Running on Empty

Six Mile Run State Park, Blackwells Mills 

2 September 2019

I'm in a fat phase.

Before you get ready to think, type, or say, "But you're not fat," or "You look great," stop. You're missing the point. You're still fat-shaming; you're just not fat-shaming me.

Carrying extra weight does not make one physically, morally, or otherwise less of a person.

Unfortunately, my pastime of choice values the skinny folks. People in our club comment on other people's girth behind their backs and sometimes even to their faces. I call it out when I hear it.

Anyway, after Saturday's ride I saw a photo of myself and went into a self-shaming fat spiral. When it comes to myself, body positivity doesn't always win out. When I get this way I'm not at peace until the readout on the scale is less than a certain number. I know how to get there, and I know, at my age, that it's going to take longer, even if that number is only a handful of digits away from where I am now, and even if my outward appearance doesn't change at all. Such is the life of one who has been fat-shamed by family and peers since the age of 8.

Jim had his usual Sunday ride planned. We'd be headed for the Pig. Good coffee aside, the Pig also stocks a variety of large, home-made cookies. Normally I'd get a couple and eat half a cookie at a time, sharing them with Jack. Fat phase or no, I was still going to get a couple of cookies; I'd just eat them in quarters instead.

I was grateful that Jim's route cut out the hills. His ride was sandwiched between yesterday's hills and tomorrow's All-Paces, although I was convinced that the All-Paces rides would be rained out.

He also started the ride half an hour later. I was glad for the extra sleep, although I missed the early morning light when I left home on Kermit after the sun was well up. There was still no traffic on Canal Road, save for the tractor, which pulled out of a farm and which the driver positioned exactly in the middle of the road. I had to pass him on the right, the safer of two unsafe options at the time. For a few minutes I thought we'd be neck-and-neck for the rest of the two miles I had to go. I pulled ahead though, and stayed there.

"Who joy-rides a tractor?" I asked the group as I pulled into the parking lot at Six Mile Run.

On Dead Tree Run Road, as we stopped to regroup, I got a picture of a cute little horse in a pasture a few hundred yards away.

We passed where the emus live on Hollow Road. They weren't out today. We navigated through the church crowd in Hopewell and headed towards Moores Mill-Mount Rose Road. I'd suggested this route to avoid the Carter Road climb. He was having trouble visualizing it, but I knew it would click the minute we passed Stony Brook. Click it did. "Ah! I know where we are!"

I had 42 miles under me when we stopped at the Pig. From here to home would only be six more miles, but I was hungry. Half of us already had our cleat covers on and our helmets off before we looked at the entrance and saw the sign.

Closed.

Oh, hell no. This had better be for the holiday weekend and not forever.

There was some discussion about where we could go. Knowing Jim's route would go south from here, I suggested the little shopping center at the corner of Keefe and Lawrenceville-Pennington Roads.

There's a convenience store there that's clean and spacious; a few of us went in for drinks. The bagel shop, whose bagels aren't worth writing about, was packed. At one point, as we hung around outside, the line stretched outside as well. Being in fat mode, I debated whether I should eat anything. I'd come this far; there were only six miles between here and home. Deciding not to be stupid, I ate half of an energy bar and put the other half back in Kermit's pack.

In the parking lot was an antique sports car of some variety that got people reminiscing about model cars of their youths.

I stayed with the group down Keefe to Cold Soil, where I pointed Jim in the right direction and turned the other way, towards home.

Instead of blogging, I spent the rest of the day moving furniture, running errands, and trying not to eat in the late afternoon. I succeeded in all but the last. I kept myself occupied after dinner by painting the trim on the sides of our newly-refinished wood stairways. One would think that a professional hardwood floor refinishing company would have heard of masking tape. But, no. Somehow they'd even managed to splash a wall. Fortunately I still had leftover paint from two years ago to fix everything.

Throughout all of this I kept checking the weather. NOAA was calling for showers all day. Accu-Weather was predicting no morning rain at all. By bedtime they were still contradicting each other. I got my water bottles ready just in case.

It was gloomy at 7:00 a.m. The two forecasts hadn't changed. A band of showers was passing through to the northwest, well away from where we'd be riding. When I left home on Kermit, the sun was out.

I found Tom in the crowd. We both had the same plan: ride with a group and bail if the weather turns or the group is a mess. I signed onto Mike V's ride. I've seen his name but never ridden with him before. There were fifteen of us, and if I were to say I knew half of them I'd be exaggerating. This is what happens when I don't ride from Cranbury anymore.

Mike's plan was to head toward New Egypt, turn around, and stop at Roy's. The wind and the rain were coming from the south. The pace felt fast. I chalked it up to this being my fourth consecutive day on a bike and to having a much reduced volume of coffee this morning. Once I settled into the pace, though, it felt all right.

As we collected ourselves at the end of Hill Road, Mike told us what we'd be doing next. I pointed to the gunmetal-gray sky to the southwest and said, "That sky is what Tom and I would call 'interesting.'"

"Yeah, we're probably gonna get wet," Tom said.

I hung in the back to talk to Our Jeff, whom I haven't seen since we both left the PFW BOD. He was trying out a B ride for the first time and had taken on the position of sweep. He was wearing an official PFW Sweep whistle. Everyone ahead of us missed the turn onto Millstream. I had a chance to take a picture of the interesting sky while we waited for people to double back.

We made it all the way to Meirs, facing north now, when the first drops came down. "Here it is," said Tom, and it rained on us all the way to Roy's.

As we were turning east, another group was leaving, going west. Tom and Jack H left our group to go home. I turned around because the leaving group had Statler and Waldorf in it, and Jim was the leader.

I rode with them for a few miles as the rain came down harder. There was another group ahead of us. I mashed until I caught up with them. This was Al P's crowd. I rode with them the rest of the way back, pulling over once to stuff my hearing aides into a plastic bag, and again to put Good Dog away; the rain was wreaking havoc with the display, turning it on and changing screens. My feet were soaked. My water bottles were almost empty.

But, having ridden with three groups in one day, I was having a good time.

Of course the rain let up as we approached the park, and by the time I got home the sun was out. I, however, was still wet, and hungry too. I'd gone nearly 50 miles without eating.

I wheeled Kermit around to the back door and went inside to grab some paper towels to clean him off. Jack met me there. "How wet did you get?" he asked. He wasn't even rolling his eyes. He knows by now that I live by Rules Number 5 and 9.

I removed the damp bandanna from the top of Kermit's pack. Under it was the half of the energy bar I didn't eat yesterday. I pulled it out and chomped on it as I wiped Kermit clean.