They are the sight and sound of early spring, as iconic as the scent of cattle in a damp barn lot, a smell that reminds me of my days growing up in northern Indiana, of runs next to a neighbor’s pasture where black angus watched inquisitively, perfectly still except for the mechanical turning of their heads, robotically, their eyes fixed on me as I passed.

There are cattle on this ride, and hogs, but mostly the farms are more centered on grain markets than livestock futures. The fields I bisect are a patchwork of pasture and corn stubble, of chisel-plowed rectangles and soybean chaff not yet turned under. Along the way are the first birds of spring. Not just the killdeer, but also grackles and redwing blackbirds. The latest migration brings back robins.

Yesterday I stood in the side yard as a single robin sang tirelessly from a high branch of a maple tree, the melody repeating, as if the world couldn’t hear or didn’t understand the joy and beauty of the message. More than a reminder of spring’s arrival, that bird was a prognosticator of summer days to come, when robins by the garden will greet the dawn with a hearty ballad that rises, falls and loops, like some vocal roller coaster.

Today, however, it is not the newcomers that hold my attention, but rather the birds that have endured winter’s snow and cold. I’m still in shorts and a high-viz jersey as I set aside the bike at the end of the ride and sit on the front porch, edging close to the dried clematis for some semblance of cover. From that spot I watch sparrows in the box elder in my front yard. The birds know I’m there, remaining on upper branches and at the far side of the tree, safe in height and distance. With time, they move closer, finding my presence less of a threat, and are joined by others, turning that still-barren tree into a woody playground. A commitment to pick up my daughter from track practice forces me to break away sooner than I prefer, separating me from the company of creatures that seem inconsequential to most of the world, yet ones valued enough that the Gospel of Luke tells us not one of them is forgotten by God.

Killdeer and sparrows, empty fields and cattle lots, the promise of spring surrounds me across the miles, just as it does while I sit quietly at home. I find contentment there, on the bike and off.

15.33 miles — Henry County

We’ve been three hours in this field, with next to nothing to show for it. Surface hunting for Indian artifacts can be like that. But in the spring, when the wind is still cold and mud makes a mockery of the simple act of walking, going home with empty pockets seems like a lesson in futility.

I jokingly blame my brother’s new camcorder for jinxing us. He brings it to the field to record anything good we find. But when multiple passes on the best hill turn up nothing, we’d settle for something less than ideal — a fractured point or a broken scraper.

In the end, we sit on the tailgate of his truck, muddy tracks across the road and footprints in the field showing where we’ve been, but not telling the story of our day. We pull off boots, rest weary legs, and wonder what went wrong. How could such a promising field, which yielded part of a three-quarter-groove ax during our last visit, suddenly become such a disappointment?

Lunch gives us renewed energy and restored optimism. Two miles upstream from where we started, we head back out across another muddy field, eager for some reward for our persistence. An hour and a half later, as the light dims and the sky threatens rain, we walk out with only two pieces — the tip of an arrow, which Jim picks up early, and the base of a point, which Hope discovers late. I have nothing to show for my efforts.

It doesn’t discourage me, because I know there are good things still waiting to be found.

Twenty-four hours later I’m at the bottom of a hill, watching Dave as he holds a steady pace well ahead of me. I know this road, know the way the pavement pitches up slightly as the Pike bends to the left. I understand what it will take to catch him. Shifting down two gears to quicken my cadence, I begin the chase. I’m on his back wheel well before the top. It’s then that the effort of a winter on the trainer seems to have paid off. The hours of not giving up, of pushing through demanding intervals, become a powerful tool I’ve never worked this early in the season. There’s a reward here, even if it’s March and that victory is relatively meaningless, at least to anyone but me.

Just as important, that’s the lesson to be learned from spending a bone-tiring day arrowhead hunting in the mud and finding next to nothing. It’s what I try to teach Hope when she seems deflated after hours of fruitless searching, especially when one of those fields is the most productive land I’ve ever hunted.

