Bike Memories

I've written a lot about the bike I have now, what motivated me to start cycling at age 35, and how my bike is perfect for me. But what about other bikes I had when I was younger? Why did I ever stop riding?

I decided to write about my memories. Some of them are somewhat vague, and I'm afraid I don't have any photos, so I'll have to tell a thousand words instead. But this is what I remember.

When I was very young I had a green tricycle. I have no recollection of riding it, but I remember seeing it in the garage for years afterward (my dad was a packrat), and I remember seeing photos of myself on it. I have no idea what age I was when I started riding it, nor when I stopped.

I remember a blue bike with training wheels. It was too big for me. The solution to that was wooden blocks attached to the pedals so I could reach them. Obviously fit had not been a consideration when the bike was purchased. My parents had not taken me with them to buy the bike. I suspect they got it at Kmart.

I rode it up and down the driveway. Eventually when I was 6 or 7 my dad took the training wheels off. That's all he did though. He just took the training wheels off, and then he went in the house, probably to watch TV, and left me sitting there on my bike in the driveway. There was no scene like in the movies with the dad running behind the kid to help balance. I tried pedaling forward, but I kept feeling like I was going to fall. I just sat there, paralyzed by frustration.

I don't know how long I sat there. My next door neighbor, who was probably 12 years old, came over and talked to me for a while. I can't remember how the conversation started or ended. I remember saying at some point, "Well, maybe I just don't need to learn how to ride a bike..." She convinced me I did. Thank you, Susie.

So I finally got the hang of it. For a long time I just rode up and down the driveway. I don't know how old I was before I was allowed to ride out into the street, the only way to go anywhere (there were no sidewalks in our neighborhood). I suspect not that old. I did walk in the street to go everywhere, and that was no big deal. There wasn't a lot of traffic on our street. But I remember riding up and down the driveway for a long time.

As I grew a little taller, eventually my dad took the wooden blocks off the pedals. At some point I outgrew that bike and got another one, also blue, but I don't remember how old I was. I don't remember getting it for Christmas or a birthday or anything. I know I didn't go anywhere to get it; it just showed up. It probably also came from Kmart. It seems strange to me now that I wouldn't remember anything about getting it. Looking back though, I think the only difference between the new bike and the old bike was the size. They were the same shade of blue, the same style, your basic girl's one-speed, nothing fancy. I'm wondering now, it was a different bike, wasn't it? I didn't ride the same bike from the time I was 6 till age 14, did I?

No, I'm pretty sure it was two different bikes. I just have absolutely no recollection of actually getting the second one for some strange reason.

From first through eighth grade I usually walked to school, but sometimes I rode my bike. (In high school I walked half a mile to a bus stop, then took a bus the rest of the way.) I enjoyed riding my bike on the occasions I did ride, so it seems odd to me now that I didn't ride more often. What prevented me?

I can think of two things. First, I had nothing to carry books or anything else in on the bike. I could only ride my bike to school on days when I had nothing to carry to school that morning and I knew I wouldn't be carrying anything home that afternoon. Well, that was pretty limiting. And second, I didn't know one could ride a bike in the rain. Aside from having no rain gear, I assumed if my bike got wet, it would turn to solid rust and be completely destroyed. It didn't occur to me that cars got wet. But I probably was wise to be concerned. I don't think a drop of lube ever came anywhere near any of my bikes. I knew nothing of bike maintenance, not even that bikes needed to be maintained. If my dad ever put air in the tires, I never witnessed it.

Still, I enjoyed riding my bike. I learned in school that pedestrians should walk facing traffic and cyclists should ride with traffic. I didn't learn until decades later that some people had been taught as children that cyclists should ride on the wrong side of the road, putting themselves in great danger. I was shocked. I couldn't understand why anyone would teach that. What was especially shocking was that some people had taught it the wrong way, and my stupid school district had actually gotten something right. Huh. How about that? They cut lunch my senior year, but at least they taught me the right side of the road to ride my bike on. Of course, that was the entirety of the bicycle safety program as far as I can recall.

