For a few years now, I've had an ancient steel mountain bike stashed at the crew dorm in Mechanicsburg Pa. where I spend way too much of my time. It's cabled to the rack outside but I try to keep a cover over it so it doesn't rust into oblivion. It's a story in itself that'll wait for another post.
I took it out for a short hop the other day and ended up on one of my go-to loops. On this one, I head south from the hotel to get out of the worst of the traffic, cross a ridge and drop down to McCormick Road, east a ways to a tee and then back over the hill to the bike rack. It's about 14 miles and ends with a downhill so I can coast most of the way in. McCormick Road is a bonus.
McCormick is a slow-moving two lane that follows Yellow Breeches Creek. It must be on a lot of loops because I almost always encounter other bikes when I'm on it. There's some beautiful old homes and farms set back off the road and the shade is nice on a hot day. I took some pics earlier this spring on a much cooler afternoon...
Lots of people use the creek for tube-floats and kayaking too and there's a narrow roadside park that I've found requires extra care lest you get doored by somebody jumping out of a pickup. The scenery is worth it though so I ride it whenever I can.
This day, I had just started down McCormick from the west end when I met an older-looking guy riding the other way on a hybrid. We waved as riders of any civility should when passing and he said something I barely heard about it being easier going the other direction. Just a casual nod and a comment to each other and then off on our opposite ways.
A bit further down, I stopped for a minute to catch a pic with my phone and there he was again, now going the same way as me. After he passed, I caught up with him on an uphill where he was slogging a little and sort of startled him when I called 'on your left'. I pulled up beside him and asked if he was a local, which he turned out to be and just like that...we started chatting. He was very thin but chugging along at a pretty good clip. We rode together all the way to the end of the road till we hit the tee where I would turn left and he would turn around. He said he was doing three laps of McCormick to get in shape and suddenly there we were, sitting at the end of a country road in the shade, talking like we'd known each other for years.
He told me about the annual ride he was going to make with his brothers which was why he was working on his legs. He said they had ridden rail-trails from the C&O to the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon even though he was the oldest of them at 72. They've been doing it quite a while with a skip last year due to pandemic but are back at it again this season.
Turns out the group ride began after he was diagnosed with colon cancer years ago and took some bad advice to hold off on treatment. Surgery and a biopsy eventually discovered it had metastasized into his lymph system and suddenly it was stage 4 and the surgeons allowed he had maybe one or two years to live. His prognosis was slightly off however since two years had turned into almost ten and here he was, riding a bike and planning an overnight trip of more miles than a lot of younger, healthier people I know would even attempt. He listed off all the things he'd done for therapy since his surgery and what it had done to him but still hadn't told me his name. He talked about how so many people give up when something awful like his diagnosis happens to them and suddenly they just fade away until they die. He decided he wasn't going to do that and got on a bike for the first time since he was a kid...and that became the annual ride with his brothers.
He laughed when he told me he felt like a menopausal woman these days because he's taking testosterone suppressants as part of his treatment and now has hot flashes and takes bone density supplements. The drugs make it hard to hold muscle mass too so he faithfully does his laps. The blood thinners he takes give him purple splotches under his skin and made a scratch on his leg bleed till it filled his sock but he just shrugged. He and his docs are tinkering with doses and meds to keep him on an even keel and the pedals turning.
Eventually he mentioned that his name was Bill and the conversation went on. He said he was hoping to hold his illness off, make it to 80 or 90 (which I think he just might) and stay on the bike as long as he could. We talked about battles with depression and failed marriages and work but it never felt maudlin. It was just life.
He told me of adventures and people he'd met along the way...the paraplegic that rode a hand-bike and the writer for 'Railroading' and 'Trains' and he talked about the brother who couldn't ride because of Alzheimer's and so many more. We shared ride stories and family stories and waved at the passing pickups loaded with kids, tubes and coolers now packed up and headed for home.
I think we sat there for most of an hour until I realized I still had a ways to go to get back for some dinner and a couple hours of sleep before the phone rang and he said he needed another lap before he called it a day. We shook hands and wished each other well. Like the oldsters we are, it never occurred to us to swap emails or platforms or even last names. It was just Bill and Harold once in a lifetime and that was enough.
As we got our bikes hitched around and aimed in opposite directions, he turned and said that even though we'd almost surely never cross paths again, he was glad we'd met and he'd remember me. He said he believes chance meetings with people you come across makes life worth the trouble. We shook hands one more time and with another wave, pedaled off our separate ways.
On reflection, I don't know why this one little event among so many in two completely different lives seems so important...but it does. I wonder at the way everything lined up for it to happen at all. It just felt good and somehow felt right.
So Bill...wherever we go and however it all ends up, I too have a memory from a hot day in July on the corner of McCormick and Lisburn that I will keep...an hour of friendship with a stranger on the road that will last a lifetime.
I guess that makes it feel a lot like hope.
