sit down in my granddad’s big chair, with my feet in the fire coals, and sup a steaming hot cup of tea prepared by my mum and set by her on the hob. It’s too late now to say thank you for those times … . Sunday is mother’s day.

Okay, this is an early blog post about tentative plans for Saturday and Sunday. I’m thinking you’d like to know sooner rather than later of plans for this weekend’s riding. So, assuming there is no major change in the weather forecast and wind direction, we’ll head south and east on Saturday and ride the Quyon circuit on Sunday when the wind is from the north. You know, you’ll just want to be there.

To put this in context, we’re riding 220 this weekend; and a minimum of 240 May 19/20; 270 the weekend of May 26/27; 200 June 02/03; 344 June 09/10. All told, this may be insufficient for adequate RLCT preparation. Ideas welcome.

Meet at Stinsons on White Lake Rd for 7:30 am 7:30 7.30 am start and ride to Almonte for coffee after 81 kms;  route (condensed version) via Conc 9, Pakenham, Tatlock, Galbraith, Wolf Grove, etc. Total distance 120 kilometres, 569 metres of climbing. You’ll just want to be there.

Caveat: Route is tentative and is depends upon rider consensus, the turnout, and the weather.

For those with time constraints, there are many options to cut it short. Don’t miss out, just because the route is longer than you have time for. Weather:  4C – 13 C; sunny; winds E 15.

What I’m listening to:

Okay, Stay fit, fine, firm always! Bye-bye, ac.

Look forward to hearing from you at;;;

Those Winter Days

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?   Robert Heyden