05.28.2012 | 1:32 am
My dad is a loon. A nut. Not in the “step away slowly, and don’t turn your back to him” way, but more of a “He’s really going to do that? Really?” sort of way.
When I was in college my sophomore year, he called me, and mentioned a friend of his showed up at his door with a mountain-y bike. It was 1990, so they weren’t as mountain-y as they are now, but it was what they had. He asked my dad if he wanted to ride. My dad said yes. He told me about this on the phone, and mentioned he wanted to do a ride when I got back for the summer. He was going to try to find someone he could borrow a bike from, so that I could ride. At that point, I hadn’t really ridden a bike since I was a kid.
My dad picked me up from the airport, and as we were leaving, he said, “I couldn’t find a bike for you to borrow. We’re going to stop by the bike shop on the way home.” I haven’t even dropped in to see my mom, and my dad is taking me to look at bikes.
I left with a Trek 950 Singletrack. We went home, and gave hugs to mom. The plan was to go up to my parents’ small cabin in Frazier Park, elevation ~5000 feet, for the weekend. This was also the starting point for the ride. From the cabin we rode up to the top of Mt. Pinos, elevation ~9000 feet.
Note: if you look up the word “rode” in my dictionary, this is definition 4: “To ride some, walk a lot, and grumble that you haven’t actually test rode the bike so the resultant shifting is totally messed up.”
From the top of Mt. Pinos, we rode to the top of Mt. Abel, after descending into a valley. In the snow. In June.
Did I mention I’m from southern California?
We made it home. My dad was hooked. I was interested. My dad needed a riding partner, and I was willing. We’ve both been riding ever since.
When I got married, I asked if there were days he preferred for the wedding. He casually mentioned he wanted to do a race on August 18, so the wedding was the week before. On August 18, my dad won the 65+ XC Mountain Bike Nationals, by 0.25 seconds.
That was 10 years ago. He still rides.
I need to stay in shape, because I’d rather not be dropped by a 75 year old man. Of course, it isn’t that awe-inspiring to beat a 75 year old man, so we both enjoy the ride. Now, if the road is flat, we bring along Hudson, my 7 year old son.
I suppose you could say that both my son and I have the same riding starts; we started because our dad dragged us out there, but we keep at it, because we both love to spend the time with our fathers.
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05.25.2012 | 1:08 am
A year ago I was a runner. Training was going well. My body was holding up (no injuries), my track workouts were consistent, I was running doubles and my mileage was starting to get up where I wanted it. I ran a see-where-I-am half-marathon in July in 1:35:20 and learned a lot (for example, don’t run a 6:08 split for the first mile). Running was my passion and I was excited to take the lessons I had learned in that half and apply myself to become the absolute best runner that I was genetically capable of becoming.
Then, I woke up one morning in August and noticed that it hurt to breathe. I went on my normal run, and it seemed okay, but over the next few days it got worse. It hurt to talk and even to take shallow breaths, I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t eating. Being a runner I am used to ignoring twinges until they really become a problem, and by the third day I was forced to admit that this was a problem, and if it was a strained chest muscle (my suspicion) maybe at least I could get some stronger pain killers because the Ibuprofen was not cutting it.
I got an x-ray and, after finding fluid in my lungs, the doctor sent me to a clinic 30 minutes away to get a CT scan. I knew I was in trouble when the scan lady came back with oxygen and told me that they had called an ambulance. Apparently I had multiple blood clots in both of my lungs, a potentially fatal condition.
I had just turned 26. I made good life decisions. I hadn’t been in a hospital since I was born. The next two weeks were probably the worst of my life. I couldn’t lay down and breathe at the same time, everything hurt more than I had ever known anything could hurt, and the doctor told me that the blood clots had cut off circulation to parts of my lungs which resulted in “infarctions” or basically that parts of my lungs had died as a result of lack of oxygenation. He said I would have to wait and see how much lung function I recovered and that because there was no discernable reason for the clots, I would be on blood thinners for the rest of my life.
