Rain has been a nearly daily feature in northern New York this summer, and it plays hob with cycling for pleasure as well as with plans for utility trips. Not that pedaling in the rain is impossible. But if I can avoid it, I prefer to, since drivers are less likely to give any quarter in rain, and bike clean-up is tedious. So when rain threatened on Wednesday, a hike along the river seemed a good idea, particularly because I needed some pictures to illustrate an In the Same Boat article. I took 141 photos in two hours. Some were to illustrate the article, but many more were just nature shots. And as I hiked back into the teeth of the rain, trying to avoid a face-plant when striding quickly over a hard-packed trail with exposed roots, I thought on the nature of speed.

The speed you travel determines what you see. I suppose this is a corollary to what Colin Fletcher called The Law of Inverse Appreciation, which states that “The less there is between you and the environment, the more you appreciate the environment.”

For example, in a moving vehicle, this is the kind of sight I’ve seen traveling at a legal 55 mph:

On a bike, my maximum reasonable speed without resistance or help from the wind or downhill coasting is about 17-18 mph. This is the kind of view which attracts me then:

When paddling, with a maximum speed of about 4 mph in a solo kayak and no hindrance or help from the wind, this is the kind of sight which imprints itself on my mind:

But when hiking, my top speed is no more than 4 mph, and I see more small sights. Here’s an example—the left picture is a spider web in a tree-hole which is about three inches long, the middle picture is a frog trying to hide among streamers of algae in a pothole eroded out of riverside bedrock, and the right photo is a shot of bracken fungi on a maple tree:

When working as a field geologist, I walked over long distances and dug holes in the ground every 50 feet or so, sometimes at shorter intervals, and I came to realize just how much more you see when going slow.

To my mind, the bicycle is the best compromise between speed and the need to get somewhere, and the ability to see. You can stop quickly, but you can move relatively quickly, as well. But now and then, it’s wonderful to stretch the legs on a woodland trail along the river, just to see.

 
Aging isn’t for sissies. Our shoulders are a case in point. We can’t live without ‘em. (Well, we can’t ride our bikes, paddle, or go backpacking without ‘em, anyway.) But it’s sometimes hell to live with ‘em, too. Still, what can you expect from a joint that one orthopedist characterized as “the most mobile and least stable…in the body”? Fortunately, many shoulder problems are avoidable, and skilled rehabilitation can deal with most of the others. What’s the recipe for steering clear of trouble? You guessed it: Get fit, keep that way, and know your limits. This simple prescription—and a little luck—will go a long way in keeping your shoulders from becoming a pain. Read more…

Tags: exercise, pain, shuolders

 
I grew up in farm country in eastern New York, lived and worked on a dairy farm for a year. The straight, deep valleys of hardscrabble farms were bordered by ancient rounded hills and creeks that were muddied and fouled by livestock. I couldn’t wait to get away to wild woods, rushing rivers, and rugged untamed mountains, and frankly, didn’t care if I never saw a cow again in my life. When I finally escaped and went to college, I was taken aback when a classmate became ecstatic when he saw a herd of cows on a geology field trip. Who hadn’t seen cows? But Bob had grown up on Long Island and rarely got to see them.

In recent years, after decades living and working in some of the wilder places of the world, I’ve come to appreciate livestock more. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps I’ve just come to realize that, though they’re not wild, they are sentient. I’ve always admired horses, and as a kid spent as much time as I could around them. But cows? They were dumb, weren’t they?

My favorite bike route takes me through some of the wildest places to be found here in this part of far northern New York. Swamps reverberate with a chorus of songbirds and frogs. Woodlands resound with the hurled insults of red squirrels. And rivers roar over raw bedrock. But then there are horse ranches and cattle farms, too, carved out of the woods and planted with corn, alfalfa, and hay. A couple weeks ago, as I pedaled past an old pasture, I was surprised by a very young bull who ran full-tilt toward me. I’d never seen him before, and he was alone with only a small shed for shelter. I stopped and he stretched his neck over the fence to get closer to me. He was hardly older than a calf, and seemed very lonely. I talked to him and he followed me at a lope when I rode away, finally stopped by an electric fence along one edge of the field.

The young bull got me thinking about how it’s so easy to think of domestic herd animals as carbon copies of one another. Cattle, in particular, are often portrayed as dumb. But in fact, cattle aren’t dumb at all. They portray a range of emotions, and are quite devoted animals. I recalled the cows I got to know when living on dairy farms and working in livestock auctions. No, they weren’t dumb at all.

Yesterday I rode a route which I’ve not been on at all this year, and as I struggled up a very steep grade, I noticed a small family of black angus cows standing together watching me from the shade of a wood. They surrounded a calf who rested on the ground amongst the feet of the elder cows. They were all very interested in what I was, and I couldn’t help but stop to take a picture of them. I spoke to them, but they were happy to remain in the shade around the youngster, all of them chewing their cuds, but all of them very alert and intrigued by the two-wheeled animal in bright clothes standing like a fool out in the hot sun. I recalled Walter, the dairy farmer who ran the farm where I lived and worked. He named all 75 of his cows and knew their personalities as if they were his own family. And, I suppose, they were.

Oh, I nearly forgot. The young lone bull who chased me isn’t alone anymore. His mother is with him, as well as another youngster and an adult, presumably the companion calf’s mother. He seemed quite content last time I saw him, as he reclined on a pile of hay while his mom munched away and kept a wary eye peeled. He didn’t need my company anymore, and I was happy for that.

Tags: cows