On giving thanks, mile after mile after mile

Proximity to large bodies of water has been a big and calming part of my life and psyche.

From my birth in 1946 until I was 26, my family’s home was 150 yards from the Atlantic Ocean in Revere, Mass. During my first two years living in Baltimore, my home was about the same distance from its harbor, part of an estuary of Chesapeake Bay. During the last 33 years in Evanston, IL, I have lived about a quarter-mile from Lake Michigan.

Cycling has become another big and calming part of my life this year, with the joy of being outside on a bike more important than ever. And water figures as bookends of my cycling story, too.

My first ride of 2020, in Naples, FL January 3rd, included stopping for a photo at the Naples Pier, a Gulf of Mexico locale I was seeing for the first time. A little more than 10 months later, on Nov. 21, I finished my 194th - but not last - ride of the year with a photo at a location long familiar to me, the Lee Street Beach in Evanston.

But that Evanston view became singular as well. The photo came after a ride had that pushed my 2020 mileage total past 5,000 miles, nearly 700 miles more than my previous annual high and, if you will indulge a not-so-humble brag, not too bad for an old fart.

There is a lot of time to think while rolling up the miles by oneself.

During the rides, mostly 25-to-34 miles and all solo after mid-March, I thought often of my late Evanston friend, Alan Garfin, whose assertion, “Any ride is a good ride,” has become my mantra. I thought of my Baltimore friend and journalism colleague, Michael Hill, who not only helped introduce me to the woman who would become my wife but also got me into running and cycling and convinced me that I could run and cycle further than I ever would have imagined. I thought of the cyclists in the groups with whom I ride in non-pandemic years, whose patient encouragement (and willingness to wait after I was dropped) when I began road cycling in 2006 has been critical in my getting to enjoy it.

I thought of my wife, Ann Roberts, whose unstinting support and encouragement have allowed me to cope with my frequently high levels of Covid-related anxiety while she continues her full-time job as a college professor, giving students in virtual classes her boundless knowledge, empathy, understanding and enthusiasm. I thought of my Connecticut friend and colleague, Tim Layden, with whom I have exchanged “Good Morning” texts every day since early spring, each day’s greeting an affirmation that we are muddling through this with each other’s support. I thought of the pleasure I get from reading the warm, humanizing missives from “Coronaville” that another longtime colleague, Dave Kindred, has posted regularly on Facebook - the good side of Facebook, the side that allows us to connect with friends and acquaintances, to share our common joys and frustrations and, in many cases, to find some comfort in sharing tragedy.

I thought of my son and daughter-in-law, whom I have not seen since last Thanksgiving and will likely not see until we all have been vacccinated. They have had a challenging first year of married life, to put it mildly.

I thought of my late parents, both young teens in the 1918-19 pandemic, which I can’t recall them ever talking about. (My dad was born 115 years ago Thursday.) They were first generation Americans who made it through a pandemic, World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War and the Vietnam War, a salesman and a sometime secretary with a lifelong devotion to learning, and even though neither of them got a college degree, they raised two sons who were graduated from Yale.

And I thought of how lucky I am, able to indulge in recreation when so many have fought and are fighting (and too many have lost) the battle of their lives against a horrible, unpredictable disease. I thought of the health care workers and first responders and essential workers and teachers (and more) who have heroically been risking their lives to join the battle on our behalf. I thought of those whose lives have been turned inside out by the economic fallout from the pandemic and by our government’s failure to show them compassion and financial assistance.

And I cried in celebration at the end of a ride on Nov. 7, when the honking car horns and the people cheering signaled to me that major media had declared the real news that Joe Biden was the president-elect, meaning our nation’s four 𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑖 ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑠 would not be allowed to continue for another four years – or at least not have the same horrible, inhumane person in charge, and that alone is wonderful.

And two weeks later, as I carried my bike onto the sand at Lee Street, the waves clomped rhythmically onto the shore, and the background music of so much of my life combined with one pedal stroke after another had muted, at least briefly, the dispiriting discord and awful fear of 2020. And a calm settled in, at least briefly.

So on what will be the most muted Thanksgiving of my life, on my favorite holiday, on a Thanksgiving day in which my wife and I will be away from both family and / or friends for the first time in our lives, my gratitude never has been greater, especially my gratitude to the brave groups of people I mentioned, who have sacrificed so much for all of us.

Stay safe. Stay well.

Happy Thanksgiving.