5:23am

That’s when the sun rises in Urbana, IL at the height of summer. All June and July I got up by 4:15am, so I could be on my bike by 4:40 and ride off into the sunrise.

Sunrise makes anywhere beautiful. Time-shifting my day was like traveling to some desirable vacation destination, without leaving home. While my sister hiked across the Italian Alps, I gasped aloud with wonder at the beauty of every golden morning in my own county. Every day I saw deer and bunnies, the fall and rise of rivers, the phases of the moon.

Well, half the phases of the moon. Just before dawn the moon is only visible between full and almost-new. The full moon sets as the sun rises, on the opposite side of the sky. Each subsequent day as it wanes, it appears a little closer to the sun. By the time it’s a slivery crescent it’s barely ahead of the sunrise, which quickly renders it invisible. Once it’s new and waxing, it chases the sunrise, when the morning sky is too bright to distinguish it. The following weeks it’s on the other side of the earth at pre-dawn, when I leave the house. Not until it’s full or almost-full do I see it again.

Pre-dawn midsummers are cool, or at least tolerable in severe heat waves, which we had this year. The only thing that kept me from biking was rain, and sometimes not even that. I trespassed a few times when I got caught in storms, taking shelter under whatever farm building overhang I could find.

Once I trespassed Rosie’s Tavern on Grape Creek near Belgium, not due to rain but sun: I needed to apply sunscreen for a century (100+ mile) ride that would expose me to the brutal rays I avoid on shorter adventures. Caught on the outdoor security cameras, I was soon visited by a man in a truck with a dog asking what I was doing there. I got in no further trouble but cursed my stupid iPhone, which had updated its OS and re-set Strava without my permission, turning on “cellular data” which drained my battery so fast I had to re-charge it after only 38 miles. That’s what I was doing at Rosie’s too, taking advantage of an outdoor electrical outlet.

I had to keep stopping and charging on that ride, lest my phone die and fail to record my hard-earned 109 miles. I had lunch at a sweet little diner, the Covered Bridge in Eugene Indiana, so I could plug it in for 45 minutes. That wasn’t enough for the full ride, so on my way home I returned to Rosie’s, the scene of my crime, where a woman standing outside said, “are you Nina?”

How did she know? She had sent the security camera image to her sister, who just happens to be an acquaintance and recognized me and my bike. What are the odds? We chatted about mutual friends, she invited me into the tavern (which is like 100 years old, a pre-Prohibition relic) and gave me delicious coke with ice on the house. We exchanged phone numbers and selfies.

That ride ended with me overheating, followed by my first bout of “exercise-induced gastrointestinal syndrome.” My Crohn’s disease-weakened digestive system just shut down, causing several days of serious suffering and a vow to never eat diner food on a long ride again. I also vowed to take shorter, more moderate rides instead of two centuries back-to-back, which is what preceded the episode.

Thus began my glorious 2 months of pre-dawn excursions, during which I didn’t have to wear any nasty sunscreen. Occasionally I would do a metric century (100 kilometers, about 62 miles), but was careful not to over-exert myself nor overheat. I did gradually increase my efforts until the last week of July, when I rode 351 miles, including my first century since late May.

Then I projectile vomited and embarked on my second episode of exercise-induced gastrointestinal syndrome, from which I still haven’t recovered. Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s CANCER! I get to worry about that since I have Crohn’s disease. My blood test a few days ago showed no biomarkers for Crohn’s inflammation, so whatever this is isn’t technically a “flare,” despite the same symptoms.

I would be attempting a moderate sunrise ride this very morning were it not raining. Instead, I’m finally writing about my rides, something I think about on my rides but don’t actually do because riding fills me with satisfying endorphins that remove any further need to express myself. I have written and directed masterpieces on my rides that will never come to fruition, nor even planting. I’m full of great ideas that all work themselves out through the pedaling and breathing and smelling the morning air and watching the sky change colors and seeing deer skip across the roads in front of me. At least in the middle of summer. Which has passed. Winter is my time to create, but only because it’s too cold to ride.

See you then.