I started trying to recover my fitness immediately. I was told to do very VERY minimal activity because a side effect of the antibiotic they had me on for pneumonia was tendon ruptures, and also there could still be clots between my heart and lungs (as it takes around six months for clots to dissipate) and they didn’t want me to further damage my heart. Walking was hard. Running was impossible. I was really stressed, and the way that I usually deal with stress (running) was entirely inaccessible to me.
And that’s when I remembered my bike. I started riding inside on a spin bike. There were no hills that way so I could keep close tabs on my heart rate, and I could stop whenever I needed to stop without being stuck miles from home. And then, a couple of weeks later, I started riding my real bike, a Kona Honky Tonk named Lydia. We had spent time together before. I liked to bike commute when it was convenient. But my bike had always been merely an inexpensive, but slower and wetter, way of getting somewhere.
Running was soul-killing. Because of the lung damage, etc. my heart rate jumped up FAST whenever I tried to run. I was jogging at 12-minute mile pace with walking breaks. Whereas before, running was the highlight of every day, relieving stress and helping me to gain perspective, at that moment in my life, running, or more accurately trying to run was torture.
But cycling was a different story. On my bike I was free. I could exercise. I could get places fast and feel like an athlete again. And most importantly, with biking, I didn’t have a constant comparison of before the clots and after. It was new and exciting and I fell in love.
At the start I had to walk my bike up hills because my heart rate would get too high. But as the weeks and months continued these breaks disappeared. I started riding to work. I made a rule that if a destination was within 6 miles of my home I had to bike there regardless of the weather. I bought a Honey Stinger waffle and biked to Gresham (a little over 18 miles), ate it (it was great), and biked home. I crashed my bike for the first time and got over the fear that because I am on blood thinners all bike crashes will be fatal. I got banged up a bit. Lydia got banged up a bit, but we both emerged stronger and more confident on the other side (well I did anyway, she needed some brake adjustments).
Running has come back slowly. I am not the same runner I was, and I don’t know if I will ever PR again (though I have definitely not given up hope and am going to work my ass off to run a sub-3 hour marathon some day). But this whole ordeal has introduced me to a new love. Last week I biked all of the way to work and all of the way home all five days (over 14 miles and 1,000 feet of climbing one way, which is significant for me). I live on a main bikeway in Portland, and I went from being passed by everyone, to breathing deep and racing my way home. My mantra is light and strong and I smile so much I am always fishing bugs out of my mouth.
Right now my bike is a symbol of strength and flexibility. It reminds me that my life isn’t under my control, but there are no dead ends. Life is hard. The last year has been hard for me and it’s been hard for many of the people I love. But in the midst of struggles there is still joy. And that joy is worth pursuing and worth working for. I love running. I love my bike. And if someday I can neither run nor ride, I will find something else to do.
PS from Fatty: Don’t forget, the contest to win a trip and a bike, all while fighting cancer, is still on. Click here for info on the trip, then click here for information on the bikes, and click here to donate. Thanks!
Comments (20)
05.24.2012 | 1:06 am
My riding story begins about 3 years ago.
After having our 6th child, I knew that I needed something else to do with my body (my husband had granted me my “bonus” baby after agreeing on 5, so we were done with having children).
He bought me a hybrid bike and I started riding whenever I could. On Sunday afternoons, I would take my bike and just go for several hours ALL BY MYSELF. I’m a stay-at-home mom, so alone time doesn’t happen much.
One Sunday I noticed a young guy riding not far in front of me. I made up my mind to catch him. After I passed him, he came up and started talking to me. He was a super friendly, super young (early twenties), a triathlete and lifeguard at Clearwater Beach.
We rode together for about 5 or 6 miles until we went in different directions. I rode home and proceeded to tell my husband that I just had a wonderful ride and made a new friend.
After hearing about my new friend, my wonderful husband decided to start riding. I had been nagging him to exercise for years. I just needed a young, male lifeguard to give him a little nudge.
Last August, my husband and I completed our first Ironman (Louisville, KY). Ironically, that lifeguard competed in the same one–and yes, I have thanked him for being the motivation that my husband needed to start working out.
PS from Fatty: Don’t forget, the contest to win a trip and a bike, all while fighting cancer, is still on. Click here for info on the trip, then click here for information on the bikes, and click here to donate. Thanks!
