Thursday, July 24, 2008

Bike to the Future

I’m standing by the service counter of a local bike shop, and I think I might be in over my head. I’m here to pick up my new road bike – a blue and black Trek 500 with cool handlebars, shiny brakes and more gears than I know what to do with. I approach the counter as the young mechanic puts down his tools and eyes me with a look of slight disdain. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same look you get in a record shop or book store – that air of subtle contempt for anyone not wearing a beret, a “Neil Peart for President” tee shirt or a “Frodo Lives” button. “I’m here to pick up my bike,” I say. He ambles over and, in a light guffaw, says, “Oh. That little one over there?” This isn’t starting off well - my first foray into the world of road biking, and I’m pegged as a circus clown in street clothes picking out my new mini bike.

Then again, maybe it’s me and not the mechanic. I’ve resisted this day for more than two years. My wife’s an ardent road biker, riding from April to November, heading out on the weekend for epic stretches. She’d been asking me to join her, and I’ve held back. I haven’t owned my own bike for thirty years due to a series of two-wheeled experiences that all ended in tears. There’s the 1981 Memorial Day Apollo Three Speed broken chain to broken wrist disaster, or the recent fiasco when, on a borrowed bike, I bumped my daughter’s back tire, and she broke the fall to the pavement with her two front teeth. And how can I forget the lingering shame of my sister’s hand-me-down bike from high school? If there’s a list of things not to do when arriving at a 10th grade make-out party, riding a girl’s bike with the bent bar and daisy stickers rests near the top.
I’ve eased into this day by spending the last four years spinning, an indoor exercise class that involves an instructor, loud music and a stationary bike that you peddle like someone’s chasing you, slowing down to pretend you’re on a hill and speeding up for an imaginary flat stretch of road, all the while gender-confused pulsating club music blasts in your ears as your instructor reminds you to do a better job of pretending you’re riding a real bike. In hindsight, indoor bike riding makes about as much sense as indoor duck hunting, but the classes have prepped me for what awaits me outside.

But true love makes you do crazy things, and with my wife’s encouragement, I returned home with the bike (and helmet, water bottle and speedometer) and got ready to ride. We rode thirteen miles that first day, and other than realizing that compulsive gear changing only ends in popped chains and greasy fingers, I survived, and since that day, I’ve learned a lot about road biking. First, your shoes should come with clips, and these take some getting used to. Trust me. No matter how hard you may try, it’s impossible to look like a seasoned expert while you’re flailing around on the road, your shoes wedged into the bike clips as your belly makes its way free from your untucked tee shirt, your water bottle’s contents pooling with the bike grease that covers your hands and face.

Bikers put a lot of effort into their outfits. Cotton is about as welcome as a flat tire because bikers wear clothes that breathe, usually high-tech shirts with bright colors with team names on them, form-fitting black spandex pants with cushions in the rear, fancy sunglasses and padded fingerless gloves, making everyone look like Darth Vaders’ Storm Troopers on Spring Break. I refuse to wear a skin-tight shirt with a zipper to the navel, but I did acquiesce and buy a pair of black biker socks. I did so to avoid what my wife calls the, “white tube sock as ‘80’s leg warmer look.” I’ll admit that wearing black socks with shorts reminds me of a priest playing kickball at recess, but they are comfortable.

I have a recurring fantasy about me and my new bike. I’m riding on Farrington Corner Road outside Concord, alone on the road in the early morning. The only sounds are the spinning of my tires, the changing of my gears and my measured breathing. I reach the dense underbrush near the power lines, and a huge black bear leaps into the road and attacks. I’ve worked out two endings to this fantasy. First, I fall to the ground as the enraged ursus lunges at me. I huddle under my bike, its alloy frame and sophisticated gears shield me from the bear’s body blows, his claws glancing off the spokes of my wheels. The alternate ending has the beast sprinting to catch me as I shift gears and speed up. The bear lumbers next to my accelerating bike, a look of angry surprise on his face, shocked at my ability to outrace him. With both fantasies, the bear grows weary and sulks back to the underbrush, settling for that unsuspecting runner I spotted a while back. Either way, my bike rescues me from a certain mauling.

I’ve had the bike now for fifty days, and I’ve gone more than 400 miles. I’ve done a bunch of quick rides and a few rides so far from home that I half-expected to see French-Canadians waving cheap American dollars and laughing at me, American tourist biking fool. But last week I finally figured out what road biking is all about.

I was riding on Rollins Road in Hopkinton and been told to look out for three big hills. The first two hills were bad but not horrible, and I expected one more to go before heading home. But after the third came a fourth, and this one was brutal. I changed gears and made my way up, but as I continued, yet another steep hill loomed ahead! Would these hills ever stop? I didn’t have much gas in the tank, and I got so distracted with the fear of heart failure that I didn’t bother getting my gears ready. I slowed to a crawl, my arms and shoulders aching as I pulled against the handlebars and pushed my legs forward. Gasping for breath, I didn’t dare switch gears, too worried I’d pop my chain and teeter over. At this point, the only things breathing were my socks. Just as I was close to wobbling over and down, I found a tiny burst of energy and made it to the top. Within moments, I took a right turn and headed downhill at breakneck speed. My speedometer showed 32 mph, 36 mph, 39 mph! I clung to my bike for dear life, the only things separating me from certain death were two thin tires and my helmet that looks like it came off of Wheelie, the recuperating American Girl doll. Down I went, hurtling towards certain doom when the road evened out. Just as I slowed to breathing speed, Beech Hill Farms appeared like a mirage, its overflowing orders of homemade ice cream beckoning my name. I rode on by – miles to go before I could stop, but I promised myself I’d return to the scene of my near demise and celebrate with ice cream.

If road biking is about anything, it’s about risk and reward. And if I need to risk a serious case of road rash, broken limbs and oxygen depravation in order to reward myself with a hot fudge sundae, I’m ready to ride any time you’d like. You pick the route, and I’ll pick the flavor.