Dress like a dork and get away with it
Bicycle helmets on humans? A safety must, but a fashion bust, with significant reputational risk. For instance, the professional cyclists who wear the very expensive ones bear a striking resemblance to the Storm Troopers in The Return of the Jedi. As we all know, there’s only one group of villains that America hates more: the NY Yankees. The casual riders who wear the cheaper helmets look like Pee Wee Herman. The only things they are missing are the little bell and wicker basket. The amateur riders usually choose from a range of medium-priced helmets. Unfortunately, from a fashion standpoint, these aren’t a big improvement over the others. At the end of the day, we all end up looking like mushroom heads.
And why on earth would anyone in his or her right mind wear one of these things longer than is absolutely necessary, and in public? The other day while I was in the grocery store, some guy walked by wearing his helmet, with the straps hanging down on either side of his face. I immediately looked to the ceiling to see if this part of the store was under construction. Then I realized I was just in the Super Doofus-Mike Dukakis aisle.
The helmets may be disasters, but sunglasses on cyclists always look cool.
I initially thought that the cycling jerseys were a bit pretentious and showy, particularly on the recreational riders. I soon discovered that with those handy pouches in the back they were eminently practical. They can even be transformative. Whenever I pull my green, white and red Scattante Bicicletta jersey over my head, I suddenly find myself cruising down Main in Breaking Away, that 1979 little gem of a film about a townie from Bloomington, Indiana who initially wants to be a champion cyclist, and even tries to convince an attractive co-ed that he is an Italian exchange student with a passion for the sport.
In that spirit, sometimes I wonder (there’s plenty of time for daydreaming when cycling long distances) what I would say if someday I were to pass Isabella Rossellini on the street, somewhere along my route. Just in case, I’ve been practicing “Buon Giorno, Bella” as I ride through the streets of Potomac, Maryland and beyond. I think that would be just about right. Not too flashy, not too gushy. Plus, despite my ancestry, they are the only words I know. Perhaps you need to see the movie to fully understand why such fantasies come into my mind when I wear that jersey.
Whenever I’m wearing my UNC jersey, a Father’s Day present this year, I’m back again in Carmichael Auditorium, after hours and without permission, shooting buzzer beaters. Or, it’s 1982 all over again and I’m celebrating the Jordan-Worthy-Perkins National Championship with every Tarheel that has ever been on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. A few more miles to go, and I’ll be at Breadman’s, where my wife is waiting for me and her order of blueberry crumb cake.
The cycling pants? Speedos on steroids
The gloves? A perpetual tribute to the King of Pop
Apparently, it’s acceptable within the community of cyclists to wear dark socks or at least non-white socks with cycling shoes. When I was a kid, if I had worn anything but white with any kind of sports shoe (Chuck Taylor Cons were de rigeur in suburban Philadelphia), I would have been stoned to death. At best, I would have found myself on the wrong end of a wedgie.
And those silver, new age-looking things I wear on my feet, complete with two Velcro straps and a click-in fastener? Well, they give the impression that I’m on my way to the alley to bowl a few frames with George Jetson.
Oh, the places you will go and the things you will see
I’m not much of an outdoorsman. I don’t like fishing or hunting or hiking in the woods. I go to REI only when my wife needs to purchase mosquito repellant for a trip to Central America or Africa, where she may be exposed to dengue fever or malaria. In the dentist’s office I’ll reach for the latest issue of Vogue or People before Trout and Stream or National Geographic.
No, my outdoor activities are usually limited to walking down my driveway every morning to collect the Washington Post, cutting the lawn every two weeks, gardening on weekends, and accompanying my wife as she walks our dog Samantha around the neighborhood. I do like reading about other people’s adventures, particularly Bill Bryson’s, from his explorations of Australia’s barrier reef to his extended walks on the Appalachian trail or through quaint British towns. Quite unexpectedly, cycling has brought me into far more contact with the natural world than I ever anticipated or bargained for.
During a Century Ride two years ago on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, it was a thrill to see wild ponies, from afar, in Assateague Island State Park, which was one of the rest stops. I don’t need to travel far from my neighborhood, however, to get a rich sampling of wild creatures or contract Lyme disease.
