Cow Loose on the Golf Course

It was the summer of 1978 or ’79 and Jeff Eaton and I had summer jobs working at the Miller Park par-three golf course in Campbellsville.  We were the groundskeepers and “pro shop” attendants.  I put pro shop in quotes because it was actually the former stripping room of an old tobacco barn that came with the property and around which the course was built.  The barn housed the tractor, mowers, a cinder block bathroom and the stripping room-turned-pro shop.

If the mowing was caught up on a hot summer weekday, business was apt to be slow.  One such day, Jeff and I were hanging around the barn when someone yelled to get our attention and tell us a cow was loose on the course.  We both ran toward the back side of the course in the direction of the trouble.  The course was basically a rectangular property, the back of which was separated from the adjoining farm by a 4-plank wooden fence, not unlike those you see on the horse farms in the Bluegrass.  As we approached the 4^th tee we saw Mr. Ivan Barnes clinging to the fence, having climbed partway up to avoid the charging steer. 

We deduced the steer had escaped with some effort from the stockyards or a nearby farm enclosure as there was a swath of blood running down the side of its head from one eye.  Needless to say, he was agitated.

Jeff and I, fearing course damage and possible injury to golfers, took it upon ourselves to round up and contain this critter so he could be removed from the premises.  We decided to close the front door of the barn and try to herd the cow into the back door which we would then close, trapping him.  I don’t think we really considered any further steps to the plan. 

In short order we herded/taunted the animal in the direction of the barn and were close to number 3 tee.  As we circled the steer trying to control its direction, it charged at Jeff.  Nimble though he was, as Jeff tried to change directions to evade the animal, he slipped and fell . . . 

At this juncture of my tale, I pause to say that had Jeff met his demise or suffered debilitating injury under the hooves of that steer that day, the world as it now spins would be tremendously different for scores of people with whom he has interacted these past 36 years.  As a pastor of congregations in South Central and Central Kentucky he has touched countless lives and gotten in the trenches of ministry to support people at the highest and lowest points of the human experience.  He has ministered in places ranging from duck blinds and deer stands to formal church.  I’d like to say that Jeff’s congregants owe their having a minister, and that his children owe their existence to some brave act I undertook to save him from being trampled, but it happened in a split second and all I could do was watch.   

As the steer bore down on Jeff, it had to change direction and also slipped in its effort to keep Jeff in its sights.  Jeff scrambled to his feet and avoided injury. 

Ultimately, we failed to get the steer into the barn.  It ran past the barn and down the hill toward number 1 tee at the front of the course.  The front border of the course was separated from the road by a 2-board fence, which the steer easily jumped.  He trotted across Saloma Road and into the field near where Trace Creek Softball is today and we never saw him again.  I don’t recall even hearing later of its capture.

So, being from a rural community where a cow can make its way across town or onto a road, I always get a little tickled, and nostalgic, (and I suppose Jeff does too) when the local news reports that motorists need to use caution because of livestock running loose in the greater Lexington area. 

Accidents Happen

Fraternity - any group or class of persons having comon purposes, interests, etc. . . .

This past Thursday was a picture perfect weather day for joining the Bluegrass Cycling Club organized ride that leaves from Russell Cave Elementary School.  The good weather brought out a large number of riders spanning all levels.  The ride leaders/organizers divided the rides up into 3 basic groups.  The mapped route was the same for everyone, but with 3 distance options using a couple of shortcuts to return to the school.

The "A" group had no official leader, but "A" riders are usually the most experienced cyclists and generally fend for themselves.  This night, a large group of riders left the parking lot with the "A" group.  Often, this results in the group staying together for the first 8 or 10 miles until a split forms in the group with the fastest riders getting away from those unable to keep their pace.  As we left the parking lot with such a large number, I figured that might occur on this ride.

The Russell Cave area is one of the prettiest parts of Fayette County, and a favorite of riders.  The terrain is mostly flat or gently rolling and takes the riders past beautiful horse farm after beautiful horse farm.  On this particular night, the temperature was a perfect 70 degrees and there was little wind to affect riding.  The stage was set for a wonderful night of cycling.  But, the best laid plans . . .

