In the middle of the journey of my life, I am--as always--a woman on a bike. Although I do not know where this road will lead, the way is not lost, for I have arrived here. And I am on my bicycle, again.
People have gone on bicycle rides to support all kinds of causes,from veterans' affairs to peace, from liberating people to conquering diseases, and everything in between. I've participated in a few myself. The great thing is that most cyclists ride for causes I support. That includes Gennadiy Mokhnenko. He's a pastor who directs the Pilgrim Republic Children's Home in his native Ukraine. Its focus is on orphans and other "vulnerable children"--of which the Ukraine, like many other countries experiencing upheval and poverty, has many. In fact, one of those children became one of 32 childen Mohnenko and his wife, Lena, have adopted. Andrey Dudin was the first of them, in 1999, when he was 12 years old. He'd been homeless for six years when the Mohnenkos took him in. Now he is accompanying Gennaidy on the US leg of his World Without Orphans bicycle tour, which began in 2011. They ride every summer and the US leg of their ride is being supported by Serving Orphans Worldwide, a nonprofit organization based in Bristol, Tennessee. Its work complements that of the Pilgrim Republic Children's Home, in that it rescues, trains and supports struggling childrens' homes worldwide. Both organizations want to dispel some of the myths about adoptive children: namely, that they can't be loved as much as biological children and that if their biological parents were addicted to drugs or alcohol, they will end up the same way. "It's a stupid idea," says Mokhnenko. He uses himself as an example: "I grew up in an alcohol addicted family and I'm a pastor of 27 years." As of this writing, he, his adoptive son and other cyclists are riding through Tennessee. They began this part of the tour in Los Angeles in May and will end in about three weeks, he says, when they reach Miami, Florida after "pedaling 60 to 80 miles a day."
During my childhood, it seemed that every bike manufacturer was trying to appeal to boys' fantasies of driving "muscle" cars down endless stretches of highway. Examples include Schwinn's "Krate" line,and Raleigh's "Chopper." I was reminded of those bikes when I came across this:
Keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel!
If you are "of a certain age," as I am, you might remember a recurring Saturday Night Live sketch called "What If?". It was a sendup of talk shows that presented counterfactual historical events. Perhaps the most famous of them was "What If Eleanor Roosevelt Could Fly?" Since then, the internet has opened the door to all manner of "alternative history" sites and discussion boards. Some are, of course as far-fetched (in some instances, without trying to be) as SNL's segments. But others pose some really serious and interesting questions. For example: What this country (and world) be like had Franklin Delano Roosevelt had kept Henry Wallace as his Vice President in 1944 and not allowed Democratic party bosses throw him under the bus in favor of Harry Truman? Now, this post is not going to ponder anything quite as earth-shattering as that. Instead, I am going to pose a question that entered my mind after reading an excerpt from Daniel de Vise's The Comeback: Greg LeMond, the True King of American Cycling, and a Legendary Tour de France. In it, de Vise discusses the racing scene that developed in and around Berkeley, California in the late 1950s and early 1960s, when cycling was a fringe activity in the US. A decade later, one of the first world-class male American riders since World War I would emerge from that milieu. He would finish his career with 200 victories in amateur and professional races. But it was a sixth-place finish that really set the stage for the generation of American riders--which included LeMond--that would follow. When George Mount finished three places behind the medal-winners in the 1976 Olympic road race, it was by far the best showing by an American rider since Carl Schutte won the Individual Time Trial bronze medal (and the US team won the bronze for the Team Time Trial) in 1912. In the six-plus decades since Schutte and his teammates ascended the podium, no American rider or team had placed in the top 60 in any Olympic competition.
George Mount, circa 1974
Mount's victory in Montreal was broadcast all over the world. It was the first time in decades significant numbers of Americans paid attention to bike racing. Some European scouts took notice of him, too, and soon he found himself racing with an Italian club. In his early 20s at the time, he seemed destined for greater successes--including a medal at the 1980 Olympics, held in Moscow. Except that he didn't get the chance to go to Russia. In response to the Soviet Union's December 1979 invasion of Afghanistan, US President Jimmy Carter declared a boycott of the Games. Other countries would also decide not to send their athletes to Moscow that year, though some for other reasons. Though he has never said as much, it's hard not to think that the missed Olympic opportunity was at least one reason why Mount decided to turn professional that year. He would enjoy success on the European racing circuit, and expressed no regrets when he retired from racing just before turning 30. Still, it's fair to ask whether spending another year or two as an amateur--and winning an Olympic medal--might have aided him in his development. Would his continued successes created momentum that American cycling could have ridden (if you'll pardon the expression) well beyond LeMond's victories?
One of the great things about cycling in my hometown of New York is that it allows me to see a lot of street art close-up. My commute to work takes me through an industrial area of the Bronx where murals of one kind and another cover the walls of industrial buildings. It's become such a part of the landscape that nobody, it seems, refers to it as "graffiti", a term that implies impermanence and echoes disdain. I have also seen street art, or the art of industrial spaces, while pedaling through streets and along canals and railways (some disused) in other cities on both sides of the Atlantic. I'm sure other cyclists have had their minds and senses similarly enriched in cities I have yet to visit.
Detroit is one of those places and Thomas Leeper is one of those cyclists. Except that he claims he's "not really a bicyclist." Whatever he chooses to call himself, he's ridden 2200 miles of The Motor City's streets during the past sixteen months for his passion project, Every Linear Mile.
He's been photographing graffiti, murals and other kinds of art, including found-object-art, he's seen along the way. His goal, he says, is to "give kudos" to folks who are "helping to beautify the city" with their work. "Ninety-nine percent of it was created with no financial incentive in mind," he explains, so their efforts don't cost anything to the financially-strapped city.
Since he began the project, he's had 11 flat tires, stepped on seven nails, has had nine verbal offers of drugs and been chased by eight dogs. "I've learned how to ride fast when I need to," he says, and keeps pepper spray on him, but "has never really felt unsafe."
The other morning, I woke up early and wasted little time in getting in the saddle. I figured that if I got home by noon--which I did--I could beat the worst of the heat and humidity predicted for the day. The weather reports also said there could be heavy fog and mist in coastal areas--where, of course, I planned to ride. Specifically, I headed for Point Lookout because I enjoy the ride and because it's 125 kilometers: not a bad before-lunch total. I knew about the construction at PL, but I didn't mind: I knew that, as the name implied, there would still be something worth looking out at. And I figured the mist and fog would make it seem even more littoral.
That they did. But the only problem was that I couldn't see anything at all, besides machinery, at Point Lookout. Should it have been renamed, if only for the day?
