In Which Wood Beasts Don’t Eat CR Biker

I am not certain that there isn't still an undiscovered additional leg, but this is the known end of the Grant Wood Trail, after 3 miles or so of grass. Take that, The Man! I will park the Fancy Beast where I want.

I have, along with my wife, been caring for a grandson full-time this summer. It’s a pandemic thing.

This week, the little rascal has a morning gymnastics camp—which allows me to A) Try to get the mountain of waiting summer work done and/or B) Ride a bicycle in the morning. Monday was a different day, with more grandkids around, and does not count. Tomorrow it should rain, so that’s a drive to the office morning.

Today was a bike day. And I originally planned, given the two-hour window I had, to ride the road bike in town. But Argent stayed locked up today, because the siren song of the Grant Wood Trial was too strong. It’s a modest trail, but fun to ride, and the final few miles are grass.

I rode a few yards of it on Clarence, the hybrid bike, and even took my road bike out there—and decided it was a trail for the mountain bike. And now I have the mountain bike.

So I unlocked the Fancy Beast and took off. I rode up to Boyson Road to the Boyson Trail.

And ran into the first unexpected problem. The Boyson Trail was closed. I ended up on a semi-busy street where I don’t usually ride, and it took some doing to chart the course across Marion to the Grant Wood Trail. The good news is that I did feel I was doing well on speed, again only going about 10 mph, but it was a good pace on the mountain bike.

Oh dear! I took the right fork which leads to a parking lot and busy street I don't usually ride along. I did today.

There were some clouds in the sky and it was humid, but it was still a nice day to be out on a ride. I stopped at Waldo Rock Park to water up—but there is no water at that park. But I left the house with a full bottle, and even if I had packed half of it away, I was not too worried. And, foreshadowing, I did empty the bottle on the ride, but only a few blocks from home. Water was not an issue, although there was another issue.

I rode on. The trail was quiet. I had a mask, but suffered severe fogging problems, and the trail was pretty isolated, so I rode with my face bare to the world.

I passed the T intersection where the limestone trail ended, and then proceeded down the gravel road to the paved county highway that leads, after a mile or so, to the next leg of the Grant Wood Trail.

The grass leg. I continued east. Given my speed and the distance, it was clear I would not be done by noon (when gymnastics camp was over), but my wife had already told me it was OK to go a bit over on time.

Most of the Grant Wood grassy leg is shady woodland, but there are a few open parts like this.

Another image at the east end of the trail--just on the other side of the gate.

I enjoyed the ride. It was bumpy when I got to the grass, and recent weather means it was a bit muddy here and there, but The Fancy Beast was in its element, and it was not a problem. I liked the shady, forested route—but I did notice that Linn County residents were getting a bit hostile. Along this leg of the trail, the “no trespassing” signs were more common.

Well, whatever, it wasn’t in my plan to trespass anyway.

I came to a paved bridge over Simmons Creed, and shortly thereafter to the apparent end of the trail. The grass leg was maybe 3 miles or so. My speed had dropped on this surface, but not too badly, and it was OK riding it on the mountain bike.

The incident took place on the ride back. Just after I crossed Simmons Creek, even before I got back on the bike after snapping an image on the bridge, two large dogs bounded out of the woods to my left. They were big, they were hostile, they looked like they were ready to taste some CR Biker.

The one bridge on the grassy leg--Simmons Creek crossing.

CR Biker bridge selfie with bike. What is that sound I hear? Do I look like a meal? Probably several.

I used to carry a frame pump on this bike, but didn’t have it. Then again, I don't know that beating off the hounds of hell with a frame pump would work all that well. I will admit I was a bit worried. On the other hand, while I don’t care for hostile canines, I don’t have a particular fear of dogs, either, and thought that if I acted calm and in control, these nasty brutes would be more likely to threaten than attack.

Luckily, I was right. I walked towards them, standing erect, not looking directly at them, talking to them in a commanding, but not angry, voice. I said something like, “Hey, calm down, it’s OK, I won’t bother you.”

