I can’t remember the last time I actually rode a bike, probably on a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, over 20-years ago, where we rented them for the day. I can also recall a time, more than 25-years ago, when our travel group to France used bikes to explore the Burgundy wine district. We would navigate from steeple to steeple, stopping to sample wines along the way. Back, even longer ago, when living in Ft. Wayne, there were bike bar rallies for charity that I would join on a Saturday afternoon, weaving our way through town after a few too many.  

My wife bought a bike years ago that we moved from place to place, this being the most use it ever got. Portland was too hilly for safe use and here in Florida it (and its rider) became the victim of a minor crash. I hopped on it once and rode it a block to the neighbor’s house to borrow a wrench to adjust the seat. This was just after we had it repaired for Ben and Miranda’s last trip to Portland to see us. As an avid biker, he had used it on their previous visit but found one of the petals to be stripped. It now sits in our garage waiting for my wife’s confidence to be restored.

I rode a bike in college as part of training for the Little 500 but never enjoyed it or the accompanying hemorrhoids. I think it was loaned to me by the Fraternity house team, so I would have to go back to my teenage years for a time when I actually owned a bike. It was a blue Schwinn 3-speed that got little use, except for a few long weekend jaunts and races that a friend of mine, Dave Geiger, organized. They were usually 50 to 100 miles in length on the Indiana backroads, and we were not allowed to use the gear mechanism. I don’t have fond memories of the backbreaking effort of pedaling, so what inspired me to compete in the even more grueling Little 500 is a mystery. It probably had to do with a free trip to Florida for training workouts. 

As a child, I found my very first Schwinn bicycle under the Christmas tree. I was so excited that I insisted on sleeping next to it that first night. I rode it everywhere, ringing the bell and enjoying that first sense of freedom. My mom once sent me to the store for a loaf of bread that I unthinkingly stuffed under the seat to secure it from falling off my bike. It was probably the last time she trusted me for an errand, after thoroughly smashing the Wonder out of the bread. I decorated the bike for parades, and “motorized” it by pinning baseball cards to the spokes. In the process, I ruined several now priceless Mickey Mantles, among other stars of the 50s and 60s.  Unlike other kids, I never rode my bike to school, probably since there was a busy street to cross, and my parents were overly cautious in protecting me. There were no helmets or knee pads back then, that are standard precautions these days. 

That first shiny, new bike was a big step-up from the previous 3-wheeled trike that I rode, plus it naturally had training wheels. I can barely remember my mom and other neighbors helping me eventually balance it on my own. Learning to ride a two-wheeler without help was that first great sense of accomplishment, although I don’t remember at what age that happened. I never was very daring and had no interest in a truly motorized bike, especially after my neighbor, Jim Kreider, lost a leg riding his motorcycle. My tom-boy sister, of course, moved quickly from bicycle to motorcycle. She was much braver than I ever was and fortunately never had a serious accident.

I did spend a lot of money on bicycles and titanium parts when my son took an interest in BMX racing. Many hours were spent at the local dirt track cheering him on. As a father, it was probably one of the few times that I took an active interest in his participation, outside of little league baseball. I could at least relate to bicycle racing, unlike swimming, soccer, and rugby that I never took part in as a child. I still enjoy watching the Tour de France every year, but that’s as close I get to a bicycle anymore.