“You just have to keep going,” I tell her. “It will all pay off, eventually.”

21.00 miles — Henry County

This morning I watched two move between the ground and the box elder tree, the sun seeming to electrify the birds’ iridescent black and blue feathers.

Xero took note of several others strutting in the side yard, flipping over leaves and cocking one eye to the ground in a search for food.

They come a few days late this year, possibly deterred by a harsh winter, but are a welcome sight.

There are grackles in other trees as well. I see them in small towns along U.S. 40 during an out-and-back ride past Cambridge City. Grackles and redwing blackbirds with their sing-song voices. And, in the fields, killdeer skim above corn stubble peeking above the melting snow, like a face in need of a shave. It’s a desperate cry from the killdeer, a high-pitched warning, but a welcome sound.

Ditches that recently held waist-deep snow now carry runoff past fields where puddles reflect the brightness of the day. I ride past crossroads that lead straight and out of sight. To my right is teasel the color of old binder twine. As I take in everything around me, simple, rhythmic guitar notes begin in my head, Art Garfunkel’s 1975 version of The Waters of March, a song I carry tirelessly for miles.

The birds. The melting snow. The changing landscape. The water-filled ditches. They are reminders of the season. Of winter not quite willing to yield. Of spring still too early to take control.

But the changes are unmistakable.

Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.

The waters of March are here. The first migratory birds have returned. The sun slants at a noticeably different angle. It’s a good day for a long ride. It’s a good day to be alive.

50.80 miles — Henry and Wayne counties

Instead, the man scowls, standing next to an inverted plastic bucket where a minute earlier he had been hunched over a hole in the ice. He points a finger at John and me,  then at a line of trees to the east.

“You aren’t supposed to have your bikes on the ice,” he says, as cold as the breeze to our backs.

We reply with blank stares.

“You aren’t allowed out here,” he says, as if we didn’t hear him. “It’s against the rules.”

John breaks our silence by simply replying, “Is that so?”

“You’re supposed to be on the bike trail,” the ice fisherman begins anew, pointing back to the woods. “And a number of us don’t like that, either.”

We ask him why.

“You went through the best mushroom patches,” he said, as if John and I designed the trail ourselves. “And you’re causing erosion over by the bank.”

Yup, that’s us. Renegade mountain bikers. Breaking the rules by riding our bikes on the ice, because, you know, 180 acres of frozen lake isn’t big enough for five ice fisherman and two guys on mountain bikes.

Then there’s those darned trail builders, maliciously plotting the course to go through all the best mushroom patches. Every single one.

Heck, truth be told, it was us hiding on that grassy knoll in Dallas, popping off shots at President Kennedy. And the cover-up behind that whole Roswell gig? Yup, us too. Stinkin’ mountain bikers.

The one-sided conversation with this delusional guy on the middle of Westwood Lake is almost enough to ruin a perfectly good ride.

Almost, but not quite.

After all, how often do you get the chance to ride a bike on a lake?

John takes the correct approach to the whole situation with the fisherman. “Someone like that, it’s best just to laugh at them and keep on going,” he tells me.

That’s pretty much what we do, moving on down the ice, from nearly one end of that frozen body of water to the other, touching the Floating Bridge with our front tires the way a cross-country cyclist dips a wheel into the ocean at the end of a journey.

We stand there and talk for a while, admiring the beauty of Westwood’s finest winter coat. We snap a few photos to help us remember this bright day, then mount our bikes and follow our tracks back across the ice. The hole previously occupied by the bitter fisherman is now abandoned. We see him to the west, an ice auger in his hands. He must not have been catching anything at the previous location.

Undoubtedly, you know who he blames.

3.05 miles — on a frozen Westwood Lake

We ride early in the afternoon, a one-hour break from the routine of the day. Yet, any rhythm is already broken.