Six and a half miles into the ride, the group was still together and keeping a good pace.  We approached a 90 degree downhill curve that is well known to us.  The leading riders sometimes enter the curve faster than I think they should, but tonight they did a good job of slowing ahead of the curve and negotiating it at a safe speed.  There were the usual yells of "SLOWING!" from the front of the group as we entered the downhill turn. 

I was probably two-thirds back in the group and just as we took the curve, the rider in front of me started to lose control.  When you see the bike jackknife right, then left, it usually means the brakes are being applied pretty hard; so I don't know if she got into the wheel in front of her or didn't realize how much the rider ahead had slowed, but she pitched one direction then the other and went down hard on the downhill slope.
She and her bike sprawled across the road in front of me.  Everything in my periphery became a blur of riders.  I braked as hard as I could but couldn't avoid hitting the downed rider as she lay across the road.  I remember seeing my handlebars disappear below me as I flew across them.  I went across the crash victim and did what felt like a sideways rolling flip onto the pavement beyond her, landing mostly on my right shoulder and side. 

I raised up from the pavement and reached up and pulled my bike off her as she lay motionless, face down on the road.  I could hear her moaning.  Bikes were off in the grass and riders were rushing to the fallen rider.  Someone told me to wait a minute before getting up, so I laid back on the pavement for a few seconds.  My first thought was, "I hope I didn't crush my cell phone." which was in my left rear jersey pocket.  I opened it up and confirmed it was working.  I got up and gave myself a once-over and felt like nothing was damaged.  My shoulder hurt the worst, but I only had a small abrasion on my right elbow, and one on the outside of my right knee.  I took my helmet off and inspected it and found no cracks or other damage.  I had escaped largely unscathed. 

The scene that followed was a testament to the cycling fraternity.  A few cyclists tended to the fallen rider as she became more lucid.  A few riders went back up the hill to flag motorists as they approached the blind curve.  Others went the other direction to slow drivers as well.  One rider pulled a folded foil emergency blanket from his seat pouch and covered the victim.  I've never even seen one of those things.  EMT's were summoned and calls were made to the ride leaders to try to get someone to drive out to the accident to haul in the victim's bicycle, and that of the rider who volunteered to ride in the ambulance to the hospital.  This is not the scene you want to see at a bike ride on a beautiful Spring night, but in retrospect, it was great to see. 

I stopped at the hospital the next day to check on the injured rider, Rowena.  Her injuries included  a cracked rib, partially collapsed lung, cracked pelvis, and collarbone, in addition to facial abrasions and cuts.  But she sat up in the hospital bed and smiled as she talked about how great the cycling club members had been in tending to her and checking on her.  We talked about when a crash happens, everyone on the bike knows it could have been them.  In a group that large, you don't know everyone's name, but everyone identifies, if you know what I mean.  It really is a fraternity in the truest sense. 

Epic Cycling Adventure

Among my all-time favorite cycling experiences (and what is probably the athletic achievement of my life) were two epic trips to the summit of Mt. Mitchell in Western North Carolina.  Noted as the highest elevation east of the Mississippi River, Mt. Mitchell is accessible from the Blue Ridge Parkway, one of the most scenic roads in America.

The views on the Blue Ridge Parkway are incredible

 My business partner, Art, had climbed the mountain a few times with a couple other riders in the years before we traveled with a group of local cyclists in September 2007.  Staying in Spruce Pine NC, we climbed from the east side of the mountain.  The following June we returned with a lot of the same riders to repeat the climb, but from the southwest side.  However, a rock slide that threatened the road closed the Parkway between Asheville and Mt. Mitchell, so we drove down to Little Switzerland and scaled again from the east.

This second year, 3 non-cycling wives drove Art’s RV as a SAG vehicle, which made for a nice rest stop at about mile 14 of the 25-30 mile climb. 

