The First Time, Again

 They say you never forget how to ride a bike. That’s true, more or less.

At least, that’s the case for “Carrie.” She’s the S.O. of “Sam,” the friend and riding partner I met not long after moving into my current place. We have become friends, not only because of her relationship with ‘Sam:” We “got” each other in spite (or because?) of our differing backgrounds.  Turns out, we have more in common than I ever would have imagined.

Among those common experiences is cycling, at least in her youth.  She hadn’t ridden in at least  25 years. At first, I thought she wanted to ride again simply to join “Sam” and me. After finding a suitable bike for her and seeing her on her first rides, I realized that she was looking for something else.

Getting a bike on which she would be comfortable was the first step.  She is about 5’3” 160 cm) and, while a few years younger than me or “Sam,” has trouble lifting her leg over the top bar of a “diamond” frame. (She tried one “Sam” found.) And she wanted something pretty, which I can well understand.

Here in New York City, shopping for a bike on Craigslist is, shall we say, an adventure. Some of the listed bikes are stolen. Others are billed as “vintage.” Translation:  The seller wants $400 for something they fished out of the Gowanus Canal. 

Somehow I lucked out:  A Trek bike with an aluminum frame and 24 inch wheels for a decent price. Although the location was given as “Upper East Side” it was, in fact in East Harlem. But the seller seemed OK:  She described the bike as accurately as she could and explained that she’d bought it for her daughter who no longer lives with her.  The bike was actually in pretty good condition:  The wheels were true and spun smoothly; the tires and tubes weren’t punctured or dry-rotted.  I did, however, replace the cables, as I would on any used bike.

Her first ride nearly stopped my and “Sam’s” hearts:  She wobbled and fell.  Fortunately, she didn’t have even a bruise or a scrape. And she wanted to try again.  And again. Finally, she rode straight as the chainline on my fixie down the block and back. “I did it! I can’t wait to do more!”  

“We will.”

Now I believe I understand why she wanted so much to ride. She probably wanted to share another aspect of my and “Sam’s” lives. But her exultation told me something else:  Getting on the bike and riding, even for such a short distance, is a genuine accomplishment. It’s something we need at any stage in our lives, especially as we age fret that “we aren’t what we used to be.” It doesn’t matter what that achievement is, whether it’s as big as earning a degree or writing a book, or as “small” as learning how to cook a new dish.

Oh, and “Carrie” looked like she was having fun she hadn’t had in a long time, if ever.  She needed it; we all need to experience that kind of joy, for the first time again, at any age.

What To Wear, At My Age?

 You’ve heard of MAMILs:  Middle-Aged Men In Lycra.

Although I am in the middle of my life, I can’t be a MAMIL for one reason, and won’t be one (or, for that matter, a MAWIL—it doesn’t have the same ring) for another.

Acting Our Age

“Sam”’s observation got me to thinking about my experiences as a young cyclist and one in the middle of my life.

When I first became a dedicated cyclist, in the early-to-mid 1970s, I participated in a few organized rides. The ones for charity (e.g., UNICEF or diabetes research) included riders of varying ages. Some adolescents, like me, rode with friends or alone. Younger kids, on the other hand, were accompanied by parents or other adults; I am guessing that was a requirement for children under a certain age.  The adults who weren’t accompanying kids seemed to go alone or as part of a contingent from some workplace or other organization.

The rides that weren’t charity events, like the ones the Monmouth County parks commission organized, had an entirely different demographic makeup.  I was almost invariably the youngest rider, often by decades. I hadn’t thought about that until now. It begs the question of why.

All of those adult riders, unless they grew up in other countries, lived through decades when few adults rode bicycles and nearly everyone traded two wheels for four, and two pedals for one, as soon as they had their driver’s licenses.  Some, I am sure, participated in that American rite of passage before re-discovering the joys of cycling. But, judging from their comments and conversations among themselves and with me, it didn’t seem as if they’d abstained from cycling for very long: They seemed to have a breadth of experience and wealth of knowledge beyond what my peers or the books and magazines could offer me.

I didn’t mind being the new kid, literally and figuratively, on those rides. Those riders treated me well; for what may have been the first time in my life, I was with adults who weren’t condescending, even if they had reason to be. No one told me I needed a better (lighter) bike than my Schwinn Continental, though I must admit that I envied their seemingly-otherworldly Peugeots, Bottechias, Raleigh Competitions and Fujis. 

I now realize that, ironically, I was, in a way, doing the same thing as my peers who stopped cycling as soon as they were allowed to drive. We were, to the degree we could, emulating the adults in our lives. In the US, for the past century or so, learning to drive, getting a license and finally taking one’s place at the steering wheel has been equated with growing up. I am sure that the adult cyclists I met on those rides were, unless they came from elsewhere, inculcated with that belief. So, in order to become what I saw, they had to be confident and un-self-conscious: I am sure that they were told, at some point or another, they were “too old” for a “kid’s” activity like bike-riding.

I wanted to be like them. It didn’t matter whether they were teachers, aviators, store managers, artists or iron workers: They all looked like they belonged on their bikes.  And they were simply having fun:  something I didn’t know adults were allowed.

Looking back, however, I can see one glaring problem:  All of those cyclists were men. Not that their maleness was a bad thing; I knew, even then, that whatever I became when I “grew up,” I didn’t want to be a man. I don’t think I saw an adult female cyclist on an organized ride that wasn’t a charity event until I rode, years later, with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club.

Which brings me back to “Sam’s” observation: The riders we saw on non-electric, non-motorized bikes were indeed “older.” But at least some were women, a few of whom rode alone.  Now those are the adults I would have loved to have as role models!