I’m not sure what I would have done if one had lunged for me. Fortunately, I did not have to find out. I got past the more hostile of the two, and mounted again. As soon as I started riding, the dog renewed his objections to my presence, but rather than speed up (over distance I could outrun a dog, but I’m pretty sure a dog this size could out accelerate me in a sprint), I slowed down, stayed mounted, and tried the commanding voice again, which seemed to do the trick. After 10 yards or so, the hostile dogs retired. They both had collars on, so these weren’t strays, but the welcome wagon from some neighbor of the trail.

Well, so be it. The trail is nice. Would I try it again? Probably. I did not like the dog encounter, but was not too freaked out by it, either.

About half a mile headed west on the trail, I met a woman walking the other way (towards the bridge), with here two leashed and well-behaved dogs. I warned her that there were some hostile hounds on the loose ahead, and she said she was turning back. “Darn,” she said. “I usually carry mace but all I have today is bug spray.”

I’m not sure I would have proceeded with two dogs in tow even with mace—confrontations are best avoided. Still, I would have felt better with some bear spray or something during my canine encounter.

I rode back to town. Despite the doggie incident, I was in a good mood. It was a nice day and a satisfying ride.

We had storms recently, and I was hoping that the Boyson Trail was closed for downed tree removal, which may have been completed while I rode. My hopes were dashed when I reached Thomas Park and there was another trial closed sign, and I again had to backtrack and find another way home, this time riding a sidewalk on Blairs Ferry Road until I could turn and hook up with the Lindale Trail.

On the way home, the other end of the closed trail--which includes its intersection with the Lindale Trail, my target. I exited Thomas Park and used the crosswalk by McDonald's to get on a sidewalk along side Blair's Ferry Road.

Whatever. It was 1 p.m. when I got home from an almost 25-mile ride on The Fancy Beast. And now I can say that I’ve done the Grant Wood thing, and that it’s a nice trail to the end. On a mountain bike. Except for dogs.

In Which I Rescue A Fierce Dog and Earn Pie

There I was, headed to work pedaling south along Eastern Avenue NE in Cedar Rapids, when I encountered the fierce dog.

There is a bulldog that lives along that street, and I see him or her fairly often. Usually, when the dog is out, its owner is too. I’ve been chased and barked at a few times by this animal.

I’m not a dog person at the best of times, and I’m less so when I’m on my bicycle. Dogs can be more than an annoyance to a biker—they can be a real hazard.

But, to be fair, I’ve never been in fear of this particular dog. Despite it’s tendency to bark, it’s not really ever been aggressive. And while it has pursued me, it’s always kept a bit of distance, too. The pursuit has always felt more pro forma than serious.

Anyway, back to this morning. I was flying along, trying to get to campus quickly—I’m usually in a hurry on Tuesday or Thursday mornings, due to an 8 a.m. class. I crossed 32th Street and was headed up the hill, when I saw the dog running in a church yard near the top of the hill. Someone had tossed out the remains of a microwave noddle dish, and the dog headed into the street to investigate. It was too interested in Ramen to notice me, so I flew by, but as I passed, I thought, “that dog could get hit by a car.”

And I knew where it lived. It had barked at me many times. So, a bit reluctantly, I turned back. As I neared the dog, it looked up at me and barked. I spoke to it, in what I hoped was a calm, I’m not scared of you but also no threat, voice. I slowed, and the dog followed me. I took it to the house on the corner where it lives, and could see its owner through the kitchen window. I yelled, he looked up, and I pointed down at the dog. He came out, yelled a name, and the dog took off towards him.

I don’t know what the owner thought. He had a yelling biker in his driveway pointing at his dog—also, then, in his driveway. Maybe he thought I was being a sensitive ass, complaining when a dog barks at me.

Well, no. Again, I’m not a dog person, but as long as a dog doesn’t actually attack me, I will tolerate it. And I don’t mind that dogs bark—it’s just what they do.

So anyway, despite my hurry, I rescued fierce dog. Later today, when I was on my way home, my wife texted me that she was eating dinner at my daughter’s house. I called, and my daughter invited me too. There was very nice spicy soup with homemade bread, followed by apple pie.

Did I deserve the pie? You bet. I rescued a dog.

In Which A New Biker Takes Her First Spin

Amelia's mom Katy borrowed my camera to snap these two images of Amelia just before her first ride on my bike's toddler seat. Did she like it? In her words: "Yeaaaaaah!"