There’s the shoveling of snow in the morning, clearing winter’s cover measured in inches and the wind’s drifts tallied in feet. There’s the cup of coffee and catching up with a friend who stops to help. There are bills to pay and packages to mail. And before long, lunch and a cup of coffee to reheat before heading back to the office.

I feel guilty, carving out time on the trainer, with deadlines before me and stories unwritten. Mostly, though, there’s the interview.

We ride in short sleeves, two fans manufacturing the breeze in our faces. Turning the cranks, trudging up 12 percent grades and pacing through rollers in obedience to a coach on a video. All the while, we talk of hills we have never seen.

And, I’m thinking of the call I haven’t made.

He is possibly the world’s leading authority on studio ceramics, his 30-year career defined, in part, by the 50-some books he’s authored. We’ve never spoken. And though this is my livelihood, there remains the nervous edge that comes before any interview.

Truth be told, I don’t like to talk to people — an odd statement from someone whose occupation requires it. I’d rather face a daunting climb on a hot day, pushing myself up Sanes Creek Road or Boltinghouse Hill. It’s the singleness of cycling I like. The loneness. Just me and the bike, even when in a crowd, like the tangle that always comes at the first real climb of the Hilly Hundred.

Today my concern is about time, needing to finish the workout, to make the phone call. But not wanting to lose focus on what I’m doing on the bike.

We ride through the hour-long training session, giving ourselves the privilege or luxury of extra miles at the end. Glancing out a window, staring into a white landscape, we wonder aloud how long we’ll be married to the trainer. The Pike, though mostly thawed, is a mixture of slush and sand and patches of ice. While U.S. 40 may be clean enough to ride even now, it’s the challenge of hills I want — the rising and falling of the land in Franklin and Fayette counties. But there, too, winter holds firm, and the roads will not be clear of grit until well after the arrival of killdeer and grackles and drenching spring rains.

We stop separately, turning off the bike computers and stretching silently, alone with our thoughts. I’m tired and tight and pleased — feeling the pull in my hamstrings as I stretch on the carpet, telling myself that this is what I need for taut muscles, just as the effort put into the hardest part of the workout is what’s called for to climb efficiently in the coming season.

Glancing at my watch, I cut the stretching short. Forgoing a set of sit-ups, I head to the house to change into warm, dry clothes, then make my way back to a now-empty office.

In the comfort of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I take a deep breath and dial the number, for this is what I do. This is who I am.

“Hello,” I say. “This is Don Johnson.”

25.05 miles — Trainer

But I feel it.

From the very first set of repeats, I want to stop or, at least, to shift to an easier gear and soft-pedal. I glance at Liz on my left, to Dave on my right, and keep going. Peer pressure, guilt or something indescribable shames me into continuing, as if the workout isn’t hard and I’m not tired.

It’s not a physical thing so much as a mental one. The sick furnace in the back of my mind — this particular beast an aging contraption literally held together by duct tape and a few well-placed screws. Local Heating Guy shook his head and lowered his eyes when he patched it up nearly a year ago. The fix was intended to suffice to the end of last winter. He spoke of the machine with a mix of ridicule and reverence, suggesting it belonged behind velvet cords in a museum, and declaring he would gladly install a new heating system. I told Guy I’d think about it, all the while knowing it wasn’t financially feasible, and hoping my furnace would last another year.

–

The first set is always the hardest. I’m already in trouble — my heart rate too high, cadence too low. The second set is shorter, starts to come easier. Having given up thoughts of quitting, I muddle through the workout as best I can. Concentrating then, I loosen my shoulders, drop my elbows, go into a brook-trout look, eyes unfocused, jaw slack, face relaxed. And it works, even if briefly.

–

The problems begin nearly from the start this year. At first, the furnace’s nifty little explosion of LP gas just knocked the door off its lower lip upon ignition. After a while, however, it began to blow the door across the basement. Burners, the last thing fixed by Guy, were the culprits again, refusing to light, allowing fumes to build up inside that big metal box, then sparking to a thunderous blast.