Comments (9)
05.23.2012 | 12:02 am
When I was 20, I wore a little gold bicycle charm on a thin gold chain for a year straight. But I would never even think about wearing one of those gold Italian horns (like some of my friends were wearing). Those are so, well, Italian. I may be Italian, and I did receive a couple cornicellos in my day, but I’m just not that Italian. Actually, I did wear one amulet for a little bit (shhh). But it made me so uncomfortable.
Anyway, that little gold bike charm represented the one thing in my life at the time that I felt was important enough to wear around my neck…like one might display a bumper sticker when they want others to know something special about themselves. Really, who cares what you like, think, or honor award your child received? I believe we all go through it though.
That bike charm was kept in safe keeping for a long time after I grew out of wearing the “hey look what I love” around my neck. It’s been preserved in my many different jewelry boxes and residences over the last 25 years. I can’t exactly find it today, but I know it is here somewhere. I think.
I finally settled down on Cape Cod in Massachusetts about six and a half years ago knowing it would be a great playground for all that I loved to do; bicycling still being one of those things. I did add a couple interests to my more mature, less demanding love triangle though: kayaking and walking my dogs!
Soon after the purchase of my one and only “home,” thanks to the confident nudges from my dear and loving partner of 15 years (and experienced home owner), there was much more to be done than romancing on the island playground. Wow, did I learn a lot about roofs, furnaces, plumbing, heating, windows, yard work and cooking!
We didn’t have the time, money or quite frankly, the acquired taste for the local eateries anyway. No little dive Italian restaurants or vintage diners with amazing food for dirt-cheap here! Besides, we were just too tired to leave the house most of the time. And, ya gotta get up pretty early to water that garden.
Okay so like a few years later, I remembered I still had my very first Fuji mountain bike from 1987 tucked away in the basement and so wanted to have an affair with it. But, my very loyal and thoughtful partner recently (and proudly) bought me a new hybrid bicycle when she got hers as a Cape Cod “resident” celebration/treat. It was a really nice gesture and great for a slow, comfortable and casual ride together on a long, or short, sandy trail.
However, soon afterward I secretly had the mountain bike tuned up and rode it when no one was looking. T’was a little harder than I remember. Not so comfortable either. Bummer. Cape Cod National Seashore Trail here I (we) come. Oh my, what nice scenery…great company and lots of fun too.
My partner was diagnosed with bilateral breast cancer just a few months after we got our new house, home, life, and bikes. We battled real hard for a few years, five to be exact. Surgeries, mastectomies, oophorectomy, unpronounceable prescriptions (for me anyway), treatments, steroids, chemotherapy (BIG guns/Red Devil), the whole nine yards. S’all good. You know what I mean.
We were finally getting back on track and ready to celebrate that big five year mark when WHAM! stage four with metastasis to bone, liver, and lungs.
WTF?
It’s been a year and a half more and we have continued to be real troopers…. to put it ever so lightly. My partner had to leave her job as a surgical technician and try to collect Social Security Disability Insurance and I was wondering how the hell I would get us through this incredibly difficult journey.
Then it came to me. I took the last $400 out of my savings and decided to go clipless (actually meaning bike pedals with clips for those of you non-bikers). I searched Craigslist and finally bought a new old Trek “road bike.” Something I always wanted to do but was too scared to try. Not like me to be scared. But a lot had changed.
As of today, I’ve been a member of the Cape Cod Cycling Club for one whole month. It really is beautiful here. And some of the roads are pretty decent. Sure wish I could find that gold charm. Just to know I really did hold onto it for this long. Or, throw it into the ocean and make a wish. Either way, bicycling is saving my life.
I would definitely throw it in the ocean… and make a wish.
PS from Fatty: Don’t forget, the contest to win a trip and a bike, all while fighting cancer, is still on. Click here for info on the trip, then click here for information on the bikes, and click here to donate. Thanks!
Comments (15)
05.22.2012 | 12:43 am
It was the fall of 2006, and I had somehow wandered my way back to Ft. Collins, Colorado and my good old standby job as a bike mechanic at Recycled Cycles. After working odd jobs throughout most of the western United States for the past few years, I was uncomfortably bike-less. I’d been forced to borrow bikes from friends and family, and it was high time I started pedaling my own two-wheeled machine.
