I seem to be having a love/hate relationship with my bicycle. Biking is one of the few athletic activities I’ve enjoyed my whole life. Even during my most extreme couch potato years I would still get on my bike and go for a several mile ride. There is something about the breeze on your face and the ability to travel significant distances, under your own power, in a reasonable amount of time. Lately I’ve begun to view my bicycle as some kind of torture device. My old reliable mode of transportation has caused me some mental and physical anguish.
My first mistake was to add toe-cages to my pedals. Of course, everyone tells me I should go to clips and bike shoes, but it seemed an unnecessary investment for a casual rider who participates (competes is totally the wrong word here) in a few triathlons. The toe cages add an extra pull to my pedal stroke and provide just a bit more power and efficiency. The toe cages also add a layer of complexity to starting and stopping during a ride.
On a ride to the lakefront a few years back I stopped behind Dan at a stop sign—but forgot to get my feet down in time. Apparently a stream of curse words issued forth as I fell over sideways and crashed to the pavement. The ride was cut short as I needed some water, a bandaid—and a tall vodka lemonade—stat. Dan didn’t see that fall, but on a recent 50 mile charity ride for the Milwaukee area United Performing Arts Fund my sis and bro-in-law did. I pulled into the last oasis, and parked my bike by simply falling over sideways. Anyone old enough to remember the show “Laugh-in” will remember Artie Johnson on the tricycle. I am the Artie Johnson of 2011, destined to have a scabby knee well into autumn. It was another ten miles of riding before I got the crudest of care possible (a beer—yuck!), before being transferred to a proper facility that served brunch and mimosas.
Fresh off a successful completion of that ride (and only one crash) I decided to up my biking game. The gym I belong to has a weekly “bike-club”, a group ride. Having taken Spin class at least once a week for about two years I felt up to the challenge. I showed up, appropriately attired and ready to ride. The leader asked if I had ever done this before and what my biking experience was. We talked about the 50-mile ride, my participation in Tri’s and what I hoped to get out of it. He mentioned that he had just completed a long ride the day before and today’s ride would be “leisurely.” Perfect.
Right turn out of the parking lot and up a gradual incline, pedaling my ass off to keep up, and the pace never let up. Hard-core cyclists must have an alternative definition of leisurely. According to my odometer, we covered 4 hilly miles in record time. My heart rate monitor was showing some scary numbers and my lungs were ready to explode. It was clear the group was dogging it on my behalf, very encouraging, yet frustrated with my pace none the less. I opted to drop away, it was my only hope. After assuring the leader that I could get back on my own I turned around to begin the return trip.
Those of you who know me (and have walked in town with me), know that I should not be left to deal with car traffic on my own. When Dan and I reach an intersection he literally grabs my hand and guides me across the street. The near misses I’ve had with cars are the stuff of legend. On one memorable occasion, on our way to Spontaneous Thursday Night at Hectors, I apparently walked out into the path of several speeding cars. Dan pulled me back and began to scream at me (to the amusement of all of the people sitting at the outdoor patio) that WHEN I got hit by the car and WHEN I was laying paralyzed in the nursing home wearing a diaper he WOULD divorce me, sell everything, find a trophy girlfriend and move to the Keys with her, because IF AT 53 YOU CAN’T LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS THE STREET YOU DESERVE TO SPEND YOUR FINAL DAYS SAD, ALONE AND STINKY. With that he took my hand and led a red-faced Paula to dinner.
Now, on a narrow, two lane road with no shoulder I’m not much more traffic savvy on a bike. Basically, on streets in anything other than my beloved little SUV, I’m a freaking disaster. I found my way to the bug infested bike trail previously disdained by the cycling group as quickly as possible to ensure a safer ride home. Let us not share this with Dan, OK?
Arriving home, exhausted, hungry and humbled, I thought about one of the reasons we want to move to Key West. The land area of Key West is just less than 8 square miles. We envision leisurely daily bike rides, to the beach, the store, restaurants, and the like on fat tired bikes with big baskets. Dan has fantasized for years about walking away from our four car garage one last time, knowing the snow blowers, snow shovels, ice choppers and salt bucket will be left behind. Hanging on a hook above the snow blower will be a well-worn ladies’ hybrid bike—complete with scratched toe-cages.
Music that resonates:
Bicycle Race -- Queen
