As if summer skipped past, a flat rock on a smooth lake, Indiana the place between points of contact.
The forest floor begins to flush its color — June’s dark-green leaves now dress in sickly yellow. Pressed by the humidity. Dusted by the stir of the singletrack beneath my wheels.
As I round a bend above the northeast side of Westwood Lake, late summer holds up a sign. Near the Queen Anne’s lace, with its blood-red flower in the center, and the teasel ringed in a lavender of late-July, ironweed stands tall in full deep purple, a constellation of flower heads forming a disk the size of a dinner plate.
It’s a reminder that while daylight still lingers into early evening, the days are narrowing.
Ironweed signals the subtle change. Most cyclists pass it by without much thought, this plant that takes its name from the toughness of its stem. Gone are the days when extracts from ironweed were used for treating stomach ailments. Today we prefer pharmacies to meadows.
But there is healing here, for those who search. In the slowly fading light. On the thin earthen line drawn around the lake and through the woods. And, in the sunshine where the Queen Anne’s lace and ironweed will soon be joined by the wildflowers of autumn.
10 miles — Westwood Park