There have been many occasions over the last 4 years when deer have run alongside me for a short distance before darting off deeper into someone’s yard or into the woods. Sometimes a group of them will just stand and stare at me—lawn ornament-like—as I whiz by. I’m always afraid that the fawns will think I’m their mother, despite my funny-looking head gear, and will dart out in front of me.
I watched an enormous deer jump a tall fence the other day with the grace of an Olympic high jumper. He or she hung in mid-air at the peak of the jump. Vintage Michael Jordan, I thought, and I wasn’t even wearing my Tarheel jersey. Unfortunately, there are too many deer and too many cars roaming about, and some drivers just don’t like to share the road, with deer or cyclists. The unmistakable smell of a decaying carcass—a horrifying odor that announces itself about a mile in advance—is an increasingly frequent and distressing phenomenon on my rides.
I’ve always been curious about why the fox figures so prominently in the names of housing developments I pass along my route. There’s Fox Hills, Fox Run and Fox Chase, just to name a few. Now I know. I’ve seen quite a few of these bushy-tailed, small-headed creatures, usually at dusk. Although they usually disappear from sight as soon as they hear me coming, once I watched one weave back and forth on the road ahead for probably a quarter of a mile before disappearing into the brush. I kept a safe distance, as drunken fox can be just as dangerous as the humans who foolishly drive their machines while inebriated.
Hedgehogs are ubiquitous, although I’ve never caught a glimpse of their faces as they usually turn their backs to the traffic. When the raccoons aren’t trying to poach from the gold fish pond in our backyard, I often see them peeking out over a log or from behind a tree with that larcenous look of theirs. I’ve seen opossum and beaver. Horses and cows are regulars on my route. Even a crazy black squirrel ran into my foot once while trying to cross the street in front of me. He must have been at the same party as the fox.
If anyone is wondering how the state of Maryland should be spending some of its federal stimulus money, one trip around the neighborhood on a bike will quickly provide the answer. Most streets in my county are in terrible shape, something I never notice much while driving. This is a big problem. What if Isabella turns her ankle? “Buon Giorno, Bella” is all I got, and that certainly isn’t going to cut it.
I’ve always been curious about why the fox figures so prominently in the names of housing developments I pass along my route. There’s Fox Hills, Fox Run and Fox Chase, just to name a few. Now I know. I’ve seen quite a few of these bushy-tailed, small-headed creatures, usually at dusk. Although they usually disappear from sight as soon as they hear me coming, once I watched one weave back and forth on the road ahead for probably a quarter of a mile before disappearing into the brush. I kept a safe distance, as drunken fox can be just as dangerous as the humans who foolishly drive their machines while inebriated.
Hedgehogs are ubiquitous, although I’ve never caught a glimpse of their faces as they usually turn their backs to the traffic. When the raccoons aren’t trying to poach from the gold fish pond in our backyard, I often see them peeking out over a log or from behind a tree with that larcenous look of theirs. I’ve seen opossum and beaver. Horses and cows are regulars on my route. Even a crazy black squirrel ran into my foot once while trying to cross the street in front of me. He must have been at the same party as the fox.
If anyone is wondering how the state of Maryland should be spending some of its federal stimulus money, one trip around the neighborhood on a bike will quickly provide the answer. Most streets in my county are in terrible shape, something I never notice much while driving. This is a big problem. What if Isabella turns her ankle? “Buon Giorno, Bella” is all I got, and that certainly isn’t going to cut it.
People who need people
Cycling on weekends keeps me in touch with long-time friends, who I don’t otherwise see as much as I would like. Organized rides are a great way to make new friends or to enjoy some new-found camaraderie.
For instance, at the afore-mentioned Century Ride, 6,000 riders showed up. One hundred miles is a long way to pedal, and there are plenty of opportunities to get to know folks, simply by riding alongside them or chatting them up at rest stops. Thank goodness I don’t twitter. On this particular ride, participants who arrive at the 80-mile rest stop early enough in the day may just be lucky enough to share blueberry pie. That was enough to get my wife thinking about giving up her role as unofficial photographer and signing up for the next ride.
