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Borders, 2013 — Part 2

Friday 14 February 2020

It was a lovely spring afternoon, and I was done with school early, so a bike ride was in order. I decided to go on one of my favorites: dip down into Slovakia that loops back to Lipnica, where I lived.

Crossing into Slovakia was no problem. I made my way around Orava Lake, through Trstena and to the border at Sucha Hora ("Dry Mountain"), where I duly handed over my passport to the border guards. The Slovak guards stamped it and gave it to the Polish guard.

"Gdzie pan mieszka?" he asked.

"I live in Lipnica," I replied.

The guard thumbed through my passport like the bloke in Mis, and then he looked at me with a puzzled look. "But how?"

At the time, I didn't have a valid work visa: I was in the process of renewing it, following all the protocols the fine folks in Krakow had laid out, and they had assured me I had nothing to worry about. And yet here I was, on the border, starting to worry.

I explained my situation to guard, but he insisted he couldn't grant me entry. "You don't have a valid visa," he said.

"Yes," I explained, "but you can't keep me out for that reason. Perhaps you could suggest I can't live and work here, but you have to let me in on at least a tourist visa, which means a stamp of the passport and off I go." I didn't say exactly that -- I used much more diplomatic terms, but that was the general idea.

"But you don't have a visa," he insisted, waking into his little office and punching some things up on the computer.

I stood there, dressed in my Lycra shorts and top for cycling, having only a bit of cash in my jersey pocket, and wondering what I would do if this guy seriously didn't let me in. A friend of mine was one of the head border guards at the Chyzne border crossing, so I thought I would just ride back there. But what if he wasn't working? How could I pull this all off? I was tired; it was nearing sunset; I had very little money. Disaster seemed just over the next hill.

The guard came back and gave me my passport, waving me through with a smile. "We'll let you through this time," he said, "but it would have been a different story for me if I were flying to America without a visa, wouldn't it?" His smile grew.

"That's what this is about," I thought. "Someone in your family -- a sister, a brother-in-law -- got turned away from the States on some technicality, and now you're having a little fun." Naturally, I said none of this. I simply thanked him, took my passport, and rode as fast as I could over the border, which was actually another half-kilometer or so from the crossing station.

In 2013, we drove through that crossing, which was empty due to Poland's and Slovakia's mutual EU membership. It looked exactly as it had a decade earlier.

Borders, 2013 — Part 1

Friday with the Boys Again

Friday 26 July 2019

Climbing

Thursday 25 July 2019

Growing up, I did a lot of bike riding. It was very safe in our neighborhood, for there was only one way in and out — no thru-traffic. There were a couple of hills in our neighborhood that were awfully fun to ride down but not terribly fun to ride up.

Of these two, Lynnwood Drive was the most easily conquered. There was nothing too terribly steep, and with some patience and determination, I could make it up the street.

Going one way. Going the other was more challenging. The hill was shorter but steeper. Having a single-gear bike, I found my legs burning and barely moving by the time I made it to the top.

But Norwood — Norwood was unthinkable. It was unimaginable to ride up Norwood; one had to stop push. To a kid of seven or eight with a single-speed bike, it looked like the Alpe d’Huez without the switch-backs: just one, steep climb that felt like at least a 37% slope.

Our own street, Lamont, was the easiest of the three — just a stead, upward grind

I imagine this is much the same way E views some of the short climbs in our neighborhood. After all, all the above thoughts were based on my perception as a kid of about E’s age.

E could take all these hills without a problem. So far this summer, he’s ridden 180 miles with me…

Big Monday

Monday 22 July 2019

The first order of the day: get the front end alignment done on the Paddy Wagon (or minivan as others might call it). The Boy, learning that I was going to take the car and ride my bike back, insisted on going with me.

Second, later in the day, a playdate with D, his best friend in kindergarten who changed schools for first grade. D's mother, R, was a Spanish teacher at my school, and it just so happened that our boys were in the same class, and it just so happened that they became great friends, independent of any intervention from parents. The playdate included almost everything the Boy loves, namely Legos and swimming.

Later, eat an enormous dinner: salmon, potatoes, and one of his absolute favorites, asparagus. (How many seven-year-olds love asparagus, mushrooms, and blood sausage?)