It was still autumn. Below-average temps brought the heating season in early. A call to Guy to inquire about replacement burners yielded a response that parts were hard to come by and outrageously expensive, and that he wanted to talk to me about another option, according to his message left on my answering machine. I never called back, figuring he still wanted to sell me a new furnace.

Now I’m thinking I might not have a choice.

But what do you do when you don’t have the money?

–

It’s a rich man’s sport, cycling. And, I’m not a rich man.

I measure the costs of the hobby not so much in terms of my income; rather, it’s the outlay from other expenses that serves as my yardstick. My winter riding tights cost as much as a single vet visit for my cat, Xero. The bill I received several years ago at the end of a week-long septic project was in the ballpark of any new road bike I would look at today.

As dearly as I love the sport, as much as I need my bike, the cost of cycling seems irrational. Yet even now, riding the trainer on a bitterly cold and snowy day, any expense can be justified. Here I find escape.

The furnace is still there, howling like a sick cat. Yet as much as it affects my mood, my work, my workout, the wailing fades away behind the buzz of tires, the rhythm of my breathing, the whirl of fans, the chatter of the training video.

–

The third set is the easiest of all. The fourth finally begins to wear on me. I’m tired and hot. My quads complain. But, I’m glad I didn’t give in at the start. I can forget about the furnace — for now, at least — allowing myself at this moment to no longer be the keeper of the checkbook, but to be a cyclist, and, maybe even an athlete again.

In the end I turn off my Garmin, eject the Spinervals DVD and remove my bike from the trainer. It’s still snowing. The wind continues to bite. In the house, no doubt, the furnace is running. Still squealing. Demanding my attention. Just then the phone rings. It’s Guy.

25.05 miles — Trainer

She holds her gaze three feet in front of her wheel, all the time counting in her head, a string of numbers that climb, climax and start anew. It’s how she keeps going on a cold, gray day.

It’s unfathomable to me.

“Why ride at all?” I ask.

Her answer is pure, even if I can’t make sense of it.

“I love to ride,” she says, as if her motive shouldn’t need to be explained.

We’re on the return leg of an out-and-back on U.S. 40, fog like a curtain hiding all things distant. But I can see far enough to breathe.

This morning I sat in a straight chair in front of a picture window, gazing across the field to a woods half a mile away, as far as my vision would take me. But the air pulled into my lungs was dry and warm, predictable. Almost mechanical.

In the chill, in the open, I draw breath again. Afresh. Anew. My diaphragm moves. My chest rises. Lungs fill. Eyes open.

Farmland unfolds before me.  The landscape holds silos, cattle and a red barn with double cupolas. Water fills ditches, and near a creek a plowed field bulges, as if punched twice from below.

Boarded windows on a burned-out house stare blankly down the street at a man walking a dog.

Open stretches hold mourning doves on a telephone line while a flock of starlings scatters across the sky like balls of mercury on a marble counter. A straight line of trees all but hides an abandoned rail line, from which a stone bridge arches, a path leading nowhere.

We pass an electric substation, a harsh rhythmic clanging of metal arising from within the chain-link fence. And we move through the silence of open countryside where I once saw a coyote bounding carefree on a spring day.

It’s in these places I breathe again. See again.

I think of telling her about the coyote, but the concentration on her face keeps me quiet. Her eyes locked on the highway.

We ride together in separate worlds.

26.11 miles — Henry County

On an uphill run between Orange and Laurel, a two-mile stretch that begins congenially and ends with spite, there’s a place near the top where the grade gets serious. To the right of that slope, down an embankment, sits a ranch house beside a tree-lined pond. On a late-winter ride two seasons ago, struggling to slow my breathing and buoy my legs, I focused on the ice below me. My mind slid across that surface, calling back to lungs and quads. “Smooth as ice,” it intoned. “No effort.”

