I now know I had a trike. I have a photo of it. But I don’t recall it. The first bicycle I can remember that was mine was a blue probably Schwinn with big old fat tires. When I grew to be old enough to ride out of my neighborhood, I went everywhere on that vehicle: to school, to the store, on “bike hikes” on the week ends with my friends. One day I was riding down a small hill on Morris Avenue. I got going very fast—too fast really— the handlebar began to shake back and forth Before I knew it I was out of control. At the bottom of the hill was a roundabout—right in front of my dentist’s office. I hit the curb of the roundabout and flew into the shrubbery in the middle. Next thing I knew I was in my mother’s car on the way to the surgeon’s office. My dentist, Dr. Bienville, had seen the accident from his window and went running to save me. He carried me into his office and called my mother who took me to the doctor. I suppose he checked my teeth first. I only suffered a nasty cut on my face which the surgeon did a great job of stitching up. I still have a scar which is barely discernible now 70 years later. I sure loved that blue bike, but it was never again ridable.
When my children were 2,4, and 6, we went to the Netherlands to live for two and a half years. As is the case for the Dutch people, bicycles were our main mode of transportation in the crowded streets of that country. In the 1960’s I had never seen child carriers for bicycles in the United States. But they were as prevalent as tulips in Holland. All kinds. Between the two of us my husband and I could easily carry our 3 children about on bikes with no problem. Safety was not so much of a consideration back then. No one wore a helmet, not even did we put them on our children’s heads. I suppose some heads had to be sacrificed before anyone thought of using helmets. One of our favorite weekend activities was riding our bicycles on the ever present paved paths through the Dutch sand dunes, one of the few undeveloped natural places in the Netherlands.
Back in the U.S. in the 70’s and in Denver, I didn’t own a bicycle. But we were able to remain a one car family for many years because Bill, my husband, used his bicycle to commute the two or so miles to work every day rain or shine.
It was not until the late 1980’s that I started cycling again—riding to work and around town on errands.
In 1986 I took my first long distance bicycle trip with my daughter and her boy friend both in college at the time. Still no helmets to be seen. There were bicycle shops but they only housed bicycles and parts—no paraphernalia of any kind—no spandex cycling shorts with padded crotch, no handlebar mounted computers to tell you how fast you were going, how far you had gone, all meteorological info you could possibly need, what day and time it was, and your location coordinates—none of the accessories we see in the shops today.
But that cycling trip around western New York state, and the Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania was a wonderful and memorable adventure for me. I think that’s when I became hooked on cycling.
In the 1990’s now an out and proud lesbian, I bought a blue Fuji and rode the MS 150, a 150 mile ride from Denver to Pueblo and back to raise funds for the MS Foundation. This ride is not a race, but many riders joined teams for the purpose of training, socializing, and supporting each other on the ride. Early on I found myself joining the “Motley Spokes team.” The competition was about raising money, not riding fast.
During these years I pedaled several charitable rides in various parts of the country and met many wonderful people. I have been very lucky as well as I have many times been able to bring my own personal sag support with me. Gill has always been willing— actually she has mostly wanted to come along (not on a bicycle) to satisfy her wanderlust. Unfortunately sometimes she becomes engrossed in her own bird watching, wildlife viewing, picture taking activities and is distracted from her duties as a sag support. She tends to turn her phone off so as not to disturb the wildlife—not helpful to a stranded cyclist. Once riding in North Dakota in a vast open area with no one in sight, the sky turned black and looked ominous. “I wonder where Gill is, I said to myself.” “This looks like tornado weather.” Two hours later I arrived at the town that was our destination for the day, but I was a bit scared, I must admit. And there she was. No bad weather where she had been. Just tons of birds.
My best cycling experience and most memorable was across the southern tier of the United States from Pacific to Atlantic. This was a two month, 3800 mile fully supported tour with a company called Womantours. That was in 2005. This trip has provided me with endless material for story time. Most of you have heard some of my ramblings about this particular adventure. And I suppose I will continue to refer to it as long as I am telling stories.
I have loved my bicycling experiences and the memories they have provided. I guess that’s why I love a bicycle trip. It’s always an adventure. And I love adventure.
© 30 May 2016
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