July 11 Early Morning Biking

What I like about that early morning zip around the lake isn't really the exercise, although I admit it's great to see those thighs tone up a bit. What I like is the multi-faceted adventure--half touring my past playground of memories and half discovering (and evaluating) the new.

I start off taking a left on Ridge (the city's begun it's work on the curb/gutters, I see) and turn left onto Garden Road. A right on Martin Road winds me down to the bridge on Richway--remembering the vision my brother Lloyd must've had as he looked down one day while on his paper route to find a submerged motor tossed there--probably by kids--and the $5 reward the owners sent to him. Then on to the new bike trail, formerly the back road to the tennis courts where we played in a league--my dad and uncle devoted players. Peddling on into the Catholic cemetery, I pass the spot Lloyd and I used to fish for bullheads--venturing through the "Willow Woods" to get there. I don't remember we'd never keep any-- but I do remember the challenge of removing the hook without getting stung. We probably used worms for bait--probably went to the fields to dig them, but...our spot was special to me; we were rarely disturbed, since the only access then was the cemetery's road, and few visited then.

Now the new biking trail connects the Catholic cemetery with the next one, as well a Pioneer Park. As I peddle, I notice the house closest to the park (the one nearly identical to the one we grew up in on the farm) is being renovated--and surprisingly, I like it! Nice lines, great color, new windows. I wind past the beach and onto the sidewalk as I tackle the hill--the road there! When will they ever fix it?! I grimace at the "KEEP OUT, Private Property" sign at the new condos' driveways by the lake and wonder how signs can scream and yell like that. I'd never live in an area with such an attitude.

Then down again to the lake--past Catherine Island where I'd meet mom during lunchtime as a young girl at Northside School. She's bring a picnic and read to me as I munched on a sandwich. Why this memory gives me such a hug I can't say; perhaps the magic of such a special time with just her and me, when she could see and the world was opening to me...

I usually stop at the dam, and nowadays dab my nose, but earlier I'd simply watch in amazement at the power of the water, of nature's force, while water spilled over into the channel leading to "Lower Lake" as mother used to call Albert Lea Lake. Continuing along Bridge Street, I turn onto Fountain and along the path Lloyd and I used to walk to piano lessons--from Lakewood to Park Avenue? Seems like such a long way for two kids, but that was "back then," and then it wasn't so far somehow. Up the hill by the water tower, I notice the work the city's doing on Broadway--a nice update, I hope--friendlier, more aesthetically pleasing, perhaps providing us with a more positive outlook on downtown.

Past our church, the hospital, which has grown and changed the landscape, and finally down to Lakeview Blvd. I take a right onto that road and am again nearly in my paternal grandmother's backyard. How I loved the alley that runs parallel to the street. What's it called? Court Lane? And I recall the house she lived in as I pass it--the night I stayed with her when my sister was born, the lights of the cars careening around the walls as they passed, the next bedroom with a fireplace, the attic, which was a treasure trove of trunks and dusty magic. I remember playing "teacher" in the living room that faced the lake, and the back room with the amazing ironing contraption that ironed sheets (who irons sheets?!). And I remember sitting at the dining room table, trying to keep my elbows from making their way onto it (a big faux pas in Grandma Kepple's eyes).

As I continue past Lakeview School, my kids' early days there flood back, and oddly I don't recall as much as I probably should. Was I not so involved in their elementary years, in their education? Past the "little island" I breathe in the scent of the North Shore--what that particular smell is remains a mystery to me, yet occasionally it's there, strong and clearly identifiable to me, something I can't explain to others. It's a fresh, clean scent--and when it waifs in the air, somehow it's like an elixir, calming and wrapping its arms around me. Odd, I know, yet I love that smell.

I peddle past the "Little Store," now a residence, and around to the new bridge--up the Fairway's hill and left onto Ridge. My thighs ache, me heart pounds, and I'm again on even ground as I pull into the driveway. I see the grass is growing (yeah!) where the winter kill had left a huge brown spot. I park the bike on the side of the garage, cover the seat to keep off any rain, and stride into the house for a robust cup of coffee, having visited a world I cherish.