Do you hear what I hear

We are driving away from the house, headed to the Freeport-Butler Trail. We (meaning Lou) have loaded the bikes on the new rear rack. The Rocket has to ride upside-down, otherwise she fights with the Bachetta."Did you hear that, as we were leaving," Lou asks, making a pitiful whining noise. "From the basement?"

OK, so I know my "old" bike is sad. She got me through winter, through the chill rains and biting winds, out in the mud and muck with the other crazy people who refused to let their two-wheelers hibernate. She spent many a dark night shivering in the parking lot outside work, waiting patiently for me to come out, waiting patiently for spring. And now it is warm and the road beckons, and she doesn't understand why I haven't wheeled her out of the basement in almost a week. Well, there's a new baby in the house, that's all there is to it. I will always love my Fuji. She is tricked out exactly how I want her -- handlebar spots for my coffee, phone and computer; my rear rack with a huge carryall that lets me take along extra clothes, my lunch, my first aid kit, my tools, an extra drink or two, a couple snacks, my lights and pretty much anything else I want to pack. I carried a tree (blue spruce) around town for a couple hours one day. She's the bike that got me to fall in love with biking again. But I want to get acclimated to The Rocket so she will have a place in my life too. And so for awhile, she will be my main ride. It takes all different muscles to ride a short wheelbase recumbent -- I feel it in my abs, my knees, my calves. They are both really comfortable bikes, easy on my shot-to-hell wrists and hands, easy on my neck and back, stretched out with the cranks forward, what they call relaxed geometry. If I had to choose just one, it would not be close -- obviously I would choose my "old" bike. Maybe someday that will change, but for now I am less anxious and more confident riding her. And anyway you don't just abandon your first love.

Today's ride: Saturday March 17, hin and yon on the Freeport-Butler Trail, 40 miles altogether (OK, 39.87). Tires hit the road at 1:33. Got to Butler at 4. Back at the car at 6:30.

Highlight: Ian, 5, who was set up near Mile 17 with drinks and snacks for sale in a cooler. There are no (zero, nada, zilch) facilities of any kind on the trail. No portajohn. No water. No place to stop for an energy bar. Oh, wait. Except for Ian's place. He's an adorable little guy who was looking out for me because Lou had stopped before me and paid for a snack and a drink for me -- a whole dollar. Which bought an ice cold bottle of water and a peanut butter bar that was close enough to vegan for me -- wasn't marked vegan but didn't have any ingredients that jumped out to discredit it. "You know why I'm selling stuff?" he said. No, I didn't. He whispered in his dad's ear. His dad said, Tell her. "To buy toys," Ian said. The kid's going to be able to buy some kick-ass toys by the end of summer. There is just no competition.

The trail itself is gorgeous. Much of the first half runs alongside a creek -- I bet it's Buffalo Creek, judging by the name of the bridge near the trailhead. There are little waterfalls all along the way that I'm sure provide a kind of natural air-conditioning when it's hot out. Much of the trail is shaded but it was never cold, even as the sun was thinking of sinking in early evening. The trail passes a large working farm (Jones Farm) with the requisite No Trespassing signs and others that said Do Not Throw Objects At Turkeys. Which was disappointing because I so wanted to. Not that I saw any turkeys or really any throwable objects. And then there were the large brown and white signs around Mile 18 that said CAUTION, ENTERING RIFLE RANGE. They seemed like pretty ridiculous signs. I mean, what are you supposed to do, duck if you see a speeding bullet? So I figured I'd get a picture on the way back but, no fooling, there was the crack of gunfire just as I reached the signs on my return and I thought better of it. So I guess I did exert caution after all.