Two-Wheeled Adventures

Two years ago, when my old car broke down and I couldn't afford to fix it, I decided to buy a DI bike to tide me over until I nailed down a sure job for the next year and was financially stable enough to buy a car.  I gloried in what I saw as my own adventurous spirit and dedication to the environment.  Then, two months later, I bought a car and have ridden by bike, Maggie, about twice since.  She had a place of honor in my room in my old apartment, but when I moved to my new one last April she got put out on the balcony as a "temporary" way to get more space in my room.  Then she sat there, collecting dirt, rain, snow, ice, and sun for an entire year.

Maggie in her pre-balcony days, back when she was new (to me) and I had just spent hours cleaning her up.  

I would often look out my living room window at Maggie, neglected and forgotten, and reflect on my dreams of riding my bike everywhere, also neglected and forgotten.  Riding a bike--especially uphill--took a level of fitness I didn't have, and Maggie wasn't the nicest bike.  She was plenty functional, but the little niceties, like a seat that still adjusted and gears that worked consistently or predictably, were missing.  Her sturdy frame was steel, which was heavy.  The idea of hauling her up and down the three flights of stairs from my apartment helped me put off riding her forever for another day.  I began to think that what I might need was a new bike, a zippy, shiny, light, brand new bike.  A hybrid bike, closer to a road bike than my heavy thrift store mountain bike.  But the bikes I wanted all cost $500-$700, and I couldn't justify spending the money until I was sure I was really going to use the bike.  After all, I wasn't using the one I had at all.  On the other hand, I didn't want to ride my bike because it wasn't very nice, and I might ride more if I had a nicer bike, but shouldn't by a nicer bike until I was riding a lot.  It was a circle of logic that resulted always in my neither riding nor buying a bike.  

Until now.  Last week, I had a few hours in the afternoon that were free.  I'd spent the morning rolling my dreads and working on my history course, and I was dying to get outside.  A friend of mine was coming over for dinner and then climbing in the evening, but what should I do for those few hours?  Go for a hike?  I'd already hiked the day before, and it was too warm outside to go skate.  So I decided to bring Maggie out of exile and go for a ride.  I decided to ride to my school--that way I could test how feasible it would be to commute by bike occasionally during the school year.  I expected it to be grueling: the way there was mostly uphill, and my last memory of riding uphill was quite unpleasant.  

To my surprise, the ride took me only half an hour, and was in no way painful at all.  The fact that I am now much fitter than I was certainly helped, and the hills were not as bad as I thought they would be, and Maggies gears worked better than I expected them to.  Filled with enthusiasm, I resolved to ride my bike to my work meetings this week on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  Monday went great, although the addition of a bag with over 10 lbs. of stuff for my meetings made those hills a little harder.  The gears did jam up just before the biggest hill, but I still made it.  Tuesday the gears worked fine, but I was beginning to realize that the seat wasn't at the right height, and there was no way for me to adjust it.  Also, after two days of riding, even on my thrift store mountain bike, I was enjoying it a lot.  I could definitely see myself doing that ride frequently during the school year.  

Such beautiful weather lately, how could I now want to ride my bike?

Brimming with excitement, I began shopping for bikes again.  I did all the research I could online, but I knew I needed a real person to help me make the decision and impart to me their wisdom.  So I headed to the local bike shop.  I wasn't going to buy anything yet, but it was time to start getting serious about shopping around.  Then, to my surprise and delight, the first shop I went to had a beautiful bike, just my size, just what I wanted.   I took it on a test run around the block and was amazed.  The thin, smooth tires ate up pavement with an ease I didn't realize as possible, the light frame glided smoothly over the road, and the gears shifted almost eagerly. Because the bike was last year's model, the shop was able to give me $125 off of the sticker price.  I walked out with my dream bike for only $525.  It's a hybrid, which is a sort of cross between a mountain bike and a road bike.  Since I was raised exclusively on mountain bikes, this bike seems so slim, delicate, and fast.

So it was with great pride and eagerness that I saddled up this morning and glided out of the parking lot on my brand new Specialized Vita Sport, which I named Maggie 2 (or M2 for short).  My white bike gleamed in the sun rise, the wind whispered through my dreads, and I was fit, ready, and confident.  I couldn't wait to try that hill, to pull up to my school and show off my bike and my awesomeness to my coworkers,The first few blocks of my ride is down hill and crosses two sets railroad tracks, one perpendicular, one at an angle.  I had noticed even on my test ride of the bike at the shop that this bike with its thin, skinny tires reacted much more to the bumps in a broken sidewalk than the hefty mountain bikes I had always ridden, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle.  As I unthinkingly hit the second set of railroad tracks, the ones angled diagonally across the road, I was suddenly unthinkingly hitting the the road...with my face, and my knee, and a terrible clatter as my bike fell half on top of me.  I staggered up and made sure I was out of the road, righted up bike and gave it a cursory appraisal; M2 appeared unharmed in any major way.  Then, as stinging and throbbing began to erupt on several parts of my anatomy, I began a more thorough examination of myself.  My left palm had a drop of blood forming, my right elbow was also beginning to burble out little bubbles of red.  Wincing, I turned my attention to my left knee, which for the last week has been home to a terrific scab that formed when I had bailed on my skateboard.  The initial wound hadn't bled at all, but the scab was proving more problematic.  I had torn part of it off while climbing on Sunday and blood and gone everywhere.  Sure enough, the thick, tenacious scab was completely gone, the initial wound had been enlarged, and blood was running freely down my leg.  

Remember when you were little and you fell?  You could sit and cry and someone would come pick you up, hold you, and then carry you and your bike home and give you ice cream and let you hold your teddy bear while they cleaned out your stinging wounds?  Even if your parents weren't there, sitting there and crying would soon bring them, or your older brothers or sisters, or your neighbors, or even complete strangers would rush to aid a fallen child with band-aids and kind words.  When you're all grown up, you have to pick yourself up.  You have to walk your bike home while your head throbs, your knee drips, and you fight off the emotional reactions caused by the surprise, the fear of the fall, the disappointment, the humbled pride, and the actual pain of the wounds.  In other words, I walked back to my apartment trying not to drip blood on my shoes and trying not to cry.  Then I hauled my bike up the three flights of stairs and put it away and texted my department chair to tell her I'd be late to the meetings.  Then I was able to sit myself on the edge of the bath tub, feel sorry for myself, and begin to scrub out my own wounds.  I had discovered by this time that I really had hit the road with my face.  I had dirt all over my left cheek, and the pavement had punched my chin while wearing its rings.  I'd been daubing it with the back of my hand while I was walking back, and the hand was now covered with different shades of red as the blood dried and was replenished with fresh stuff from my oozing chin.  

Since it had taken me a few minutes to walk home, in order to clean out my scrapes and cuts, I had to scrub off dried blood and half-formed scabs to get the dirt out.  That hurt.  And nobody gave me ice cream, and I didn't get my teddy bear.  Instead I got out my first aid kit, patched myself up, changed my clothes, and drove to work.  Instead of showing off my bike, I displayed my wounds and collected sympathy.  Apparently, they all knew that you can't go over railroad tracks on a city bike.  I guess I do too now.  I'm still going to ride my bike, I'm still going to zip effortlessly over the pavement on my delicate, skittish new bike, but I think I'm going to do it a lot more carefully.