Two Wheels
A child of the 70’s, I listened to the BeeGees on a friend’s eight-track and memorized every song of Sargent Pepper’s from a boxy hi-fi with shoe-box sized speakers that folded out. My nickname was Anna Bandana, often sporting a hippie-style kerchief like a flower child wearing patched hand-me down bell-bottom jeans. I kept a K-mart special plastic skateboard by the front door, next to a pair of skates that clamped-on my Buster Brown shoes. My pride was a girl’s banana-seat Huffy bicycle, with sissy bars and coaster brakes. Discovered in the back of St. Vincent’s Thrift Shop, it was tangled with an assortment of bikes leaning tired against each other in variously rusty conditions; mine was pulled from the middle. A quick hop on the seat and arms stretched to the wide bars sporting plastic tassels verified it was the perfect fit. Even though a little scratched and dented, it was new for me; never having been my brother’s.
The most efficient form of any transportation, a bicycle is more than a machine. It glides, inspiring daydreams and freedom. Accelerate fast enough, the sound of wind in the rider’s ears is louder than her thoughts and she becomes speed itself. There was no bus to private school, which meant she rode her bike every day, in all weather, for a hurried 45 minutes every morning. Five miles seemed a long way clear from the poor side of the tracks to the nicer part of town, and it was, venturing from Scholarship Territory across town to the Land of Privilege where most kids got rides. She would pull up on her rattling bike and lock it to the rack every morning rain or shine, seeing the steady progression of cars with kids tumbling out. Winter mornings meant peeling cold fingers from the grips, trying to warm a cold nose without too much sniffling, thawing uncooperative fingers around awkward pencils first class. Yet a few free hours after school allowed explorations of detours or stopping at the tiny library to read another science fiction book. A car-ride to school would have meant giving that up; I was happy with the arrangement.
The bike was uncomplicated and tough enough to fix with a crescent wrench, hammer, and screwdriver. Changing so many flats, I finally had to buy a new tube when so many patches started to overlap. Summers permitted excursions to the library, where they even had a Beta video player with huge clunky, tinny headphones, and a selection of inspiring episodes of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. Expeditions went to the city limits and sometimes beyond, off the map with a lunch packed and extra water. As the road stretched out to the unknown, senses heightened. Heat rose visibly from a golden-dry field while ancient oaks by the road offered cool sanctuary. I rode through pockets of breezy sage, or occasionally passed by the acrid smell of a small, unfortunately dead animal wafting from the dry ditch. The discordant screech of cicadas rose and fell in the lonely distance, punctuated by encouraging meadowlarks. Going as far as courage allowed, arriving at the unfamiliar horizons of a much larger world, I would stop to eat and look around, absorbing how small I felt, alone, then pedal back to the familiar.
I eagerly anticipated 8th grade graduation since my brother had been awarded a brand-new $280 10-speed on the occasion. My own graduation came and went without a mention of a bike, or any reward, and my frustration was practically unbearable. But I decided an upgrade was required; the now childish Huffy just wouldn’t do. I babysat over the summer and luckily came across a bike for $50, a spotless antique hung suspended in a garage collecting dust. An unlikely find in that small cow-town, it was a vintage British 3-speed Raleigh with a classic women’s frame. My legs stretched to the pedals, feeling taller, stylishly continental. It got me to school, but many mornings I wished its ponderous durable steel could be a bit more nimble. Procrastination often made me late for first period.
Senior year was spent at a foster home in the country, keeping me busy with farm chores. The second home was back in town where I had my bike again. This family had a phenomenally sophisticated wall-sized sound system with reel-to-reel, tuners, huge speakers, everything. There was something about the depth of sound in those headphones; maybe for the mind it’s a similar feeling to riding. I could forget all the impossibly difficult, painful circumstance with immersion into a few records: Genesis, Yes, etc, and another favorite. Just an instrumental album with a simple guitar melody called Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter. There was something about that one song in particular- I heard faint glimmerings of something fate had denied to me. Replaying it many times, I heard a simple contentment with the feeling that if it was in the song, it was somewhere deep in me. I stayed there a year in that stifling town, working in a strawberry packing plant, having to wait to enter the military since I was just 17.
Then the auto accident and a year later I got out. NAVY stands for Never. Again. Volunteer. Yourself.
Moving frequently and without a car, one old 10-speed or another found at garage sales got me to whatever various eccentric jobs I could find. My first car was $350, had an AM radio with no FM no cassette player. Pathetic that some thieves stole it.
