I get most of my exercise-outside the bedroom-on my bike. Little did I know you could combine the two so well.
It's not unusual for me to ride 50 or 60 miles on a Saturday or Sunday. Plus, I only need to drive ten minutes from my condo to be in the country. I much prefer riding my bike on country roads than on bike trails. I leave the trails for walks with Mom, but that's already been covered in Chapter 2.
The advantages of riding in the country include less traffic and more quiet time to think. The disadvantages include dogs and road kill. But I prefer the solitude, sights and sounds of the back roads. The people I pass tend to be friendlier and I know that if I ever needed help because of a mechanical problem, I could stop at any farm house and be treated with kindness.
I have a favorite route that really takes me far away from the closest city, but is still in 'civilization.' Corn and soybean farms that stretch to the horizon are peppered with farmhouses and silos and barns. When it's not flat, the terrain is rolling and never hilly. Woods still stand in spots. Cows and hogs make up the bulk of the livestock.
And, of course, there are churches. New and old. Big and small. My favorite is a tiny, all white wooden structure that is not much larger than the unused one room schoolhouses you still see in the country. I pass this church on every ride. I stop at it almost every time.
Headstones rise from the ground on both sides of the church. Some of them are so small and old you can't read them. Others show deaths dating back 'only' three decades. Alongside the church is a gravel path used to get to a grassy area in the rear used for parking on Sunday mornings. My guess has always been that the church has no more than fifty members and only half of them attend on a regular basis.
I stop at the church because on one side or the other, depending on what time I'm riding, it offers shade. On this particular day, I badly needed shade and a place to sit, catch my breath, and let my body temperature get back to normal. It was exceptionally hot and heat stroke in the middle of nowhere is no fun.
I rolled onto the familiar path, listening to my tires roll over the loose dirt and gravel. I came to a stop in the shade no more than ten feet from the church. I got off, let the bike rest on the ground on its side, and pulled out a water bottle.
I was about to take a drink when I noticed a single car in the back, close to the church. On a Saturday, this was very unusual as I was used to having the place pretty much to myself when it wasn't Sunday. I took a long drink of water, then pulled down the zipper of my cycling jersey a bit and poured water down the front, feeling it cascade over my chest and stomach.
I took off my helmet and gloves and sat on the grass, with my back to the church.
The one story structure had four windows on each side. Directly below each of those, in the stone block basement, were four additional, smaller windows. The windows at the congregation level had no coverings. The basement windows had curtains that I had never seen open.
I only mention this because five minutes after sitting down I swore I saw one of the curtains slide back into place when I turned to look at the car in the back. I could have been mistaken, but even if I wasn't I didn't think too much of it. I was sitting in the grass, resting. Somebody was in the basement of the church. Big deal.
But then I started thinking; always a bad thing with me. I was down to just one and a half bottles of water and I had more than twenty miles to ride. I normally would have stretched the water and made it last. But what if? What if somebody was in the basement of the church and they would let me fill my water bottles, assuming they had running water?
I had nearly talked myself out of doing it until I had one last thought of how cold and refreshing the water might be. I could breeze through the final leg of my ride.
I sighed, stood up, and gathered together all three of my water bottles. I walked towards the back of the church, closely eyeing the car that had intrigued me from the start. I guess I was looking for signs that maybe it wasn't a good idea to bother the owner. But it was very nondescript, fairly clean, and certainly not threatening.
The back door of the church was clearly the original. The wood was aged and cracked and what little paint remained was in need of replacement. I knocked. After half a minute with no reply, I knocked again.
When there was still no answer, I tried the knob and was able to pull the door open.
"Hello. Anybody here?" I asked in what I thought was an appropriately loud voice.
Silence. I stepped inside.
Directly ahead of me was a short hallway ending with a wall just five feet away and a left hand turn. To the right were steps down into the basement.
"Hello," I said more loudly. "Anyone home?"
I was looking down the stairs the entire time, still convinced I saw the curtain move earlier. I began quietly walking down the steps.
"Oh, there you are," a man's voice behind me said.
I shrieked and nearly fell forward, managing to steady myself and dropping only one of the water bottles. I turned to look, but I could only make out the man's outline against the gleaming brightness of the open door behind him. At that point I wanted to walk back up the steps and avoid being in the basement with him. But then I would have had to walk right into him. Also, a bottle I needed was on the basement floor. So I stood frozen in place.
"Can I help you?" he said.
"I...I saw the car and...and thought somebody was in here," I stammered. "I wondered if I could get some water?"
He stepped forward and at least I got a better look at his face.
"Of course. Come on down," he said with a smile.
I turned and took the final steps to the basement floor. There, I picked up the third water bottle, subconsciously turning my body so I wasn't directly in front of him when I did it.
In the normal light I saw that he was probably in his early fifties—twice my age—clean shaven and not at all bad looking. He didn't appear to be an axe murderer after all.
"I saw you resting out there," he said. "It's awful hot to be riding. How far do you have to go?"
"About twenty miles. Not that far."
He looked surprised. "Not that far? How far have you ridden already?"
"Forty. Approximately."
He shook his head. "C'mon. The water's over here."
The basement was very plain. The block walls were painted but not otherwise covered. Several long tables were aligned in the center with perhaps two dozen folding chairs. Two closed doors led to either offices or storage rooms. Another led to the restroom, which is where I was told I could fill the water bottles.
"Thanks," I said, entering the restroom.
I left the door open and filled each bottle from the sink with what I found to be unexpectedly cold water. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of him sitting on the edge of a table, watching every move I made. Or my ass in spandex cycling shorts, one or the other.
As I came out the man's eyes reminded me that the zipper on my jersey was still pulled down a little from my quick shower outside and that the wet shirt was clinging to my body. So if I had accomplished nothing else, I had given this guy a good show from front and back.
"This will really help. I appreciate it," I said, with every intention of leaving.
