I mentioned in passing the rider who crashed during Saturday’s Great Pumpkin Ride at Kelly’s Ford. As I rode past I sensed that it was bad and hoped that it wasn’t. Here’s a note from the ride organizer:

“The cyclist involved in Saturday’s incident on Sumerduck Road who was medevaced remains in critical condition and in Intensive Care at a local trauma center here in Virginia. He has suffered numerous severe injuries that will make for a long recovery ahead. He is responsive and communicating with his loved ones.”

It seemed like only last week that all the trees were green. That’s because it was only last week when all the trees were green. This week I rode over to Fort Hunt Park and the maple trees along the park’s ring road were on fire. All at once, too.

This time of year makes dressing for rides a challenge. Some days it’s a long-sleeved shirt with a vest and shorts; others, it’s the dreaded long pants and layers. Until standard time begins next week, rides to Friday Coffee Club begin in the cold and dark. One day I rode with regular bicycling gloves and my hands were frozen. This past Friday I broke out my lobster gloves. Comfy.

I’ve also begun to add in longer rides. Last Wednesday my wife dropped me off in Purcellville, Virginia for my third one-way ride home of the year. The Tank and I followed the W&OD Trail 45 miles to its eastern terminus near Shirlington. On net, the W&OD has about 500 feet of elevation loss so this is a relatively easy ride. Along the way, I stopped at Bikes at Vienna to chat with Tim and Beth, and to buy a couple of bike supplies and admire Tim’s self made touring bike. Nice. After Shirlington, I took the Four Mile Run Trail to the Mount Vernon Trail at National Airport. The MVT took nearly all the way home. Over 50 miles with virtually no cars. Not bad.

Yesterday, I rode the Great Pumpkin Ride for the umpteenth time. This 60-mile loop traverses the rolling hills of the Virginia Piedmont in Fauquier County, about 50 miles west of DC. As always, the first ten miles (for me) were a warm up. This involved seeing scores of lycra-clad roadies zoom past me. After ten miles and with the aid of a 20 – 25 mile per hour tailwind I picked up the pace, zipping along on The Mule at about 17 miles per hour. Big fun.

After a pit stop at mile 20 (half a PB&J and a handful of M&Ms), I struggled with my breathing so I stopped and took a shot of albuterol sulfate. That did the trick. I was back up to speed only to turn into that lovely tailwind and start the real work of the day.

At about 35 miles, the road goes down a curvy, steep hill to Kelly’s Ford. I am sure I broke 35 miles per hour on the descent (never look at the speedometer when descending). At the bridge at the bottom of the hill, some of the lycras were standing around. In the middle of the road, there was a fellow lycra rider lying motionless on his side. No bueno. Confident that help was on its way, I carried on. Within a minute I could hear the first sirens. A sheriff, an ambulance, a fire truck, another ambulance, another fire truck. Better too many than too few, I suppose.

As I rolled through Remington at the 40-mile mark, I decided to pass up the pit stop and continue into the wind. Fallow fields, fall foliage, large Trump signs. Over and over.

With eight miles left I passed another pit stop at a brewery. Having stayed up until midnight to watch Freddy Freeman crush the Yankees with a walk-off grand slam in Game 1 of the World Series, I decided that adding even a small amount of alcohol to my system was not a good idea.

The last eight miles were slightly uphill into the wind but I was in pretty good shape at the finish. I decided to drive home and take a well-deserved nap before Game 2. I bought some snacks and Diet Pepsi for the drive. Despite the caffeine infusion I started to nod off behind the wheel on I-66. I suspect my leaf mold allergies were kicking in. I rolled down the window and turned up the radio. Thankfully, I made it home without any problems. Next time, espresso!

At home I put The Mule away, unloaded the car, and hit the couch. Two and half hours later I woke up, in time for the first pitch of Game 2. Dang.

Today after nine hours of sleep, I rode Big Nellie on a recovery ride in the pleasant autumn air. We are near peak in my neck of the woods so it was a pretty ride. I took my time and avoided any nasty climbs. The ride and post-ride back exercises did me good.

Next Saturday will likely be my last long ride of the year, the Washington Area Bicyclists Association’s Cider Ride. The posse is a bit smaller due to scheduling conflicts and injuries but we will ride because there are donuts and pie and cider to be consumed and somebody’s got to do it!

In previous posts this summer, I mentioned a couple of encounters with strangers that I found disturbing. People I didn’t know seemed to know me, even to know my name, as I rode by. It happened again twice this month. One day I was riding home on the Mount Vernon Trail just south of Alexandria when I rider passing in the opposite direction said “Hi John.” I was in my usual riding trance so the words didn’t immediately register. Then yesterday in a neighborhood I rarely ride in, I passed a couple walking in the street. As I went by I heard the man say, “Is that John?” (How many Johns ride recumbents in you neighborhood?) I continued to the turn around at the end of the street and headed back but they were gone. Four times in one year is starting to creep me out.