During my late 20’s raising my kids, they got little trikes and little bikes and I was the busy mom. At least the station wagon had a higher-performance engine and a decent CD player with better sound than at home. Just as well because I practically lived in that car. It seemed I worked to pay for the car that got me to work. And I worked to pay for childcare, and for their lessons, and all the sports. Finally getting home, the kids piling out, I would face the small cabin we called home and think of my second shift: making dinner, cleaning the house, helping with homework. Opening the car door, but relishing this small bit of "me time" between shifts, I often fell asleep in exhaustion before stepping out.
When the kids were in middle school, I was happy when we could afford a whole family of bikes, something we could all do together. My first brand new bicycle, I chose a Trek Y-Frame mt. bike, hoping the kids would trail ride with me. Yes, embarrassed to admit it now, I actually bought that odd-looking bike, but I really didn’t know anything about them yet; it looked cool. At least we got moving, exploring easy bike paths.
Half of marriages don’t last; mine fell apart in typical fashion when I was around 35. By then, marriage had drained me, the divorce exhausted my savings, and the only job I could hold wore me out feeding horses and cleaning stalls. I needed freedom; youthful memories beckoned. So I searched for a fast bike I could afford.
I found it in the back of a cluttered boutique bike shop smelling of tire rubber, quiet with the racers’ confident proficiency. Hanging neglected on the consignment wall, this Lemond thoroughbred had been assembled custom 5 years earlier to race. Now it was slightly outdated for that and a dent on the top tube had put it out to pasture. It was steel though, so it was rideable enough for me. $300 was my entire savings. But then I discovered it’s not just a bike; its special pedals needed special shoes with cleats that clipped in. Drawing a fashion line though, I was not going to wear those silly latex Spiderman outfits. Until I rode more than 10 miles and my butt demanded it. And those pockets in the back of the shirt were kinda handy. That’s how addictions reel you in, just a little bit at a time...
Finding something in common, I started meeting other cyclists. One taught me how to draft, my skinny front wheel only a few inches tailing behind the bike in front, saving precious energy in the slipstream. The person in front pulls while the person in back pedals with a little less effort; the riders take turns pulling. Working together, the cyclists can go faster. Truly dangerous at 20 mph, I felt effectively blinded and extremely vulnerable. Just in front of me, though, he pointed at the ground with various hand signals to warn of upcoming road hazards. Touched by this silent language of trust and camaraderie, I was hooked. This wasn’t a pursuit of isolated individuals after all; this innate concern is essential to the sport for safety, especially among competitors. Each rider’s personal space encompasses the others, and they act as a group with an entire protocol of etiquette. This attitude seems to attract quality people I liked; my new life expanded with friends.
I realized that cycling exercise could help stabilize the life-long effects of brain injury. (I have since found that strenuous exercise is another way to keep the pituitary gland working, with the hypothalamus having a weak connection. Working-out every day maintains hormonal well-being, so it has become my daily prescription.) My physique toned, lost some weight, grew stronger. My daughters would see me taking care of this new machine, cleaning the chain and setting out on an afternoon ride a few times a week. I started setting goals: social 30-mile group rides once a week seemed a such a long distance. The next year I aimed for a century, 100-miles in one shot.
The following year, the only next-step-up was racing, even though I would be almost 40 and competing against women much younger. So what? We only have this one life. Sadly, my old companion the Lemond was just too heavy, so I started looking at many styles and brands, mostly Italian. I discovered it hanging in the window of a small shop at the edge of a country town, an American-made Postal just like one in the Tour de France. I could never afford carbon fiber, but I tempted myself with a test ride. It took my breath away with how responsive and smooth it was. It had been on display for almost a year, looking sharp and pretty for a town full of farmers. Beyond my budget, that bike was still meant for me so I made an offer, borrowed some money.
Friends introduced me to true mountain biking: unadulterated bliss gliding down trails, maneuvering over rocks and tree roots. My old Y-frame was clumsy and heavy, but I was having so much fun tossing it around the turns like a tomboy again. I borrowed a unique aluminum single speed from a guy I was dating. When meeting other riders on the trail, they recognized me by recognizing the bike. Oh, you must be dating so-and-so…
Eventually I bought my own, a lime-green Specialized Epic demo that had seen hard use on a trip to Utah, but a little dent on the chainstay reduced the price in half. It served me for five years all over the country, then I gave it to my daughter and now she races with it. (She has kept it for years, went to Colorado with it. Got married, had a baby son, moved here to Maui for a good job after graduating college, and brought the bike with her. Its back in my garage, here on an island of all places, but back to my story in Cleveland.)