The cycling community also has its share of characters. For example, two months ago, on a fine Saturday afternoon ride with a dear friend, I suffered a punctured tire. I was talking to her instead of paying attention to the road, and ran over a large rock. We were in a very rural area, in a county not our own, and our cars were parked about 18 miles away. Worse yet, my tire repair kit was sitting at home, and my friend’s extra tube did not fit my tire. Fortunately for us, there was an auto repair shop about a half mile back. Just in case, my friend called her husband and asked him to meet us at the station.
As we arrived at the auto garage, we were astonished to find a bicycle shop adjacent. The car mechanic owned both. He told us that the shop was quite new—it had only been open for 6 months—and that he decided to branch out into cycling after years of working on the NASCAR circuit. Of course, we showed up quite unexpectedly and he was busy working on a car in the bay. Nonetheless, he dropped everything and agreed to fix the tire while we waited. Amazingly, the small matter of my not having any money on my person to pay for the repair didn’t seem to bother him. He said he we could always take care of that later.
Although only the tube needed replacing, he recommended strongly a new, top-of-the-line tire to replace the original, which he discovered, upon close inspection, was full of small tears and lesions. He counted them aloud, one by one. This was my first clue that I was in deeper trouble than I thought.
In his not-so-humble opinion, he warned me that this tire might “blow any day.” In fact, he said the other tire didn’t look much better. Well, safety has to come first, I agreed.
“And what’s with these brakes?” he asked. “If they were on my car, I wouldn’t drive it,” he declared, rather dismissively.
“Even I can see that you need new brakes,” joked my friend. Ouch!
I was beginning to get this sinking feeling in my stomach. Had I really been so negligent about maintaining my bike? Could I have prevented the flat? Should I have changed the brakes a long time ago? I clean the chain and oil it once a week and wipe the frame down as regularly as I can. I check the tire pressure daily and add air as needed. Am I a bad person?
The mechanic called me over.
“Look at this chain,” he demanded. I complied. All I could see was what appeared to be a perfectly normal chain, perhaps a little dirtier than it should be. “Look how it’s all stretched out. You have to replace this.”
My shoulders were starting to slump forward. I could sense an acute weakness in my knees. The walls of the bike shop were beginning to close in around me.
“When was the last time you had this bike tuned?” he probed. We had now entered into a full-scale, CIA-like interrogation.
“About 9 months ago,” I whispered, as I felt the temperature in the room begin to rise and the perspiration run down my face.
“Well, a bunch of kids must have worked on this,” he mumbled, disapprovingly, all the while shaking his head.
He was on a roll now and picking up speed as he coasted down hill.
“And these cables?” he asked, directing his question to no one in particular. “Are you kidding me? The much newer material is much better than this crap.”
At this point, I was starting to feel like the patient who had parked his car in the “20-minute only” space so he could run in to see his doctor about his hangnail, only to return to the lot 2 hours later with his arm in a sling, his wallet 2 pounds lighter, and his car nowhere to be seen.
I was even starting to wonder whether that rock had been strategically placed.
I thanked Dr. Gloom & Doom for helping me out of this jam, for his thorough diagnosis, and for trusting me to come back to take care of my bill. He said that all he cared about was that I bring the bike back early next week so that he could complete all the repairs. Naturally, he asked me to write my name and phone number on a repair slip.
With that, we were on our way. I was still rubbing my bruised psyche, while my friend was sending her husband a “never mind” message.
Two days later, the mechanic left his own message on my voicemail. He wanted to know when I would be coming in. The next day, I drove my now disgraced bike to his shop—a good 45-minute ride from my house. Twenty-four hours later, before work, I drove back to retrieve my new and improved cycle. The collateral damage: $350.
Finally, cyclists and even random folks tend to stick together.
Two weeks ago, I had another flat, about 18 miles from my house. Although this time I was carrying the material I needed to properly replace the tube, I was hoping I could avoid doing so. Sitting by the side of the road as traffic sped by, I placed the first of many calls and text messages to my son. No response. After about 15 minutes, a couple rode by. They immediately swung around to see if they could help. After a pleasant chat, during which I explained my strategy, which was beginning to look more and more flawed with each passing minute, they departed but promised to return in their car in an hour’s time or so to make sure I wasn’t still there. Nice!
