How Old Is "Too Old"?

Today I stopped in a bike shop in my neighborhood.  It’s a tiny place that’s been there for about as long as its owner has been in the neighborhood—which is to say, most of his life.

There, I saw someone I hadn’t seen in a while.  He’s worked in the shop during the season for as long as I can remember.  Whatever they’re paying him, he can afford to work there:  He retired from a city job when he was 50.

(Old bike-industry joke:  “Wanna know how to end up with a small fortune in this business?  Start with a big one!”)

We chatted.  “Still riding, I see.”  I nodded, but I wondered why he said that.  As long as I don’t have a condition that precludes doing so, I intend to keep on cycling.

“What about you?”

“My cycling days are over,” he said. 

“I’m sorry.  Are you OK?”

“Oh, I’m fine.  Just old.  Too old to ride.”

“How old is that?, might I ask.”

He told me.

“So you’re retiring from cycling—but not working?”

He sighed.  “The legs can’t do what they used to do.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not sorry.  I had some really good times on my bike.  Good memories.”

He didn’t mention any injuries or debilitating diseases.  I’m guessing that riding just became more pain than pleasure for him.

I must admit:  It wasn’t comforting to hear what he said, as I’m closer to his age than I’d like to admit.  He was younger than I am now when we first met and did some rides together. 

When I first started to talk about my gender identity issues with my former partner, she predicted that I might give up cycling. “It’ll suck,” she said, “when you’re full of estrogen instead of testosterone.”

“Why should it matter?”

“You don’t realize how accustomed you are to the strength you have.  I don’t know that you’d like riding without it.”

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I thought about giving up cycling when I first started living as Justine, about a year after I started taking hormones.  At that point, I hadn’t yet noticed much of a loss in my strength.  I just thought that cycling was part of my life as a guy named Nick and wasn’t sure I could bring it into my new life.

I love cycling now as much as I ever did.  Perhaps more so: I think that in my youth and my life as a male (which overlapped quite a lot!), I prided myself on riding longer, harder and faster than most other cyclists, at least the ones I knew.  Even more, I liked the admiration and respect I got from other male cyclists, some of whom won races.

Since my transition, I’ve become a different sort of cyclist.  I don’t have the strength I once did.  Some of that may be a matter of age or other factors besides my hormonal changes.  Surprisingly, I didn’t have to “accept” that I wasn’t going to be as strong or fast as I once was; rather, I found that cycling heightened the emotional release I have felt in living as the person I am.

I hope that I can continue it—cycling, or more important, what it’s become for me—when I get to be the age of the man I met today.  And beyond. 

From People for Bikes

Wanna Make Some Noise?

When I was a kid, you rode a bicycle because you weren't old enough to drive a car--or a motorcycle.

Back then, it seemed that every bike maker (at least here in the US) was trying to appeal to pre-teen boys' visions of themselves astride a "Hog" or "Busa".  That is why bikes came with "ape hangers", "sissy" bars, "banana" seats and stick-shifters located on the exact spot of the bike where it was most likely to impede said boys' future chances of creating a future market for Schwinn Sting-Rays and Raliegh Choppers.

But, boys being boys (I know; I was one once!), they not only wanted their bikes to look like junior motorcycles; they wanted their low-slung wheels to sound like what the "big boys" were riding.




So they'd clip a playing card onto a seat stay or chain stay so that it would catch in the spokes.  Actually, they wouldn't clip a card:  They'd usually attach two or three, though I saw kids who'd clip as many as they could fit on the bike.  The louder the better, right?

Well, one can only attach so many cards to a bike.  Apparently, some would-be inventor noticed as much and came up with the idea of amplifying the sound with a "Turbospoke":

If I had a child, I'd rather give him or her a Turbospoke rather than an electronic gadget.   For one thing, it might get him or her to ride more. And it's way less expensive!




 

One Of My Teachers

In yesterday's post, you might have noticed Vera behind a repair stand.

 
 

No, she wasn't getting fixed.  As good as I felt, she might have done the ride even better than I did.  At least, she didn't shed any tears.  (And, if she had, she wouldn't have claimed that the wind was causing her eyes to well up--something her rider would do!)




That do-it-yourself repair station, with various tools dangling from chains, stands beside a bike shop that holds a special place in my cycling life.

The Peddler of Long Branch, NJ is probably the first shop focused on high-performance bikes (which, in those days, pretty much meant imported ten-speeds)  I ever visited. 

Back in those days, they were in a squat storefront that looked as if it had been built from driftwood. Located just across the street from the beach, it was the sort of place where, had you not seen the bikes in the window, you might have expected to find surfers and latter-day hippies. Actually, in those days, some cyclists fit into either or both of those categories. 

They're still in the same building, though it's expanded and been remodeled more than a bit.  I'm guessing that paint and aluminum siding were done in response to some sort of pressure to reflect the aesthetic (if one could call it that) of nearby Pier Village. 

All right, so it's not terrible-looking.  But it's hard not to feel a little nostalgia for the shop the way it used to be--especially because it's one of the places where I went to learn more about high-quality bikes. 

Anthony "Ducky" Schiavo, the founder, was very patient, thorough and friendly in answering my questions.  I would later learn that, prior to opening the shop, he'd been an elementary-school teacher.  He understood that nobody is born knowing the difference between Reynolds 531 and Columbus tubing, and that most of us didn't--in those days before the Internet or even before foreign cycling publications were readily available--have many reliable sources of information about cycling. 

In other words, he continued his teaching even after he left the classroom. And, given how well he could explain technical details in vivid language, I always suspected he was a very good writer.  

A writer.  A teacher.  A cyclist.  Someone after my own heart, you might say.  A role model.  He definitely furthered my education.

So...Would it surprise you to learn that I bought two bikes-- my Nishiki International and Peugeot PX-10--at the Peddler?  I didn't think so.