By the time I was 41, cycling was a lifestyle. I trained every day, planning what to eat and when, how many miles to ride and how hard, when to recover. Training hard all winter in the basement, the Lemond was now riding rollers. I-pods with tiny earbuds were essential motivation, to assist a meditation of effort spinning in place for hours. All summer I’d ride whenever I could; biking was the priority and work not so much. Ok, maybe it was an obsession, but I won a pair of socks or bike parts every now and then. Did I win races? No, I wasn’t a contender but that wasn’t the point. Racing seemed Walter-Mittyesqe, with cheering friends out on the trails and at the finish line. I did place at the last race of the year, sprinting to the line all out, neck and neck, winning a tiny trophy. Entering a triathlon without training was a lark; once was certainly enough. During Autumn when rain turned to sleet, an eccentric little sport called Cyclocross became the focus. It combines road, off-road, obstacles, sand, mud, and brutal suffering with no-rest-for-the-wicked. It’s fun, really.
I loved the lifestyle, truly discovering and reinventing myself, getting a tattoo of two bike chains around my ankle. One is broken, meaning everything that implies.
Wanting to make the sport more accessible to kids in the city, I set out to build a velodrome, the oval track sport one typically sees only during the Olympics. (That is its own chapter, The Value of Scrap Mettle.) I even met my now husband mt. biking, who introduced me to challenging all day rides climbing up steep mountain ridges and careening down through old-growth wilderness forests.
As goals progressed, what could be next? A 500-mile ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles in one week with fellow wounded veterans. I had joined the ride to raise money for a good cause, Ride to Recovery. I respected the program and knew personally that cycling had changed my life.
They turned out to be inspiring, helping me more than I could have possibly helped them. Some had only just started riding a bike for only a few weeks; some were amputees fit with special-made adapters on regular bikes. They all joined on to the aim of riding 500 miles. No one whined about the wind, or sore butts, or the hills; the only point was helping each other finish each day. Some had lost both legs and rode hand cycles. They could fly down hills at 50 mph being so stable, but hills were a special a challenge. There were poles mounted on the back, so regular cyclists could help push while riding with one hand. Another cyclist would push that one’s back riding one handed, and yet again another cyclist, up to three riders in a phalanx helping the hand cyclist. While riding with them, I began to open up about my experience. I found a few others who also had brain injuries, and we could laugh about similar mishaps. The other veterans didn’t judge me about anything, my injury, the nature of my disability, how much I did or didn’t accomplish. I had enlisted just like them, and had to recover back to a functioning life just like them. It was the first time in my life that whole chapter in my life was accepted, helping dissipate the old shame. Thank you, R2R.
The next year my husband looked up from his breakfast cereal and said, “lets ride our bikes across the country.” All those years before, participating in just about every kind of two-wheeled activity there is, I’d see touring cyclists all loaded down with stuff, plodding along so slow, mile after mile of highway. I’d shake my head in disdain thinking, 'I Would Never.' Yet here we were, pedaling 30-lb beasts of burden carrying 40 lbs of gear each, setting off across a Western Cascade Pass on a snowy day. Our ride meandered over to Idaho, into Canada and down into Montana and Wyoming, laboring up passes at 4mph, breathing in the crisp air and experiencing the intense beauty. Burning 6000 calories a day, each meal was the most delicious (fill-in-the-blank) we ever had. All the challenges and mishaps, camping and meeting people, would fill another book. We made it only 1500 miles, then an unexpected surgery for me cut the trip short. Perhaps I'll finish the trip sometime...
There was one late-Spring day, finally warm after a too-long winter training in the basement, when I just wanted to ride for a few hours by myself. No speedometer or training intervals, just enjoy the park road winding under the trees. I had downloaded some new music on the IPod, a sampler from the library. I felt truly happy. Life is Good.
Rounding a bend by the river, coasting through sunbeams sparkling the park’s peaceful road, the first guitar measures of Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter unexpectedly began to play. My God, I hadn’t heard that simple guitar tune in three decades.
Time suddenly disappeared. I was right back in the forgotten foster home, listening for the faint silver threads of the contentment I was feeling at this very moment on the bike. The full force of this sudden connection, the wholeness of the life and unity in one epiphany, brought me to tears. I found myself pouring my heart into praying, hang in there, girl, hang in there. You’ll find it… and I felt my younger self hearing echoes of birds singing in new green leaves.