I’m thinking of that pond today, of the ice that undoubtedly has formed in recent days with temps that struggle to rise above the teens. It’s 60 degrees inside the four walls where Liz and I pedal side by side, imagining hills as we work out to a video designed to improve climbing skills. In my highest gear, my eyes focused on a spot of carpet six inches ahead of my front wheel, I’m visualizing that Fayette County road, climbing alone in early March 2008 or any of the half dozen rides with Dave since then, in summer’s heat and autumn’s damp chill, moving past an invisible line a stone’s throw from a pond, where the real work begins.

Then, as now, the words move with me.

“Smooth as ice. No effort.”

Of the marathons I’ve run, no single incident remains bolder in my memory or had more of an impact mentally than the man who stood near the 18-mile marker during the 1991 Columbus Marathon. Addressing the runners as they turned out of the AmeriFlora grounds, he called to each one as if he cared about them personally. “You look  good. You feel good,” he said. “You look good. You feel good. Keep telling yourself.”

There was no wall that year, thanks, in part, to that mantra I carried to the finish line and into the rest of my life.

Today I’m visualizing again, even with a roof over my head and a trainer on a DVD calling me out of the saddle, working an imaginary hill in my bike’s biggest gear. In that instant I’m there alone by a Fayette County pond in winter, just as I’m climbing beside Dave last autumn. And, I’m somewhere in Michigan, on hills I’ve never seen, five months from now, pushing myself. All the while, I keep repeating.

“You look good. You feel good,” I say.

“Smooth as ice.”

16.15 miles — Trainer

A stone’s throw from Lights Out Bridge, beside the snow-covered single track, it spreads arms still laden with leaves, months ago turned the color of brown sugar. Stop and you’ll hear them rustle in the wind, a dry chatter, muffled, like hens cooped up for the night. But no one stops. No one listens. On a brief stretch of trail between a steep climb and a sharp left turn onto an unforgiving bridge, riders who pass that birch see only the path before them.

I’m trying to be different, to look deep into Westwood, seeing contours of a thousand angles defined by recent snows on ravines and logs. Under less-than-ideal conditions, I’m tracing deer runs and looking into fox holes, but casting only quick glances as I pass, seeing things in snapshots. My eyes act as shutters, framing the landscape in factions of a second.

Everything about the sport of mountain biking suggests I roll on, mastering snowy turns and frozen ruts, pushing myself, concentrating only on the trail.

Everything about who I am screams to do otherwise.

Only when I stop on a hilltop and close my eyes do I begin to see the park, the flowing of treetops not unlike a slow-moving stream. I open my eyes to flashing light, the lake mirroring its survival. From a different hill, it’s the staccato conversation of a thousand Canada geese that draws me to close my eyes again, and from a point of land not half a mile away, I open them wide to observe the shuffling, bobbing, standing of that crowd, with one goose too nonchalant or tied or sick to be part of the waddling wave that slides off the ice and into the safety of freezing water. It lies motionless, neither time nor a raised voice bringing movement. Only as I mount the bike again, leaving the goose for dead, does it stir, as if to ask me, “Why all the fuss?”

I ride on, reminded by geese and birch trees alike that this is a sanctuary. Here, it has never been about the bike.

10 miles — Westwood Park

POSTSCRIPT… A tradition is born. This marks the second straight time I’ve started the new year with a ride at Westwood Park. A special thanks to John Rogers for the photo to the right.

We pass them in the cold, in the wind, in the sleet, finishing our year. Not fast. Not comfortable. Just turning pedals, accumulating miles with an eye to the calendar.

The countryside is open now. The earth yarns, stretching out, fields in brown and white, as if everything might soon fade to sepia tones. It’s too early in winter to wish for other colors. We take what we have and are grateful for a day as dull as the weathered cornstalks we pass. We are even thankful to put a steady breeze in our face.

Even so, we are eager to head home.

15.01 miles — Henry County