To Thee, Tom

    There is something about riding the racing bike that refuses to leave my fondest sentiments of a life I lived many years ago in the pursuit of ... well, I,m not sure suddenly. Happiness I was going to say, but I don't think that was what it was. Fulfillment, purpose, physical reward, primitive motion, stress avoidance, irresponsibility? I'm not sure, looking back. But looking back I do place a lot of satisfaction in the experience of riding as fast as I could to the point of exhaustion, and beyond, as one of life's sensations I miss the most.

    

    Among the most vivid memories I have of riding the roads of rural California is that of confidently following the wheel of the gorgeous silver Eisentraut of Tom McGuire. I had no fear in putting my front wheel directly behind the steady pace of Tom's powerful bike. After a gentle rise and fall along Putah Creek we entered the foothills of Napa county and turned downwind onto Pleasant's Valley.

    In the spring, the cherries of Pleasant's Valley would ripen, and beckon. A hungry cyclist who knew the land and the seasons would put aside the sensations of speed and settle down to a gorge of ripe cherries from a roadside orchard. Any powerful fantasies of the yellow jersey would be put aside for the pleasures of ripe cherries, one tart, the next so sweet! Along Putah Creek road, a few miles outside of Winters, Pleasant's Valley Ranch put out a hand written sign when the cherries were ready. When I rode there with Tom, we stopped. He understood the priorities. He would drive out later and buy a flat or two. And we'd all get sick. More than once.

    Farther along, on the downwind section of Pleasant's Valley road, Tom would wind up the Eisentraut and I could barely hang on. Banking through a fast right hander and barreling through a few trees of a local farm, the chickens would flutter and squawk from our whooshing wheels. "It's just like the French countryside!" Tom yelled back. And from that moment, I have wanted to do nothing but return. It's just one of those moments for me. I don't think Tom even remembers. But I do.

     I'm old now. I'm in Italy. I haven't ridden a proper bike in many years. I haven't felt the road fly past, the hills morph, the chickens flap, the tires sing their hollow song. Today a young Italian ran up the drive with a yellow post card from California. It was from Pleasant's Ranch. It said the Cherries are Ready. It said "From Tree to Thee."  On the front side I recognized my address written in the hand of Tom McGuire. 

Wait for me!