My bike and I actually won a trophy once, though it certainly wasn't for speed. I was in 5th grade, and it was 1976, America's Bicentennial. As part of all the hoopla, there was a bike decorating contest. I won first place. It wasn't too hard. There were only five contestants, and the other four looked like they had spent about three minutes each decorating their bikes. That was the only trophy I have ever won.

I don't remember seeing any adults riding bikes when I was a kid. This was in the 1970's, when there was actually a cycling boom, but it didn't seem to make it to my small southeast Michigan town. At that time, I didn't know adults rode bikes.

I sometimes rode with my friend Sandy who lived a few doors down from me. Looking back, we had kind of a strange friendship. I think when my family moved into the neighborhood when I was 4 years old (which I don't even remember), our mothers must have decided that because we were the same age, we would be friends. Ah, but we weren't the same age. She was 6 months older than me!

As an adult, someone within 10 years of my age is "my age." As a child, things were different. Because my birthday was in March and hers was in September, she was a year ahead of me in school. She never let me forget it. I don't know why I hung around her as long as I did, since she clearly enjoyed making me feel inferior. Force of habit, I suppose. It wasn't till years later that I realized there was probably more than just the age difference fueling her feelings of superiority over me. My dad worked as a janitor in a factory, while her dad was an elementary school principal. Her mother owned a store; my mom was one of her employees. Though I was an only child and she had two sisters, she had nicer things than me. She lived in a bigger house and had a swimming pool. It was a class difference. Her family was richer than mine and in a higher class than mine. She just thought she was better than me.

When she got a new bike, a 10-speed (probably not from Kmart), she was able to go a lot faster than me, especially up the hill at the end of our street. Though we were ostensibly riding together, she really wasn't interested in riding at a pace I could keep up with. She seemed to enjoy making me feel inferior.

Soon it seemed like everyone had a 10-speed. I felt like the only one in town with my stupid, dorky one-speed. I felt like it was a little kid's bike compared to everyone else's. It was so slow (it probably didn't help that it had never had any maintenance whatsoever), and it even looked like a little kid's bike. I just didn't want to ride it anymore. I sold it at a yard sale for 40 bucks.

Now, the obvious question is why didn't I ask my parents for a 10-speed. I'm afraid the only answer I can give to that is something inside me had...well, not died, but broken. When I was 14, I was in one of the most depressed periods of my life. I was simply not capable of thinking that there could be something that might bring me happiness. Wanting a 10-speed never occurred to me.

I didn't ride a bike again until about two years later when my mom and I rented a tandem on Mackinac Island. For those unfamiliar with the area, Mackinac Island is a small island, about 4 square miles, midway between Michigan's Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Its claims to fame are 1) no cars are allowed on the island -- all transportation is by foot, bicycle or horse and buggy; 2) the movie Somewhere in Time starring Christopher Reeve was filmed on the island; and 3) the vast quantities of fudge sold to tourists, or "fudgies" as the locals refer to them (a zillion and three varieties of fudge, all of which are so high in sugar my teeth hurt just thinking about it).

One can reach the island by taking a ferry from Mackinaw City at the northernmost tip of the Lower Peninsula (Mackinac and Mackinaw are both pronounced Mackinaw, but yes, they are spelled differently) or from St. Ignace at the southernmost tip of the Upper Peninsula (or U.P., as you'll call it if you don't want to sound like you've only been in Michigan for 5 seconds). [Note this is one method for cyclists to get from Mackinaw City to St. Ignace or vice versa, i.e., take the ferry from one city to the island and then to the other city. Another is to take the Mackinac Bridge, which connects the two cities. The bridge is open to motor vehicle traffic only, so cyclists are not allowed to ride across, but the Bridge Authority will transport you and your bicycle across (I wouldn't want to ride my bike on the bridge anyway. It's 5 miles long and really high over the water, and it's in such a wide open area, there's nothing to block the wind. I've had nightmares about that bridge).]