With the bike slung over my shoulder, I walked down the road a piece to find a spot away from the traffic where I might set about changing the tube. Soon, a small pickup pulled up beside me. In the front seat was a father, his daughter, and his son. He asked me if I wanted to throw my bike in the back and ride with them. Another thoughtful gesture and from a perfect stranger! Unfortunately, the open cab of the truck was piled high with all kinds of furniture and there was no place to put the bike or room for me to sit. It’s the thought that counts, I reminded myself, as I thanked him for his generous offer and bid him and his family farewell.
Having reached my destination, I set about my task, albeit with the mechanic’s final, fateful words echoing in my head: “These tires are great and will last you a long time. They can be a real pain to change when you get a flat, however, because the fit to the rim is so tight.”
After about 10 minutes of a titanic struggle that proved his instincts to be finely tuned,
a second couple went whizzing by on their bikes. The guy seemed to recognize the strained look on my face. He hit the brakes and turned his bike around.
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I do,” I replied.
To my great fortune, for the second time in a couple of months, Lady Luck had come my way. Ms. Rossellini she was not, but I welcomed her with open arms nonetheless. It turns out that the gentleman used to co-manage the shop where I bought my bike. He had the tire changed in about 5 minutes. Better yet, he showed me some quick-change tricks I could employ the next time I found myself in this predicament.
As I was getting ready to hit the road again, my phone rang. It was my son.
“Sorry, Dad. I was in the shower,” he said.
I told him what had happened and that no harm had been done. I asked him to keep his cell phone close by as I was out of spare tubes yet still had a long way to travel, a wild kingdom to traverse, and lots of new people to meet.
Cycling on weekends keeps me in touch with long-time friends, who I don’t otherwise see as much as I would like. Organized rides are a great way to make new friends or to enjoy some new-found camaraderie.
For instance, at the afore-mentioned Century Ride, 6,000 riders showed up. One hundred miles is a long way to pedal, and there are plenty of opportunities to get to know folks, simply by riding alongside them or chatting them up at rest stops. Thank goodness I don’t twitter. On this particular ride, participants who arrive at the 80-mile rest stop early enough in the day may just be lucky enough to share blueberry pie. That was enough to get my wife thinking about giving up her role as unofficial photographer and signing up for the next ride.
The cycling community also has its share of characters. For example, two months ago, on a fine Saturday afternoon ride with a dear friend, I suffered a punctured tire. I was talking to her instead of paying attention to the road, and ran over a large rock. We were in a very rural area, in a county not our own, and our cars were parked about 18 miles away. Worse yet, my tire repair kit was sitting at home, and my friend’s extra tube did not fit my tire. Fortunately for us, there was an auto repair shop about a half mile back. Just in case, my friend called her husband and asked him to meet us at the station.
As we arrived at the auto garage, we were astonished to find a bicycle shop adjacent. The car mechanic owned both. He told us that the shop was quite new—it had only been open for 6 months—and that he decided to branch out into cycling after years of working on the NASCAR circuit. Of course, we showed up quite unexpectedly and he was busy working on a car in the bay. Nonetheless, he dropped everything and agreed to fix the tire while we waited. Amazingly, the small matter of my not having any money on my person to pay for the repair didn’t seem to bother him. He said he we could always take care of that later.
Although only the tube needed replacing, he recommended strongly a new, top-of-the-line tire to replace the original, which he discovered, upon close inspection, was full of small tears and lesions. He counted them aloud, one by one. This was my first clue that I was in deeper trouble than I thought.
In his not-so-humble opinion, he warned me that this tire might “blow any day.” In fact, he said the other tire didn’t look much better. Well, safety has to come first, I agreed.
“And what’s with these brakes?” he asked. “If they were on my car, I wouldn’t drive it,” he declared, rather dismissively.
“Even I can see that you need new brakes,” joked my friend. Ouch!
I was beginning to get this sinking feeling in my stomach. Had I really been so negligent about maintaining my bike? Could I have prevented the flat? Should I have changed the brakes a long time ago? I clean the chain and oil it once a week and wipe the frame down as regularly as I can. I check the tire pressure daily and add air as needed. Am I a bad person?
The mechanic called me over.