Episode 1: Yesterday I completed the project to clear the perimeter garden in my backyard. Stumps gone. Vines gone. All that was left was to spread some mulch over sections that my previous efforts had laid bare. On a bike ride the other day I noticed a landscaper’s employee moving mulch in a wheel barrow. Instead of facing the load and pushing, he faced away from the load and pulled. I tried it. Much easier as long as you don’t tip the load.

When I was a kid I played in the woods near home. (Sadly, they no longer exist.) Every summer I’d get into some poison ivy and spend weeks covered in So Help Me Hannah. I was told not to go into the swimming pool because I could spread the rash. In my mid-twenties I spent a summer in California. I house sat in Oakland and came into contact with poison oak. In no time, I was covered in a rash. My housemates did a quick overnight road trip to Yosemite but I passed on it to avoid spreading my rash.

Of course, now I know that you can’t spread the rash to other people (as long as you change your clothes after coming in contact with the plants).

As I write this, I have a rash over my hands, forearms, face, and crotch. (Never take a leak while yanking vines from the garden!) Feels like old times.

Episode 2: I was hoping to do a van-supported ride on the Natchez Trace Parkway this fall. I was put off by the cost (something like $3,400) and the driving. I would have had to drive at least ten hours to Nashville a few days after driving for 25 hours to, from, and within southern New England over four days. I opted out of the ride.

As it turned out, I lucked out. First, the hurricane that hit Appalachia would have cause a detour of at least two hours to get to Nashville. Second, a few days before I would have left, my neighbor backed into my car. And that’s not all. Yesterday I learned that the price of the tour in 2025 has been reduced to $2,400. Good things happen to those who wait.

Episode 3: Haven’t you ever dreamed of being a bird? After you wake up you fly to the nearest bird feeder, swoop down, and fill your tummy without a care in the world. Or so you thought. RIP mourning dove. I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.

Episode 4: There’s a house about four miles from home that has a whimsical sign by the side of the road. They change the sign monthly. This was the most recent.

My retirement plan is simple: ride 30 miles and do one adult thing every day. Sometimes not so much. The first week of October included only 38 miles of riding. One trip was 7 1/2 miles from an auto body shop to home. My parked Accord was no match for my neighbor’s pathetic three-point-turning skills and his humongous pick up truck. The second ride was a mental-health 30-miler on Big Nellie through the neighborhoods near home.

The rest of the first week of October involved a four-day trip to New England. We visited my daughter in her new digs in southeastern Connecticut and attended a wedding on the north shore of Massachusetts.

We spent about 25 hours in the car along the oh so relaxing I-95 car sewer. Thankfully, my wife handled the passages through New York City or I’d be in the nervous hospital today. By the time we arrived back home, both my head and my back were wrecked.

What better time than to return to work on the yard project from hell. About a month ago, a tree service took down a maple tree in our front yard. The tree was in bad shape at the start of the summer and a series of week-long heat waves and a nest of carpenter ants did it in. In addition to felling the tree, the tree dudes ground the stump and cleared out some small privet trees, bushes, and vines clogging a perimeter garden in our back yard.

For several days in September I excavated the mulch from the stump and moved it to my backyard. Then I bought twenty bags of dirt from a home center and spread it where the mulch had been. I planted grass seed and watered it religiously. Alas, the grass seed I bought was apparently of the atheist variety of fescue and barely grew.

Turning my talents to the perimeter garden I cleared out a bunch of surface vines and began removing some small stumps. Four stumps came right out of the ground with some persuasion from a spade. A fifth stump took a bit more convincing, and about three hours of work.

Just before leaving for New England I started working on the biggest stump which was oh so conveniently situated next to my neighbor’s chain link fence. I spent about four or five hours digging and hacking and digging and hacking to no avail.

After returning from New England I returned to the stump. With more digging and hacking, I discovered that the roots of the stump were intertwined with some massive tree roots and dozens of fist sized rocks. Oh joy.

Dig. Hack. Dig. Hack.

It would not budge.

Yesterday, I found a nasty looking four-foot crowbar in the basement and brought that to the task. Within 30 minutes the stump surrendered. Halleluiah.

The only problem now was that the root ball was two feet down in a hole and weighed about 50 pounds. My efforts had left my back a complete mess so lifting the beast out of the hole was out of the question. I spent another half hour using a small shovel to knock rocks and clay out of the root ball. Once relieved of its anchors, the root ball agreed to come out of the hole.

Now that the stump was gone, I had to shovel all the excavated dirt back into the hole. Ugh.

After I hauled my nemesis away, I found that I could not stand up straight. All the digging and yanking and prying and lifting and shoveling did not agree with my lumbar stenosis. Imagine that! I was bent at the waist rather painfully and involuntarily. I was a hurtin’ unit.

I rested a bit and decided that I might as well apply my crippled body to another small stump along the fence. I am a gardening genius.

I was expecting my shovel to pop this one out of the ground in no time. The stump had other ideas. Another struggle ensued but thankfully this one lasted only another hour.

It was a three Advil evening.

I have some more vines and very small shovel-worthy stumps to work on tomorrow. Then I’ll take all that maple mulch and spread it over the garden in the hopes of suffocating any opportunistic weeds.

Take that mother nature.

And after all this, I will garden no more forever.