Autumn Ride For Memorial

I love all Pikes in Indiana. Once upon a time they were the widest and most direct routes between towns. They follow the countour of the land for the most part, but also respect the property lines of the old farms. Nowadays, however, they are hidden from even Google Maps, and are only relevant to local folk and those navigating with atlas's filled with county maps and contour lines. (my father and I are the only people I know to have such maps, and I learned it from him and his desire to fish new streams.)

So this afternoon I left work on the bike and headed for Rushville. I rode the Fortville Pike, the Morristown Pike, and Rushville Road (which should be called the Rushville Pike). It is the same route that Colin and I rode two weeks ago. In those two weeks the roads changed dramatically. There were trees turning yellow at the top as if sun burnt, and some that were a dark wine all around, as if the bulk of their leaves were secretly held by a long-stemmed glass. The breeze was stiff, and was raking dried leaves across the back roads.

I had an early dinner/late lunch at a diner in Carthage, which is where Ali's Grandma lives. I love wearing my Stitch into diners and shops, because people look at me as if I were a moonman, or dealing with toxic chemicals. In a way I am both. The former is obvious by sight and if I spelled sight site, and the latter is because the whole point is to keep my skin, which is probably why most would wear such a suit while handling toxins.

After leaving Carthage I conquered the part of Rushville Road that defeated me two weeks ago and left me riding with handlebars bent back like I was the shortest kid alive on a big kid's BMX bike. (The experienced rider's course comes highly recommended from me)

But then it was business time, the reason for the trip, and I walked into Todd Funeral Home in Rushville to pick out Alison's Headstone.

That was hard.

More emotions surged against my levy than I anticipated.

But I chose the one best suited for her. It won't be ready until between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am having a custom design made. They don't make classic yet young-looking designs. I want one that would both suit Ali and stand the test of time.

I debated stopping by the church and visiting her grave, but opted not too. I will soon. In some ways I have to talk myself into believing that she's not there waiting for me, and will not be disappointed if I am late. She IS in a better place, not in that place. That place is beautiful, but I anticipate going there to center myself, to choose perspective, not to really visit.

That's another proof source that every man is different.

Speaking of self-talk, the whole point of this post is to say that I thought about being disappointed that Ali's missing her favorite season (think stiff breezes and floating leaves), but it dawned on me that it's got to be even more perfect where she is. There the Pikes are even more bendy, and the leaves last that much longer in their late radiance.

I love her every bit as much while I'm away from her as I do when I am with her. I can feel me come back now. My words. And my heart. If that makes any sense at all.