 Me and my favorite SAG team member marking the achievement in the parking lot  near the summit.

A climb like Mt. Mitchell is a matter of getting into a rhythm and cadence you can sustain.  Hard work, but the descent is a great reward.  The Blue Ridge is officially a scenic roadway, not just in practice.  You don’t take the Blue Ridge to reach a destination, it is your destination.  For that reason, the speed limit is 45 mph.  Descending on the bike puts one at or above the speed limit on many sections of the road.  Because of the winding nature of the road, there were several places where I ran upon a car that had to go slower than I in order to negotiate the curves.      

Never Buy a $35 Rabbit Dog

Growing up in South Central Kentucky offered a lot of opportunities for hunting and fishing.  Besides Green River Lake State Park practically being in our back yard, we had lots of farmland with cornfields mixed with woodland, and farm ponds stocked with fish as well.  My father always enjoyed fishing, but never took up hunting.  A baseball and basketball coach, he enjoyed most other athletic activities, but hunting was never an interest for him. 

My introduction to hunting came from my best friend, Henry.  Henry’s dad, James, ran the Campbellsville location of the family dairy business; the headquarters of which was in Harlan in Eastern Kentucky where James grew up.  James came from a family of hunters and his love of shooting, hunting, and working with dogs rubbed off on Henry.  Henry’s maternal grandmother had a farm in our county that offered small game opportunities, and a couple of her neighbors didn’t mind us hunting the fencerows of their cornfields for rabbits.  An added benefit of hunting “Grandmaw’s” farm was that upon returning to her house after a cold morning in the field we often scored a hot meal of soup beans and cornbread, and the occasional plate full of fresh no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookies.  (Henry and I never left many of those for Grandmaw.)

                                                                                                                     Stock Photo(not Zeke)

Even before Henry urged me into hunting, he had a beagle as a pet.  “Feller” was the first beagle I ever heard on the trail of a rabbit.  He had a deep bellowing bark that quickened and raised in pitch the hotter the trail became.  I was fascinated by the fact that a rabbit being trailed by a dog would circle back in an attempt to elude the tracker, ostensibly to be greeted by “hot lead” from the waiting hunters.  I don’t remember whether Feller met his demise or just disappeared (a good beagle was as likely to be stolen as run over by a car), but by the time I started hunting with Henry on Grandmaw’s farm, we were relegated to kicking the brush and fencerows ourselves and relying on quick reaction time and sharp shooting to drop a rabbit.  (Henry was considerably better at it than me).  However, there was an empty chain link dog kennel on the farm and Henry and I decided to form a joint venture and purchase 2 beagles to use for running rabbits. 

Henry and his dad got a lead on a nice looking beagle for sale.  I remember Henry telling me his dad sat in the car and let Henry do the litter picking and negotiating.  As Henry perused the litter, James was about to “eat the steering wheel” trying to will Henry into choosing what James deemed to be the “pick”.  They came away with a quality rabbit dog we named Zeke.  Good color and head shape to go with a sturdy frame, and worth the $100 investment.  No small price for a dog in the mid-70's. 

I followed a referral from a school friend, to an uncle who had a beagle for sale.  This fellow lived in town and had a pen in his back yard with more than one dog in it.  The beagle for sale was a small-bodied, mostly black male named Paddle.  The price was right, only $35.  I remember asking the guy if he would “guarantee” this dog.  He looked at me with a blank stare and stiff upper lip and said, “I guarantee he’ll run rabbits.”  It was an uncomfortable assertion, but my experience reading body language as a teenager was limited and I simply took him at his word.  Down deep, I knew Paddle didn’t match the pedigree of Zeke, but the “bargain” blinded me into believing I’d scored a deal on the second half of our hunting dog stable.  Turned out to be a stinging lesson in getting what you pay for.