When I was about 16, my parents and I went to Mackinac Island. Or rather, we got as far as Mackinaw City, and then my dad stayed behind in the motel room while my mom and I went to the island. I realized later he was having a panic attack. My dad's agoraphobia generally made family vacations less than enjoyable. Trips consisted of long drives interrupted only to buy fast food which we would eat in the car, and for him to put gas in the tank. Woe to anyone who didn't grab one of those opportunities to use the bathroom. The idea of stopping somewhere to stretch our legs or to actually do something was unheard of. I spent most of the trip with a headache and slightly nauseated from motion sickness. When we reached our destination, we seemed to spend half our time in gift shops looking at souvenirs. The rest of the time was spent having our pictures taken to prove we had been there. When did we get to actually do anything to have a memory of?

It worked out well, leaving my dad behind in the motel. Though many cyclists bring their bikes with them on the ferry, bikes are available for rent to tourists who didn't bring one. My mom and I rented a tandem and rode around the island. We actually did something to have a memory of. It was fun. I had a good time.

By the time I was 24, I was obese. I don't know what I weighed at that point. I continued to gain weight throughout my 20's; at my heaviest, I weighed 265 lbs. When I was 24, I realized I should start getting some exercise, and since riding a bike was the only thing I had ever done that was considered exercise that I actually thought was fun, I decided to buy a bike. Unfortunately, I didn't know enough. I knew close to nothing.

Though I knew there were bike shops in town, I had absolutely no idea that their bikes were any different than the bikes in department stores. I went to Service Merchandise because that was closest. I had no idea that bikes came in different sizes other than "men's," "women's" and various children's sizes, and indeed those were the only sizes available at that store as I recall. Though they had floor models available to sit on, since it didn't even occur to me that different models might fit differently, it didn't occur to me to sit on any of them to see if they were comfortable. I bought a woman's mountain bike, probably the cheapest one available, and took it home, having no idea if it would be comfortable. It never occurred to me that it might not be. Yes, I really was that stupid. Or ignorant anyway.

It was painful. It seemed to be the right height for me at least, but leaning forward and putting so much weight on my wrists made my wrists ache unbearably, and after a while my hands started going numb. My lower back ached. I adjusted the stem so the handlebars were higher, but it didn't help much. I had no idea it was possible to adjust the seat position. I don't know how much it would have helped anyway.

There was no place to add a water bottle cage. The few times I rode to the park, I was dying of thirst by the time I got there.

I never put air in the tires because I didn't know I was supposed to (remember, I had never seen my dad put air in my tires. Presumably he must have at some point...).

I couldn't figure out the way the shifting worked at all. I couldn't figure out when I was supposed to shift up or down or even which way up or down was. Shifting was completely new to me. I think part of the problem was me, and part of it was the shifters which were really jerky, not smooth at all. They were hard to manipulate, which added to my frustration. At one point, I was shifting and the chain just fell off. I had to stop and put it back on. I was unbelievably frustrated; I felt like I would never get the hang of it.

Between the frustration and the physical pain, riding this bike was a wretched experience. I had ridden it maybe four times, and then it sat unused for months. One day my boss mentioned she was thinking of getting a bike. I said, "I've got a bike I'm not really using." She offered to buy it from me. Sight unseen. For what I had paid for it. Wow, someone stupider than me. "Sure, you can stop by tonight." And I was rid of it. She never did mention riding it.

While buying that bike the way I did was colossally stupid, I don't regret it because ultimately it taught me what not to do. If I hadn't had a bike that was so uncomfortable it was painful, I probably wouldn't have done as much as I did to educate myself about cycling and what kind of bikes were available before I even started shopping for a bike when I later decided I wanted to become a bike commuter and ultimately get rid of my car. I probably wouldn't have been so deliberate and determined when searching for my perfect bike. But I knew I had to find something comfortable if I was going to stick with it; I might not have known the importance of that if I hadn't suffered.

I didn't ride again until I started test riding bikes in that quest for my perfect bike, after riding only a handful of times in the previous 20 years. And now I have my perfect bike. I love my bike!