A Grilled Cheese Sandwich for Laura Miles 7145-7175 August 30

A Grilled Cheese Sandwich for Laura Miles 7145-7175 August 30

Graham Houston meets Rich and me at the Blue Light Station. Light has been receding for better than two months now, and 6:30 in the morning does not furnish adequate light for us to feel safe on our bikes. And for the first time in a long time, the sun has not come up like thunder, prelude to oppressive heat and stifling humidity. Low-lying clouds hold the promise of imminent rain. None of the three of us dare to wish that it not come or even that it delay.

We have made it up Highway 69 and onto Summersette Road when Graham has a flat. He not long ago had a flat when riding 500 miles across Minnesota to raise money for Habitat for Humanity, and he has no spare tube with him. Though he never before has repaired a tube, he does so today in record time. We arrive in Kearney nearly at the time we had planned. A half-order of biscuits and gravy at Sarah’s Table fuel us for the final seven hilly miles to Watkins Mill State Park.

Laura’s birthday was two days ago. Her dad will bring her to our house this morning at nine. He will put her bike into our car, and Bobbie will drive the two of them to Watkins Mill, where they will rendezvous with me at 10. The three of us will then ride the four-mile bike trail around the lake. The word rendezvous is not yet part of eight-year old Laura’s vocabulary. Bobbie will teach her the word as they drive to meet me. Then we will ride and have a picnic.

Graham, Rich and I have ridden once around the lake when I stop to call on my cell phone to see where Bobbie and Laura are. Just as I am about to dial, a woman rider passes me from behind. “Ed,” she yells. “It’s Jansen. This is my husband, John.”

Jansen is a Jewell alum. A HateBuster. She went with our team to California and to Colorado. She is one of those students a teacher never forgets. Bright, gregarious, bold, teachable, compassionate, dependable—Jansen is the ideal student. She, and those like her, bring joy to my life. We are still talking when Bobbie and Laura come.

Laura makes it around the lake in fine form. Once or twice she gets off to walk her bike down a hill and onto a wooden bridge. Stopping her bike on this trail littered with dead leaves from thirsty trees is a little tricky for her, but pedaling up the hills is no problem. Bobbie and I ride behind and call encouragement constantly.

We are two-thirds round the lake when the rain comes. A sprinkle. Then a gentle rain. Then harder. The picnic is out. Back to Sarah’s Table for lunch. A tenderloin sandwich for me. Half a chef salad for Bobbie. A grilled cheese sandwich for Laura. Laura has Oreo Pie. I have peanut butter.

A downpour when we get back to Liberty. We have a canister bank for SRO, to replace the full one I picked up last night. Laura grabs the umbrella. “I don’t need one,” I say. Laura delights as I get soaked. “Papa got wet,” she keeps repeating all the way home. And squealing with delight. Then we play in the rain when I have the bikes off the car.

Labor Day at Mill Inn September 1

I’m sitting in the dark on the stairway on the opposite end of the house from our bedrooms when my cell phone rings. Rich said he would call at 6:30. He’s never late. I answer on first ring, hoping Bobbie hasn’t heard it and waked up. “I’ve been up since two, writing letters to our September 10 Human Family Reunion honorees.

“I tried to pretend it wasn’t raining. But I don’t think I want to get out in this,” Rich says. Rich got wet riding home from Watkins Mill yesterday. “Let’s drive over to the Mill Inn and have breakfast,” I say. “I’ll be over shortly to pick you up.”

We had planned to come here on our bikes. Over the years, we have found half-a-dozen scenic routes we like. The Mill Inn is the only home-owned restaurant open on holidays, and we have been here on most of them. Only on Christmas Day is this place closed. But one time we came after two in the afternoon on the Fourth of July. Then we remembered the hand written note we always see taped to the front door on holidays: “We will close at two o’clock today.” Coming as we almost always do for breakfast, that sign had not registered on us.

Scores of times we’ve been here. Only two or three times by car. “You ride your bike today?” The waitress who asks has served us many times. “The rain scared us off,” I say. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think she’s disappointed. Rich and I are. We’re not nearly so hungry. And don’t seem to have as much to talk about.

I Want to Want to Ride Miles 7175-7185 September 2

I want to want to ride today. But I don’t. I manage to get myself to the post office on my bike and round town for a while. From past experience I know that if I can ride for an hour, I will have gotten myself in the mood. But I keep thinking of all the work I need to do. Our Human Family Reunion is coming on September 10. It needs work. I’m behind in writing up my daily rides. My fund raising is lagging. The MS-150 is this weekend. I talk myself into going back to my word processor in my basement study.

Pandolfi’s Deli Miles 7185-7195 September 3

JJ’s is where I want to go today. But try as I might, the road to Plattsburg does not call my name. I had intended when I got up at 4:30, to be on the road at first light. It’s 11 o’clock when I finally pedal up the hill from my house and turn toward town on Southview Drive. Once around the square. Still, no enthusiasm for distance biking has come. Off the square on Kansas toward the college I go. Out of the corner of my eye off to my left just behind the Corner Tavern, I spot the place that beacons.

The only reason I don’t come more often to Pandolfi’s Deli is that it’s too close to my house. Even on the hottest day, the two miles between us is hardly enough to break a sweat. By no means sufficient to stoke the fierce hunger I crave. From years of riding, I’ve found that the allure of the food I find when I stop rises and falls in direct proportion to the number of miles I have pedaled to get it. So Pandolfi’s operates at a disadvantage not of its making—the direct distance between us being so short.

Why not come here by a more circuitous route? I’ve tried that. Doesn’t work. Invariably I come upon another outpost of rural ambrosia. And I succumb to irresistible temptation. But today for some unknown reason that unseen map maker who lives in my head has not come up with a plan, and I’m not feeling good about venturing very far from home.

I pull my bike onto the sidewalk and lean it against the wall in front of Pandolfi’s windows. I strap my helmet through the spokes of my front wheel and pull off my gloves. I’m rummaging through my panniers for my billfold and writing pad when the door open and someone says, “Hey, Ed, come on in. You’re just in time to pick up the check.”

It’s Lee Minor, a long time friend. We taught together at William Jewell. We’ve been camping, canoeing, running, biking and visiting together for years. Lee lives even closer to Pandolfi’s than I do, just a couple of blocks away. He’s here today with Bob. They went to William Chrisman High School together. They invite me to join them.

“The women in Judy’s water aerobics class use your column to decide where to eat,” Lee says. Then he names a place where they went for biscuits and gravy. “They didn’t like it,” he says.

Suddenly I realize I may have been misleading those who read what I write. To taste the food as I do it may be necessary to pedal for an hour or more over hills and in the heat. Since the only time I write about what I eat is after I have come to it in this way, I cannot attest to its taste under other conditions. Forgive me, dear reader, for not realizing this limitation until now. And thank you, Lee, for causing me to realize it now.

Fitting that Lee should be the one. But for Lee I might not be riding at all. Lee and I had been jogging buddies. Then MS came and stole my running from me. I was depressed. For years. Then I had discovered my son’s old bicycle. I rode around the neighborhood. Then to my classes at Jewell. Not far. Then one day Lee called. “I’m riding to Kearney for breakfast at Clem’s. Come with me.”

“I can’t. I’ve never ridden that far,” I said. “You can do it,” Lee said. I wasn’t feeling confident, but Lee talked me into it. I fell twice. I ran into a post. But I made it. And became an addict.

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