When a co-worker suddenly left for the winter to pursue the life of a ski bum, he gave me the bike he’d salvaged from the “graveyard” out back. A beautiful, old, lugged, steel frame 10 speed. Pretty beat up, a little rusted out, and a touch too small, but I was completely thrilled with it!
I stripped it down, degreased everything, repacked the bearings, and tuned it all up. Here’s the finished product:
That thing was rolling smooth and looking clean! After putting the finishing touches on it in my kitchen one evening, I strapped my helmet on, hopped aboard my new bike, and flew across town to Maria’s house, fueled by the joy of pedaling my very own rig!
* * * * *
This was shaping up to be a pretty big fall: not only had I just built up my own bike, but much more importantly, I had recently begun dating Maria. She’s an opera singer, and the first time I heard her sing (it was also the first time I’d ever heard opera) was the first time I realized what mountains sound like: a beautiful sound that fills every inch of space, no matter how small or how huge, resonating from a single source. A lone voicebox speaking the soul the only way it knows how.
The night I pedaled to her house was a night of all-around shock. Her family was shocked that I had actually pedaled the six miles across town and was happily planning on pedaling the six miles back home at the end of the night, and I was shocked that they were so shocked. It was a mini cultural collision as they repeatedly and genuinely expressed concern and offered to drive me home, while I tried to express the fact that I really, truly prefer to travel this way.
Maria summed the whole thing up when she explained that she had always just assumed, for whatever reason, that when people get their driver’s license they just sort of stop riding bikes. She had always loved bikes as a kid, but as soon as she hit 16, this love just fizzled out. Not consciously or intentionally, but simply because this was the assumed norm. The second she told me this, my brain started spinning through ideas and plans quicker than the two wheels that had carried me to her house earlier that evening.
* * * * *
It was late Saturday night and snowing. The Christmas rush was on and we had been cranking out new bike builds all day long. Christmas in a bike shop is a unique phenomenon: it’s freezing, icy, and snowy, yet there are as many people buying bikes as there are in the spring and summer.
I was one of the last people in the shop, and I had just finished polishing off and de-rusting the front fender. I bolted it to the fork and put the front wheel back on (the rim of which had also been recently de-rusted and polished). I stood back and examined my 20 hours of late night scrubbing, cleaning, rebuilding, overhauling, polishing, and steel-wooling. The rusted out piece of work-a 1975 Schwinn Suburban-I had dragged out of the snow-engulfed graveyard two weeks earlier now stood before me a resurrected creature. There’s nothing about this bike that would necessarily make it a particularly special or desirable bike, but in my eyes, this machine was a thing of absolute beauty.
Early Christmas morning, I drove the bike to Maria’s house. In complete stealth mode, I carried it to the porch and positioned it right in front of the door. Tilted the handlebars so they and the front wheel flirtatiously smiled up at whoever opened the door first. Then I left.
A few hours later, Maria called with all the excitement and surprise in her voice I’d been hoping for. She loved the bike and had already pedaled it around the block! She was thrilled, and I was relieved-the first round of gift-giving can be an intimidating thing to a clumsy lover like me, but she loved the bike, now it was up to me to keep things rolling.
* * * * *
Since discovering the beauty of bicycles, and realizing the incredible fact that people really do pedal well beyond the early years of trikes and big wheels, Maria has fallen in love with life as a bike commuter. We ended up getting married in 2007, and since then, we’ve pedaled our bikes together in everything from midnight San Francisco rainstorms to burning Santa Fe desert summers. Old railroad tracks in southeast Idaho and heart-breakingly beautiful evenings in Denver, Colorado.
The best part of all is that she is now a two-wheeled missionary herself, spreading the gospel of the bicycle wherever she rolls.
Maria, on the right, and her best friend, Sarah, out for a ride.
by Nick Lindsey
PS from Fatty: Don’t forget, the contest to win a trip and a bike, all while fighting cancer, is still on. Click here for info on the trip, then click here for information on the bikes, and click here to donate. Thanks!
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