Finally, after a little rest to let the food settle, go on a seven-mile bike ride.

Any wonder he went to sleep almost immediately?

Taking Mama Out For a Ride

Sunday 21 July 2019

We took K out for a ride -- the ride that we almost always go on -- and it was interesting: the Boy was out-riding K on some of the climbs, climbs that just a few months ago he couldn't make without stopping. Today, he took a couple of those climbs two, three times.

"We've got a strong little cyclist," I said.

"Yes, we do."

Sunday on the Trail

Tuesday 16 July 2019

This weekend, we went back home -- back to the southwest Virginia/northeast Tennessee area in which I grew up. Dear family friends invited us to spend the weekend with them for a few reasons, but most important was to give Papa a chance to meet with people who had been unable to attend Nana's funeral. That was what Saturday was all about -- spending time with folks who'd been like family to us. Most of the people I'd known since I was E's age. It was just what Papa needed, and in fact, the laughter that generally filled the house that day was a balm for us all.

Sunday was for our immediate family: a bike ride down the Virginia Creeper Trail, a 34-mile multi-purpose trail built on the old railroad line that ran through the area.

We went along the first half, from Abingdon to Damascus. The longest the Boy had ridden to that point was about ten miles; this was to be about seventeen.

But seventeen miles through probably the most beautiful route any of us have ever ridden through, over fourteen railroad tressels, some of which towered probably 200-250 feet, some of which were surprisingly long.

The Boy powered through it like a champ. All our riding this summer has sculpted a seven-year-old with more endurance than I had at his age, and he pushed through the ride at a fairly impressive speed of 6.8 mph (according to my Fitbit).

At one point toward the end, he began complaining that he couldn't make it. "I'm too tired!" he fussed, but we took about a ten-minute break and he was willing to push through the final miles.

During the last two miles, we got a challenge: a pair of riders called "on your left" and passed us. They looked to be in their sixties but dressed in cycling gear and riding fairly expensive-looking gravel bikes, they were experienced. They encouraged the Boy as they rode by us, and then as they pulled away, I suggested, "Why don't we try to catch them?" I anticipated a laugh that the suggestion was ridiculous, but E clicked into a higher gear, stood up from the saddle, and powered ahead. "On our left!" we called out as we passed to the gentlemen's cheers. "But can we keep this speed?" I thought. At one point, we slowed, and the riders neared. The Boy stood again, pedaled as fast as he could, and pushed through the last half mile or so to our stopping point. Our competition caught us, congratulated him, and gave him enthusiastic high-fives. "I guess you showed us, young man!" one said.

On the way home, though, there was only one thing to do...

Monday

Monday 01 July 2019

The day started with a ride back up to the north of the county to pick up my car.

I’d mapped the route on Strava, and it really didn’t seem so bad: 28km with nothing too intimidating in terms of ascents. But I’m not the cyclist I was 15 years ago. My legs aren’t what they used to be; my heart and lungs labor under what would have been the slightest effort at my fittest. And so when I hit the segment some Strava user named “Cleveland St. Climb – West,” it completely kills me.

It’s really pathetic. Look at this thing:

A mere half-kilometer that rises a mere 35-meters, with an average gradient of 8%. I finish in 3:08, with an average speed of 8.7 km/h. Of all the Stava users who have tackled that climb, I am the 386th fastest.

Details from my fitness tracker show just what a trial it was for me:

Ridiculously high pulse for a ridiculously slow speed. But I’m 46; I haven’t done serious exercise in years. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not. But of course, I am.

When I got home, I did to the yellow bell bushes along our driveway what the ride did to me:

The Ride Back

Thursday 27 June 2019

The Boy and I took the Honda up to the north of the county where a Polish friend has an auto shop. It’s a bit of a drive, but we trust him completely, and he’s taken care of our cars for probably close to a decade now.

Today, the Boy and I decided we would ride our bikes back — not quite home, for that would involve riding on roads I wouldn’t at all feel comfortable taking the Boy. Not quite home, but relatively close. In total, 11.48km in 57:02. Not bad for a seven year old. Not the longest he’s ever done, but still, not bad at all that speed.