Ever rediscover a hobby or activity you really loved? I recently got back into cycling and I sometimes wonder why I ever quit. In fact, I'm not sure I remember exactly when I moved away from pedaling. Maybe that's how it happens - you simply drift away from a sport you really enjoy.
I
can remember wheeling around the campus of NIU on an old Schwinn Continental that weighed a ton. I got it second-hand as an upgrade to a Huffy 10-speed I rode into the ground during my high school years.
My hometown was small and quiet enough that every street felt safe for cycling. Most of the roads surrounding the town were wide enough that I never felt worried about riding with motorists. Perhaps there was less road rage back then, or maybe life in the Upper Midwest rolls along as tranquil as the gentle hills that separate the fields of corn and soybeans.
To some it might sound odd, but I really enjoyed pedaling along with farmland on either side of the road. Throughout the year the scenery changes dramatically. Early in the spring, when rows of corn begin emerging from the ground, pedaling or driving past a field gives you a sense of anticipation. Winters are often harsh there. So seeing the green popping out of the dark, rich soil always gave me a good feeling. "Yes! Spring is finally here." Later in the early summer, the rows of corn fill in and get so tall that you feel almost fenced in. I would sometimes look over from my moving perch and simply smile as I pedaled past mile after mile of green.
In the fall, when the air becomes crisp, it was always fun to ride along the rows of brown. On a breezy day, the rustling leaves would rub against one another. The dry, parchment scratching cannot be mistaken for any other autumn sound. The air has a different scent around harvest time, rich with the aroma of corn.
I think I rode about every stretch of country pavement within a 12 mile radius of my parent's house during my high school years.
In addition to an extra roomy handlebar bag, the Schwinn was equipped with a flashlight bracket. Simply snap in any household flashlight and the road ahead was illuminated for night riding. I should mention, the road way ahead. Which meant keeping a keen eye out for large rocks and other debris as well as potholes that might appear within the light's beam five or six seconds before an evasive maneuver had to be performed. Even at the "blazing" speeds I could achieve on that 1970's hunk of metal, there was plenty of time to weave to the right or swerve to the left. Night riding wasn't a problem for me.
Tree roots are another story.
One summer day while cruising around the campus of NIU, my buddy and I opted for the sidewalk to avoid a rather busy four-lane road. Still pedaling hard, we changed places as pedestrians and other bikers made their way toward us. This particular stretch of sidewalk was also the victim of time and natural processes. I imagine at one time, a crew of hard working men began surveying, digging and pouring concrete in the most precise manner of the day. I'd like to think that somewhere in DeKalb there's a photo of the crew, posing with shovels and trowels, on the day this lengthy project was completed. If such a photo exists, the maples and oaks behind the crew are probably shoulder high and perhaps rather anemic-looking. Not the stately shade trees that pushed up massive sections of the sidewalk like cement icebergs floating atop the soil below. So cycling became a game of dodge-ball that particular day. I had to get in a rhythm of bobbing and weaving between the slabs of concrete that were upthrust to my right and then on my left.
I could have slowed for the chunk of cement that was pushed upward across my entire path, but I didn't. A root growing at the pace of a glacier underneath a carefully poured sidewalk, finally raised the heavy barrier about three inches after a few decades. It only took the blink of an eye for the front tire of my Schwinn to come off as I jerked the handlebars up to avoid denting my front rim on the fault zone. That's how fast things moved in real time. To me, time slowed to the pace of the growing root. I watched as the tire appeared to drift away from the front fork and past my feet. I could clearly see the fork lowering toward the ground. As the fragments of sidewalk were chipping and fluttering into the air in slow motion, I could hear Kenny Rogers singing, "You picked a fine time to leave me loose wheel." When something like this happens, time expands for the first few seconds and then compresses upon collision. As I was falling face-first toward the sidewalk for example, I recall thinking, "Oh, boy. This is going to hurt. Golly." Or something like that. And then WHAM! Time and reality became reunited as I cartwheeled head over handlebars several times before coming to a stop on my back.
Traffic on the four-lane road stopped. It was that bad.
Helmets were not exactly standard riding equipment back then, so I ended up with a pretty nasty concussion.
That wasn't the end of my riding that old Schwinn, although it was the last time I hopped on it for a spin without checking the front tire.
That two-wheeled hunk of iron ended up hitching U-Haul rides to Atlanta, Southern Illinois and Texas. After each move, it grew more dust-covered and a bit more rusty.
I ditched the Schwinn somewhere along the line, although I can't recall where. Seems like it went with a lot of life's other flotsam on a yard sale. I'd like to think that someone else put a a lot more miles on that behemoth before it went to that great, spare parts garage in the sky.
Anyway, for the past year I have rediscovered cycling and reflecting upon how I got diverted away from the sport. It doesn't really matter. I am just glad to be an avid pedaler once again.
In fact, on a recent trip to the Midwest I had an awesome ride with my nephew that brought back fond cycling memories. We were spinning through the rolling farmland of central Indiana, corn on one side of the road, soybeans on the other.
If you're "in a groove" while riding, you push hard to keep up the pace. But occasionally, it's fun to look back and enjoy where you've been.
The Walnut Street Bridge recently reopened as a pet-friendly bridge and I'm really glad. There's a marked pet lane and several doggie-doo stations with bags along the route. For some reason, Dudley seems a little bit afraid of bridges. He doesn't mind the Walnut Street Bridge which is broad and solid enough for his liking. But he doesn't like smaller bridges over creeks. He will scramble across a large log across a creek without any problems though. But you have to practically carry him across swinging bridges. The weather was particularly hot on the day this shot was taken. Even though it was a relatively short walk, with an ice cream break in the middle, (Yes, he got his own small bowl of ice cream. He is pretty spoiled.) I think he was glad to get back in the air-conditioned car.