“Look at this chain,” he demanded. I complied. All I could see was what appeared to be a perfectly normal chain, perhaps a little dirtier than it should be. “Look how it’s all stretched out. You have to replace this.”
My shoulders were starting to slump forward. I could sense an acute weakness in my knees. The walls of the bike shop were beginning to close in around me.
“When was the last time you had this bike tuned?” he probed. We had now entered into a full-scale, CIA-like interrogation.
“About 9 months ago,” I whispered, as I felt the temperature in the room begin to rise and the perspiration run down my face.
“Well, a bunch of kids must have worked on this,” he mumbled, disapprovingly, all the while shaking his head.
He was on a roll now and picking up speed as he coasted down hill.
“And these cables?” he asked, directing his question to no one in particular. “Are you kidding me? The much newer material is much better than this crap.”
At this point, I was starting to feel like the patient who had parked his car in the “20-minute only” space so he could run in to see his doctor about his hangnail, only to return to the lot 2 hours later with his arm in a sling, his wallet 2 pounds lighter, and his car nowhere to be seen.
I was even starting to wonder whether that rock had been strategically placed.
I thanked Dr. Gloom & Doom for helping me out of this jam, for his thorough diagnosis, and for trusting me to come back to take care of my bill. He said that all he cared about was that I bring the bike back early next week so that he could complete all the repairs. Naturally, he asked me to write my name and phone number on a repair slip.
With that, we were on our way. I was still rubbing my bruised psyche, while my friend was sending her husband a “never mind” message.
Two days later, the mechanic left his own message on my voicemail. He wanted to know when I would be coming in. The next day, I drove my now disgraced bike to his shop—a good 45-minute ride from my house. Twenty-four hours later, before work, I drove back to retrieve my new and improved cycle. The collateral damage: $350.
Finally, cyclists and even random folks tend to stick together.
Two weeks ago, I had another flat, about 18 miles from my house. Although this time I was carrying the material I needed to properly replace the tube, I was hoping I could avoid doing so. Sitting by the side of the road as traffic sped by, I placed the first of many calls and text messages to my son. No response. After about 15 minutes, a couple rode by. They immediately swung around to see if they could help. After a pleasant chat, during which I explained my strategy, which was beginning to look more and more flawed with each passing minute, they departed but promised to return in their car in an hour’s time or so to make sure I wasn’t still there. Nice!
With the bike slung over my shoulder, I walked down the road a piece to find a spot away from the traffic where I might set about changing the tube. Soon, a small pickup pulled up beside me. In the front seat was a father, his daughter, and his son. He asked me if I wanted to throw my bike in the back and ride with them. Another thoughtful gesture and from a perfect stranger! Unfortunately, the open cab of the truck was piled high with all kinds of furniture and there was no place to put the bike or room for me to sit. It’s the thought that counts, I reminded myself, as I thanked him for his generous offer and bid him and his family farewell.
Having reached my destination, I set about my task, albeit with the mechanic’s final, fateful words echoing in my head: “These tires are great and will last you a long time. They can be a real pain to change when you get a flat, however, because the fit to the rim is so tight.”
After about 10 minutes of a titanic struggle that proved his instincts to be finely tuned,
a second couple went whizzing by on their bikes. The guy seemed to recognize the strained look on my face. He hit the brakes and turned his bike around.
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I do,” I replied.
To my great fortune, for the second time in a couple of months, Lady Luck had come my way. Ms. Rossellini she was not, but I welcomed her with open arms nonetheless. It turns out that the gentleman used to co-manage the shop where I bought my bike. He had the tire changed in about 5 minutes. Better yet, he showed me some quick-change tricks I could employ the next time I found myself in this predicament.
As I was getting ready to hit the road again, my phone rang. It was my son.
“Sorry, Dad. I was in the shower,” he said.
I told him what had happened and that no harm had been done. I asked him to keep his cell phone close by as I was out of spare tubes yet still had a long way to travel, a wild kingdom to traverse, and lots of new people to meet.
Joe, such a pleasure to read your stuff, as always! loved the breakdown of the bikers gear...you can imagine what a triathlete's garage/closet looks like, right? sorry to hear about your bad luck with the flat tires.
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