day of the locust
I should know better by now. Three or four times each winter, the local news stations broadcast graphs of isobars and stratocasters looming over Edmonton. For days on end, the talking heads hype the storm, encouraging frenzied Virginians to descend like vultures upon the Safeway and cram their Explorers with toilet paper and bleach until the shelves are bare enough to make Breznhev proud. Invariably, the predicted storm dusts the roads with a half-inch of powder that melts faster than my dreams of a snow day. Government workers, of course, are granted liberal leave.
Every now and then, they like to mix things up with a hurricane. Just a few months ago, we were warned of Isabel. It rained a little, the power went out for about twenty minutes well before the brunt of the storm, and I watched the rest of hurricane coverage on TV. I went to work early the next day. Sure, the bottom of King Street flooded and photos of canoes made it into the papers in Cincinnati, but that's happened at least once almost every year I've lived here.
Naturally, I blame the local news for this small portion of my broken dreams. If I had my way - and we're all probably lucky I don't - the local channels would be permitted to broadcast only sports scores and perhaps a short feature on why carbs are either going to kill me or save my life promptly at six-thirty every evening. It would take five minutes and we'd have time for an extra Simpsons.
Their latest scheme is these cicadas; they got started early on this one. Since February, I've heard about Brood X - the 17-year cicadas that will emerge from the ground to swarm in such numbers that they blot out the sun. With a full three months to challenge their graphics department, I expected a plague of locust-type insects of near biblical proportions. Famine would surely follow as the cicadas consumed all our food. Why on earth else would they provide us with recipes for cicada foie gras and cicada taffy? By now, you may have guessed that the cicadas have not been the unwelcome pest that was advertised. I've seen a few squished on the road, and some holes around some trees. Mehaffey says his yard is silly with them, so maybe they prefer Arlington to Old Town. Arlington does have the better night life.
That said, they sound pretty creepy when you are alone on a bicycle in the middle of Nowhere, Maryland. Between the humming of the cicadas, remote location, and the multitude of cows, I nearly began to believe in flying saucers. At least enough that I was frightened into riding a tiny bit faster.
You've probably never heard of Laytonsville, Maryland, but it's near Olney, Maryland, which you have also probably never heard of. We were to do a 42 mile loop, break for a quick lunch, and do the loop again. For once, I had got a decent night's sleep (I went to bed at about 8:30 friday night, and though I woke early, I was able to fall back to sleep before I had to rise at 5AM) and was feeling fine. I was apparently the only one. Several people wiped out - one serious enough to merit a trip to the hospital (she's fine) - and the heat got to more than a few others, including my ride home. I wanted to ride another 42 miles after lunch, but in the interest of not being stranded, I did an abbreviated circuit. It is, however, unsurprising to me that the one time I am having a good day, the rest of the team - to put it bluntly - isn't. That seems to be the story of my life. On the upside, I had the privilege of riding for a while with Kathi. It's a somewhat poorly kept secret, but Kathi is the Leukemia survivor on our team. She's still on the tail end of her chemotherapy, so she isn't able to quite keep up with the rest of us, but she still rides an amazing sixty or so miles each week and her encouragement more than makes up for a mere 20 to 30 miles. I am honored that she is my teammate.
In two days, we have our most strenuous ride yet - and it's our last one before Tahoe. We are riding out of Middleburg (which is where I made the big decision to ditch my mountain bike) and doing two loops of 50 and 40 miles - including a trip up the appropriately named Mt. Weather. According to our most demented coach, the Naked Mountain ride included a cumulative climb of 3000 feet, and last week we climbed 4000 feet. This week's climb is 6000 feet, which is comparable to the ride around Lake Tahoe. I feel ready.
Every now and then, they like to mix things up with a hurricane. Just a few months ago, we were warned of Isabel. It rained a little, the power went out for about twenty minutes well before the brunt of the storm, and I watched the rest of hurricane coverage on TV. I went to work early the next day. Sure, the bottom of King Street flooded and photos of canoes made it into the papers in Cincinnati, but that's happened at least once almost every year I've lived here.
Naturally, I blame the local news for this small portion of my broken dreams. If I had my way - and we're all probably lucky I don't - the local channels would be permitted to broadcast only sports scores and perhaps a short feature on why carbs are either going to kill me or save my life promptly at six-thirty every evening. It would take five minutes and we'd have time for an extra Simpsons.
Their latest scheme is these cicadas; they got started early on this one. Since February, I've heard about Brood X - the 17-year cicadas that will emerge from the ground to swarm in such numbers that they blot out the sun. With a full three months to challenge their graphics department, I expected a plague of locust-type insects of near biblical proportions. Famine would surely follow as the cicadas consumed all our food. Why on earth else would they provide us with recipes for cicada foie gras and cicada taffy? By now, you may have guessed that the cicadas have not been the unwelcome pest that was advertised. I've seen a few squished on the road, and some holes around some trees. Mehaffey says his yard is silly with them, so maybe they prefer Arlington to Old Town. Arlington does have the better night life.
That said, they sound pretty creepy when you are alone on a bicycle in the middle of Nowhere, Maryland. Between the humming of the cicadas, remote location, and the multitude of cows, I nearly began to believe in flying saucers. At least enough that I was frightened into riding a tiny bit faster.
You've probably never heard of Laytonsville, Maryland, but it's near Olney, Maryland, which you have also probably never heard of. We were to do a 42 mile loop, break for a quick lunch, and do the loop again. For once, I had got a decent night's sleep (I went to bed at about 8:30 friday night, and though I woke early, I was able to fall back to sleep before I had to rise at 5AM) and was feeling fine. I was apparently the only one. Several people wiped out - one serious enough to merit a trip to the hospital (she's fine) - and the heat got to more than a few others, including my ride home. I wanted to ride another 42 miles after lunch, but in the interest of not being stranded, I did an abbreviated circuit. It is, however, unsurprising to me that the one time I am having a good day, the rest of the team - to put it bluntly - isn't. That seems to be the story of my life. On the upside, I had the privilege of riding for a while with Kathi. It's a somewhat poorly kept secret, but Kathi is the Leukemia survivor on our team. She's still on the tail end of her chemotherapy, so she isn't able to quite keep up with the rest of us, but she still rides an amazing sixty or so miles each week and her encouragement more than makes up for a mere 20 to 30 miles. I am honored that she is my teammate.
In two days, we have our most strenuous ride yet - and it's our last one before Tahoe. We are riding out of Middleburg (which is where I made the big decision to ditch my mountain bike) and doing two loops of 50 and 40 miles - including a trip up the appropriately named Mt. Weather. According to our most demented coach, the Naked Mountain ride included a cumulative climb of 3000 feet, and last week we climbed 4000 feet. This week's climb is 6000 feet, which is comparable to the ride around Lake Tahoe. I feel ready.
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