Wednesday late afternoon, around 6:30 p.m. I find a helmet that might fit, and try it on Amelia’s head. The trick is to get her to look up. I say “look up” and she looks down. She’s like that. Eventually, about six requests later, she decides it’s time, and she looks up. There is no rushing Amelia.

The helmet fits.

With Amelia’s mom’s help, I get her strapped into the bike seat for the first time. I had tightened the straps a bit, and, like the helmet, they actually worked well. Amelia is small for her age, her mom calls her “Peanut,” but the 22-month-old sits comfortably in the seat.

I tell her she can put her hands on the little dashboard that rests on the front of the toddler bike seat. She keeps her hands at her sides, as if to have them ready for action. She does what she wants. She’s Amelia.

A quick photo session, then a watch for a break in traffic on Brentwood Drive, and we head east. The hill looms ahead, and I decide to turn around and turn north on Devonshire.

Amelia is being quiet. I hope she’s doing OK. But then, a few minutes after we turned north, a dog on a porch barks. Amelia is not only not afraid of dogs, she loves just about any animal—once, when visiting a farm where horses were, she became distraught because she could not go pet and play with those animals. I firmly believe that if she lived in the African savannah, some old matriarch elephant cow would be her friend. Anyway, Peanut pointed at the puppy and said, “puppy” in a rather happy, dreamy voice.

A few seconds later, we heard ducks honking and I noted that sound. “Ducks,” she said, again in her bike dream voice. I asked her if she had noticed a small bird that flew overhead singing, and she said “yeaaaaaaah!” Then, “yeaaaaaaah!” became her answer to every question: Do you want to turn here? Did you see the woman walking the dog? Did you notice those two kids riding their bikes?

I think it’s fair to say that Miss Amelia quickly made her peace with biking. She was being quiet, but she was taking it all in, and from the tone of her “yeaaaaaaah!” she was having a grand time.

I reached the end of my intended route, and asked her if it was time to go home. “Nooooo!” she said.

I went home anyway. She can be bossy, and it’s not her bike. Anyway, the first ride went very well. I’m sure Miss Amelia will be ready to ride again when the opportunity arises. And I bet the day when the peanut pedals herself is not that far off.

Being Lonely or Being Alone

I’ve always been a bit of a loner personality—not an easy joiner, not a good schmoozer.

Of course, when I was young that tendency added to a sense of isolation and loneliness. I think I’m long past that life stage, and often find myself pleasantly alone.

There’s a big distinction between being lonely and being alone, and my “alone” time today was nice. For my bike training today, I headed north on the Cedar Valley Trail, wondering where it would be closed (it periodically has been lately as they prepare for paving work n a stretch of the trail).

As it turned out, none of it was closed, at least not as far as I rode. Without planning to go that far, I ended up in Center Point.

Although it was hot today, I was riding in the late afternoon. Took water with me, which I had consumed by the time I got to Center Point, but they have a convenient drinking fountain at the old depot.

I anticipated a tough ride back—the wind was my friend on the way up. But the trail gods smiled, and the wind on my return had shifted so it was more of a cross breeze than a headwind. Any biker can tell you wind is either your friend or your enemy, and a cross breeze is not your friend—but I’ll take it over a headwind when I’m 12 ½ miles north of Hiawatha trying to get back to a home 15 miles away.

A 30 mile ride!

About 10 miles north of Hiawatha, the trail became woody, almost “lions and tigers and bears oh my” woody, but I didn’t mind. The trees increased my sense of isolation, but it was of the pleasant “alone” variety, not the lonely kind.

And I wasn’t as alone as I thought. I paused to shoot the tree-trail photo shown on this post, and noticed, after I had stopped, a house off through the trees to the right with two people enjoying the warm, shady late afternoon. Besides the pair, there were a couple of dogs, too—mean looking brutes (not bikers’ friends). As they ran at me barking, I heard a woman’s yell.

“Oscar!” Oscar? I was almost chomped like a hotdog by a dog named Oscar? Well, not really, the dogs clearly ran at me, the woman clearly yelled to stop Oscar (the other apparently either had a name too embarrassing to yell or she knew if Oscar stopped, so would Persephone), but they were rather far off. Not what I would call a close call at all, really, and not much of an intrusion into my delicious alone ride.