I was late to the bicycle. As a little, little kid I was more than happy with my dad’s depression era coaster. I’d roll it up to the top of our block, generate some speed going downhill, jump on and ride it the rest of the way like a go-kart.
Eventually, though, peer pressure and summer boredom motivated me to learn to ride a bike. So while my best friend was away visiting his relatives in Louisiana, I started with the only bikes I had access to – my older sisters’ 26 inch Schwinns. I was probably nine or so and I could only just barely reach the pedals on the downward swing.
I got the hang of balancing pretty quickly. Steering, on the other hand, eluded me. I would be successfully cruising down the alley and the bike would slowly veer right and head towards a telephone poll, causing me to bail at the last minute. I often wondered what the neighbors would think if one happened to peer out their window at that moment. Probably something along the lines of “Jimmy being Jimmy.”
Once I mastered balancing and steering, my dad and I built a bike out of spare parts. His whole life I can only remember him riding a bike once, but he had a lot of experience with bikes – he used to race as a boy. We built a classic bike for its time – 20 inches, fixed gear, brake by locking the rear wheel, with a huge banana seat and high-rise sissy handlebars.
Best of all it was a one-person bike. The ergonomics of it was such that you had to put significant weight on the handlebars or it would, of its own volition, pop a wheelie. Anyone else trying to ride that bike was very likely to get left behind. I rode it all through grade school. One fall my friend Mike Yeska and I pledged to bike to school every day. Not a great idea in Milwaukee. But we accomplished it, through the sheer pigheadedness of two stubborn boys.
Once I got my paper route and I was flush in cash, I upgraded to a three speed Schwinn. Alas, it was not meant to be. I left it unlocked at the side of our house and somebody stole it. I was livid; I knew every kid in a two-mile radius, so it was very likely I knew the culprit. But, worst of all, I only had myself to blame.
I had my next bike for over twenty years. A five speed Gitane (the French racing bikes). My Dad and I went to a bike store on the far northwest side of Milwaukee especially to get a Gitane. We lived on the southeast side of Milwaukee but I convinced my dad to let me bike home. At the time my understanding of Milwaukee streets was rudimentary at best, so I went the only way knew – not only adding miles and miles to the ride but also taking me through some pretty sketchy neighborhoods. I’m sure all anyone saw was a blur anyway!
I put some prodigious miles on that bike. My first job was at Kohler company and I would often bike the sixty miles down to my folks’ house on Saturday and then back up on Sunday.. Started doing biathlons too, where I quickly learned running might go to the quickest runner but biking often goes to the best bike. Those damn ten speed bikes (and then, quickly therafter, fifteen speed bikes).
About that time I got it in my head to bike around Ireland. You have to tear down your bike and put it in a bike box to transport it. I got to Shannon Ireland, got a hotel room and reassembled my bike. Also got an earful from the morning desk clerk about having my bike in the room (one of those “better to ask forgiveness than permission” situations). I had all my American accoutrement: extensive maps of the entire country, bike shorts, bike pants if it got cold. I quickly learned that Ireland was still in the ‘put a rubber band around the heel of your pants’ biking era and I looked like something from the future, so I abandoned all my equipment. Somehow, it worked just fine.
The ride was grand. The first day I rode to Limerick and stayed at a B and B. The next morning the owner looked a little sad and I told her I’d be back. She just shook her head ruefully and said “people say that but they never come back.” (note: she was right). From Limerick I biked to Dingle and then onto Killarney. In Killarney I happened to be there the day they beat the hated Cork team in Gaelic football, leading to an impromptu parade through the city streets. My BNB was above a tavern with musicians playing Irish music deep into the night. I spent an extra two days in Killarney. Then onto Cork and Waterford.
My extra time in Killarney meant it was unlikely that I could make it all the way to Dublin in time for my return flight. I gave away my beloved Gitane to a priest in Waterford. My intent was for him to give it to a needy parishioner but, seeing the way he eyed that bike, I doubt it made it out of the rectory. I took the train to Dublin.
My next job was in Minneapolis and it was there that I finally joined the fifteen speed community. I lived close enough to bike to/from work when the weather cooperated (Minneapolis gets a noticeable winter and its summer can be too hot).
I did the Minneapolis-Duluth bike ride for MS a couple of times. One hundred and fifty miles, and because it’s almost due north it feels like its uphill (it’s not). Just like Grandma’s marathon which is from Two Harbors to Duluth, due south. It feels downhill (it’s not). The major enticement of the Minneapolis-Duluth bike ride? The halfway stop at Tobies bakery in Hinkley, home of decadent doughnuts.
I gave that bike away when I joined the Peace Corps in Kenya. Traditionally volunteers in Kenya got bikes but I was considered an “urban” volunteer so didn’t qualify (the British VSOs actually got motorbikes!). Luckily the volunteer in charge of the bikes lived in my town so he was able to procure an older (and quite a bit heavier) mountain bike for me.
When the weather cooperated (Kenya has dry seasons and rainy seasons) I would bike to/from my school. I also biked a lot with that other volunteer – we lived in the Rift Valley and the terrain was ideal for mountain biking.
Once we decided to bike out to another volunteers’ site. It went well until a car cut us off on the road. I went head over heels on my bike and gashed my head. Lots of blood but not a lot of damage. When we got to her site she thought maybe I should have it looked at – but the thought of a rural Kenya doctor treating me was actually scarier than the gash on the head!
Now I’ve lived in Seattle for over twenty years. I’ve become a two-bike person, but its kind of sad how rarely I get on either of them. I have a touring bike but I only take it out a handful of times in the summer. I live close to the Burke Gilman trail but that is really designed for commuters and it has way too many riders / stop signs for my liking. Eventually it merges with the much more scenic Snohomish River Trail so sometimes I’ll drive and start biking there but that introduces just enough hassle to discourage me. Bikes have a long memory though. I did a 50 miler bike ride for MS and my derailleur broke and I had to do the last twenty miles in one gear. Coincidence? I think not.
My other bike is a hybrid. I bought it thinking I’d use it to run all my local errands. Um, no. Mostly I use it to bike to my local farmer’s market on Saturdays. Faithfully every week when the berries are running and intermittently at best the rest of the year.
So neither of these bikes get the love they deserve. Every time I pull into my garage there are my bikes, looking forlorn as I close the garage door.
There’s a great quote from the former major league pitcher Jim Bouton “You spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time.” Hobbies are the same way, you think of them as just an enjoyable way to spend some time, but they’re more, so much more.
