There’s always a lot of talk this part of the racing season of newbies and veterans alike that is chockful of ‘inspiration’ to ride and be better this year over the last, to compete for reasons ‘xyz’, or to just plain get out more. It’s a great part of the year to hear this excellent attitude towards riding. Personally – I don’t like to split seasons or talk about cycling as a seasonal progression as much I appreciate remaining strong and healthy. It is nice however to contribute to the spirit of competitiveness and urge people to continue riding their bike as a mainstay of their daily lives rather than treating it as a training regiment. Every minute on a bicycle serves as an opportunity to know yourself and the bicycles limitation – and it does serve well for racing. That time you tried carrying a 12 pack of bottles without a milk crate bungeed to your rack – or what rack?! How about the time you rode home through the blizzard – no lights, skinnies with no tread, and that darned 12 pack of bottles again. It all serves not just for character building but for a serious understanding between you and your wheeled mate. I mention this aspect as I rode with a group again for the 1st time in probably a year – I am admittedly not very fond of group rides. It is not for my own safety but for the safety of others I get slightly over concerned with. I see the individuals who are comfortable spinning cadences with graceful aplomb but have the attention to road hazards like my 4 year old nephew has after downing a can of cola with a bowl of Skittles. There’s a missing connection between the rider and the road that doesn’t become ‘readily’ apparent through weekend group rides – I wish them well and wish them continued success in keeping it safe for themselves and others on the road. I believe in them, I truly do.

When I learned how to ride a bike – I did it without training wheels. I did do it with a helping hand – my stepfather’s helping hand. In 1983 he was training for the Chicago Marathon – his then 4th one in a decade series of attempts – and my mother thought it would be a great idea that I somehow joined him on the running, how hard could it be to follow on a bike. I was lucky to get a 20″ FreeSpirit Flyer in baby blue that year – and training wheels were an extra $10 to which my parents had said – “What for?”. Helmet, are you kidding? – It was 1983, no one wore helmets. My stepfather assembled the bike himself on our porch – ensuring every bolt was tightened to the extent that he couldn’t turn it no more and had happily stripped a corner off of a nut – the assurance that it would never come apart. We carried the bike downstairs to the dirt lot behind our apartment building – he balanced the bike as I got on, and his gunnery sargeant temperament came through as he ordered me to pedal immediately and I would be ‘just fine’. He was right, I was ‘just fine’ for about 10 feet in a zig zag frenzy that landed me straight into a telephone pole. He was satisfied with the attempt and told me to get ready to go out with him while he ran. This meant get dressed as he was dressed – tube socks to my knees, super short runner shorts, and the almighty whitey tightey v-neck tee. I got on the saddle, chain unlubed, brakes not yet attached (he insisted that I put my foot down to brake) and he held my saddle as I started the cadence forward. He started his jog and continued to hold onto my saddle – we started down Glenwood Ave. and took a right down Bryn Mawr. I kept the stone cold facade of pretense of knowing what I was doing – this meant a dreaded fear of keeping up with my stepfather while not deviating from his direction – he’d call the turns about 2″ from the turn. I believe he still has the shin scars of my pedals from ’83. We’d head down the gravel path on the lakefront – back in the day when it was the only path on the lakefront – and we’d follow that passing Irving Park, I’d steal glances at the lake while continuing my pedaling effort matching my stepfather’s stride – he’d never ask if I was alright so to that regard, I continued on, stoic and steady – and in about hour and half – we made it to the planetarium. My butt hurt and my thighs burned – and it was my 1st day ever on a bike – what did I understand of a distance of a mile, let alone the distance of 10 miles. My stepfather didn’t appear to hurt – he seemed energized as he did jump kicks in the air to stretch himself and he insisted I do the same. So I did – and my legs didn’t quite get much higher than 3″ off of the ground – they were sore, but damned if he’d ever see how sore.

We started the ride back – he firmly held onto my saddle and kept me upright again for the initial pedal strokes and he forged the pace as I pedalled away heading back home, back the gravel path, back to old Montrose harbor where I glanced at the sailboats coming into the locked marina when there was one – I hurt but I was exhilirated. At about that same time – my stepfather said the 1st words to me that weren’t ‘voltea izquierda, voltea derecho’ – they were – ‘ya estas solo – que bueno’ – I was by myself? What the hell did he mean? It was then I noticed he ran ahead of me and I wondered, oh damn I have to keep up now so I pedaled faster. Wait, what the crap was he doing ahead of me – who the hell is holding my saddle keeping me upright!? In that morning ride – at about mile 18 of the ride – I learned to ride solo, sans hand holding, sans training wheels. It was pure flight and it was the greatest thing to feel. I did crash shortly thereafter in my excitement as I hadn’t learned to brake with my feet yet.
That lesson was to come the following week. 20 miles on my 1st ever bike ride – as a 1st time ever to ride. That is the type of hand holding I love people to have for their fellow riders – don’t give up on newbies, wish them well, and lend a hand.