Zeke had all the right attributes of a quality rabbit dog; great nose, good disposition and obedient.  Paddle, on the other hand, manifested signs of mental retardation.  Medical science hadn’t invented Attention Deficit Disorder at that point in time, but Paddle was afflicted with severe doggie ADD.  They don’t make Ritalin in strong enough dosage to cure the malady from which that dog suffered.  He wouldn’t come when called, didn’t take to any training at all, and despite his yelping in the field, never ran a rabbit that I can recall.  I can remember Henry’s frustration with Paddle to the extent he suggested we “ship him off to the glue factory”.   

Zeke would have been a great hunter, but when you’re spending all your time trying to bring the ADD dog in line, the quality animal suffers for lack of attention.  (Probably a lesson for schoolteachers in there somewhere) 

I don’t really remember how long we had those 2 dogs, less than a season I believe.  One day Henry was returning from the field with them and they got up near the road ahead of him.  We believed someone came along in a vehicle and took the opportunity to get one good rabbit dog.  They may have thought they were getting two, but I suspect Paddle disappointed even a low-down hunting dog thief.

In retrospect, $35 was no bargain at all for a rabbit dog.  An expensive lesson at the time, because I always thought that without Paddle, Zeke would have stayed closer in the field and we wouldn’t have lost the $100 investment we had in him.  I always felt responsible and a little embarrassed to have my acquisition turn out so poorly.  If Henry and I had set out to spend $135, we’d have been better off giving the extra $35 to Zeke’s owner and just hunting with the one dog.

I’m not saying the more expensive option is always the best value, and I’d be less than truthful if I told you that I never again repeated the mistake of buying the cheaper option that ended up a bad deal.  But, when your gut tells you something isn’t quite up to your quality standards, and you see that blank stare and stiff upper lip in the seller, keep looking until you find a better “dog”.

Cycling Lessons

When man invented the bicycle he reached the peak of his attainments. Here was a machine of precision and balance for the convenience of man. And (unlike subsequent inventions for man's convenience) the more he used it, the fitter his body became. Here, for once, was a product of man's brain that was entirely beneficial to those who used it, and of no harm or irritation to others. Progress should have stopped when man invented the bicycle. ~Elizabeth West, Hovel in the Hills

During the summer months I try to cycle at least 100 miles weekly, and usually can count on getting in closer to 125 miles in a good week. On a club ride or with my usual Saturday ride partners, I literally live in and out of the draft while cycling.

Drafting (riding behind other riders) is huge in cycling.  When riding in a group, the person riding in the front is working hard to break the wind resistance.  Those who ride closely behind get pulled along in the slipstream of the rider in front of them.  Being 3rd or 4th in a line can be almost effortless on a flat stretch of road.  The person in the back is pedaling one pedal stroke for every three the person in front takes.

I can make a lot of analogies to real life when it comes to the draft. In life, like cycling, no one can ride up front and do the hard work all the time. Every so often we need to drop back in the pack and let someone else "pull". We all need a break from the grind of daily life. If you try to "pull" all the time, you'll burn out, just as on the bike. On the flip side, no one can draft all the time either. If so, you'll be accused of not pulling your weight, just like on the bike.  So, whether its your work group, church group, or cycling group, it's good to work together and not lay all the heavy burden on one or two people all the time.  Of course, some cyclists are stronger than others, and they will naturally stay near the front of the group and do most of the pulling.  It works the same with an organization.  Leaders stay near the front.  However, leaders need a break now and then and even the weakest rider can step up and do the work for a short time so the leader can rest. 

This picture is the front of a birthday card given to me by my sister-in-law for my 51st birthday.  I like the retro style of the bike frame, whitewall tires, and cool headlamp; but also like the fact that it has hand brakes and a rear derailleur, a blend of old and new.

I feel a little like that bicycle, able to remember when television changed from black & white to color, but now enjoying HD; growing up with rotary-dial phones but now texting and emailing on a mobile phone; having grandparents who had a party line but able now to talk face-to-face on Skype with my son who lives in Japan. 


Here's a sample of scenery we get to enjoy while biking central Kentucky.
  

This little covered bridge is near the entrance to a farm in Madison County, not far from the Kentucky River.