my bike story:
Some people are runners. Some people like group exercise. Some people don’t have to exercise. I am none of these: I like biking. But until yesterday, I’d never gone organized biking or ‘cycling’ as some like to say. With not much training under my wheels, I signed up for a 100 mile bike ride, all to be done in one day. To make sure I’d stay committed, I talked up my ride to as many friends and family as possible. I’ve heard telling people you’re going to do something is the best way to stay true to your goal—none of us like admit we didn’t live up to our word. So, at 7 am after five hours of sleep, I headed over to the starting spot. Now mind you, I didn’t know anyone there and made sure to tell the registration ladies I was by my lonesome and would prefer to ride will someone who wasn’t planning on hauling ass. These events can be intimidating, because many riders show up with thousand dollar bikes and matching riding shirts… the matching shirts are a dead giveaway that you don’t want to ride with them as a beginner: they are far too serious. One cheery woman said: “ride with Carlos, he’s our friendliest cyclist!” I turned around to find Carlos: a balding man with the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen and a pink exercise crop-top on. He clearly wasn’t into the unflattering padded ass shorts most cyclists wear (I bought a pair to wear the night before the ride). How could I defer? He looked like the most interesting person there. Carlos and I strapped our gear on our bikes, clipped on our helmets, and began our ride. We headed up toward the Michigan-Ohio border and all was going well, but I could tell it was going to be hard to keep up with this fit 61 year old man. He even looked like he had extra muscles in his calves! I am pedaling my heart out and learning about Carlos. Turns out he’s basically a genius: from Brazil, fluent in many languages, and a neurologist by profession. We make it to our first stop 15 miles in and have a little breakfast. Other riders are there as well, including a more or less 300 pound man I decide to strike up a conversation with. I realize he’s the guy we passed on the road who had speakers and XM radio built into his bike and bright-as-hell LED lights flashing from every spoke of his tricked out bike. While I’m trying to figure out how this huge man can pedal for so long, let alone get on his bike, I find out his ride is worth 4 grand. Now, that’s about twice as much as my car is worth and well more than the 1980s bike I’m riding that I found in my uncles garage earlier that week. This inspires me to look into speakers for my bike at a later date. Music can help you keep pedaling. Meanwhile, people keep trying to speak Italian and Spanish to Carlos and I keep having to remind people he’s Brazilian and therefore speaks Portuguese. We wheel on to Tecumseh, Michigan and stop to have lunch. This is the point where most riders turn around and head for home, making the trip about 60 miles total, while the more enthusiastically crazy riders keep trucking on another 20 miles so their whole trip, including the return-to-start miles, will equal a 100 miles. Carlos and I hop back on our bikes and we pick up another straggler named Bob. Bob had intended to only complete 60 miles, but when he heard Carlos and I were going for a 100, he decided to join in. I would like to attribute Bob’s interest in joining us to our lax style of biking, but I think it was more of a “if these guys can do it, so can I.” We’re all getting along pretty well, making our way to a scenic lake, and not too many cars are honking angrily at us. Carlos is proving to be a warm person, in the sense that he really tries to get to know you and doesn’t feel uncomfortable saying your first name at the end of declarative sentences, as in “it’s really beautiful out here, [insert first name here].” I think it’s a really personal thing to say someone’s first name regularly and I feel like South Americans do it more frequently and with more grace. Bob says hello to everyone we pass: waves to drivers, says hello to other bikers, and asks how people are doing who are in their yards. He considers himself an ambassador of bikers who must inspire all to like cyclists through his Midwest friendliness. There is so much farmland up here in the rolling hills of lower Michigan and so many creepy old barns that look like they’re straight out of a Rob Zombie film. We finally make it to the lake—the halfway, 50 miles point—and have a few snacks. It’s now 2pm and we are certainly the last people to get here. We take a small break and start beasting up the hills on our way back to flatter Ohio. And then things start to get interesting. I realize that I’ve packed far too much on my bike and it keeps sliding off, so much so that about every 10 miles we keep having to stop, so I can strap everything down. We’re struggling up hills, cruising down them, and taking in all the pungent farm smells. There is some good lookin’ livestock in these parts! Now, this whole time Bob has been instructing me to not get my tires stuck in railroad tracks. To do this, you have to go perpendicular to the tracks. Well, for a particular set of tracks that crossed the road at an angle, this method didn’t work so well. I crossed the tracks with perpendicular precision but because of the track angle I was about to fly off the side of the road after doing so. As such, I broke (braked?) will all sorts of fury, not paying attention to Bob’s proximity behind me. Bob came barreling into me and flew off his bike. Luckily, neither of us was injured. We stand there, on the tracks, getting ourselves together. My brakes are off, so Carlos, like a good doctor, is helping with repairs. Meanwhile, the wooden arm thing that plops down and closes off a track when a train is coming, swung down and karate chopped Carlos’ bike, which had been propped against it. In the wake of our crash, a train was coming, blaring down the tracks. It wasn’t a life threatening situation, but we got out of the way as quickly as possible and continued riding on. About 30 miles from home, I notice my back tire has lost quite a bit of air. We stop to assess the situation. It’s often hard to figure out whether your tire needs air or if it’s a flat-out flat. We start pumping with a not so useful hand pump, but the tire keeps losing air. By rides an old man on a lawnmower who says he’ll ask his kids if they have a pump and informs us he rode his mower from ten miles up the road. He does this so his kids can cut their grass. Ten minutes later, he brings back an even dinkier pump than we have, so we resort to trying to change the tire but with no luck. Although I have all the tools I need to do this, the screws on my bike won’t loosen. Bob, mustering all his enthusiasm, compels me to ride on with the flat. I do this and about every 5 miles we stop to hand pump the tire that is quickly losing air. I feel like such a burden and it’s getting closer to sunset. I offer to have someone pick me up in a car so they can get a move on. Like those emotional war movies where one member of the squad gets shot and tells the others to go on to safety without him, I tell them to leave me! They said we’re not quitting now! We were in it together. Our quads are burning and so are arms, from that shitty little hand pump. If you want a full body workout, just get a flat tire on a long ride and try to pump it up the whole time. Good for your legs and arms…not! Finally, as the sun is about to set, we make it back to our start point. Everyone else finished hours ago. There are no other cars in the lot. Bob and Carlos are still in a great mood. So patient and understanding. I’m happy I biked a century, but the company and the calamities is what made it bearable. And the whole pizza I ate thereafter.
Bio: K.N. would rather her life remain a secret. Though I feel I must add that I like and trust her more than i do most people.
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