Bicycles & Me

It all started with a tandem bike. Don’t misunderstand me, it was the first bicycle I ever rode, but my feet weren't touching the peddles. I was on the handlebars of our family’s yellow, tandem bike. Cindy & I would take turns riding with Dad. He would place us on the handlebars & peddle us around the driveway. We might as well been riding to the moon.
Eventually I learned to ride a bicycle, somewhere around six years old. After watching ET, I was determined to learn myself. I’m pretty sure I just picked us my bicycle with a Dennis the Menace fly wheel and rode off into the sunset.
When we lived in our old house, I didn’t ride my bike too much because there was little road space to ride. During our transition to building my parent’s current home, we lived in apartment on West Main Street above a dentist office. I know I was riding a BMX style bike but not sure what kind it was. It was my second bike and I loved riding it around town. As much as I tried, I never did a wheelie or jump over curbs. The bicycle must have weighed 200 lbs because I could never lift it over an inch off the ground. Any elevation and every curb was one more possibility. There were plenty of turn-arounds for me to try one more time over what I thought was the perfect jump site. After my huge heave and muscle strain, my wheels stayed on the ground. I still haven’t figured out the catch.
I didn’t have very many wrecks either, at least that I remember. I don’t recall any war story wrecks, but the lack of scars is proof that I didn’t have traumatic wrecks. My wrecks and scars have come much later in life; I’d say all of them have been post 21.
My mother didn’t rely on the safety of a small town to provide a watching eye over me while I rode. She diligently laid out boundaries about 3 blocks west & 5 blocks east. Despite my requests to ride all over town, her motherly care constrained me to these markers. I am thankful that helmets weren’t pushed as much as they are now, or I’m sure I would have had a helmet back then.
Sometime soon after we moved to our new house and I moved into the sixth grade, Grandmother entered a raffle at the grocery store. The prize was a brand new 10 speed bicycle. Her name was drawn, but I was the winner. I can’t tell you much about this lightning bolt except it was maroon, made of steel, and all mine.
In those days, I spent my days riding my bike or shooting a basketball. Some might remember me as a rough, Bill Lambeer-esque player, but in my middle school days I was lucky for the ball not to punch me in the face when I dribbled. Every ride was a ride of freedom into the unknown. True I had a road bike and I wasn’t quite in the wilderness, but at the time I felt like a pioneer exploring new terrain riding through fields barely a mile from my house. I have no idea how the bike held up over all those years.
Riding in Cincinnati was an entirely different monster. It didn’t matter where I was riding, there were enormous hills in every direction. One Christmas Mom gave me an insignificant present at the time – my helmet. It was a joke. I knew I wasn’t going to wear a helmet, but I still didn’t grasp the term “motherly,” and I’m sure Mom would say I never will understand how much she loves me. I know that is a good and marvelous gift. I will always be her son regardless of how old I am. As one attempting to be a young man in my early twenties, I still didn’t come close to grasping that truth.
Cincinnati is a mean city to ride a bike through, but it was there I found my first taste of speed. Riding past cars and faster than traffic on downhill slopes only fueled my love for cycling.
My mountain bike moved with me to Louisville and carried me through the streets of St. Matthews and the Highlands until it was taken from me – stolen in the middle of the night. Although my car was stolen nearly a year earlier from the same location on Broadway.
In 2004, I purchased a road bike, a KHS Flight 300. Years earlier I had seen Ironman competitions but simply wrote them off as an impossible dream. With a little encouragement from a friend, I was now set on becoming an Ironman.
Louisville is a great city to ride a bike - riding downtown, through Cherokee and Senaca park, or through Jefferson County at large. Before turning 16, the only thing a teenager can think about is getting a license so he can drive. After being trapped in a cage for all these years as a necessity to get from point A to point B, the freedom to ride 40, 50, or 100 miles by your own power is truly invigorating. The hills and curves of Kentucky provide beautiful scenery for long rides. I love riding River road’s flat terrain out to Oldham County. Past River Road the ride becomes more wooded and much steeper. Riding through the country past horse farms, magnificent houses, and patches of forest makes a great ride.
I was able to put a lot of mileage on my KHS for races, and I even bought another bike for racing, a Fuji – Team Super Light. Karen inherited the KHS, and we enjoy riding together (more about family riding later). I still had one more bicycle dream come true in Louisville and that was becoming a bicycle messenger. I know, lofty dream. I remember watching Quicksilver and being enamored with cycling in the city. To make a long story short, for three and a half days I was a bike messenger. I thought I had lived my dream never to return. However, my dream would be relived here in Chicago. I’m cycling away five days a week and still counting.
The bottom line is that I love to ride a bike. Getting on a bike for pleasure, fitness, or travel is fun. During the day I am working as a courier, but here's the catch - I'M RIDING MY BIKE. There is something freeing about propelling yourself around on two wheels. Feel the wind and sun on your face. Take a relaxing ride with you wife or husband. Speed through traffic. Race down the road and hit 50 mph. Park your car.
I encourage everyone who reads this to treat yourself to a ride. Shoot, treat yourself to several rides.