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!

A Ride And The Real Thanksgiving

Much of what I was taught while growing up was full of holes.  Sometimes those gaps were obvious but, more often, I suspected them but had no idea of how to fill them in.

As an example, we were taught that Hawaii became the 50th, and newest, US state. We were never told, however, why it was a colony for more than half a century before—or how the US got hold of it in the first place.

Likewise, the story of the First Thanksgiving required a few leaps of faith, or no curiosity, to accept. That the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock on the first day of winter and half of them died by Spring seems plausible.

But how the new settlers managed to find a “friendly” native who spoke English taxes even the most vivid imagination and credulous mind. What neither our teachers nor our textbooks told us is that he was kidnapped, sold into slavery in Spain and escaped to London—where he learned the language well enough that the new settlers understood him perfectly.

From all accounts, he taught the Pilgrims how to plant corn, squash and beans. They were part of that first Thanksgiving feast.  They also ate, according to William Bradford, “fowl and deer.” Whether that “fowl” was turkey is not entirely clear.

I have often thought that their repast would also have included seafood.  After all, they were on the coast and, l’m sure that if the Pilgrims didn’t know how to fish, Squanto would have taught them. 

I got to thinking about all of that yesterday morning, when I took a ride to burn the calories I’d consume in the Thanksgiving meal that afternoon. My ride took me to the Canarsie Pier where I know that while some angle for fun, others do it for not only the Thanksgiving dinner, but also other meals throughout the year.