What I’ve learned bicycling

I became a serious bicyclist after my first year of college when I had a summer job in a ski pole and bindings factory. I rode seven miles to work in the early morning, the air cool but humid. In the afternoon, it was still humid and now hot, so the seven miles home ended with me drenched in sweat. I loved the daily rides on the two-lane curving roads, the dappled sunlight coming down through the tree canopy.

In my late 20s and early 30s, I did a little criterium racing. What I liked best about racing was the sound made by the bikes as we went around a corner in a group — the slight whir of the chains moving over the sprockets, the hum of the tires on the road — and the way the individual riders became a single being. But the actual racing wasn’t really for me. I hated losing and I hated winning just as much.

Racing over, I started touring and, with a friend, rode from Vancouver, Canada, to Guaymas, Mexico. Later, I rode for three months through England and France and over the Pyrenees Mountains into the southern Basque Country. Shorter rides have included two weeks in New England and two weeks in central Texas. Now I ride regularly for pleasure and to do my daily errands. Hot, cold, rain, snow, sun — I’m on the bike.

My wife, who is a bit of a worrier, tells me that cycling is the most dangerous sport I could take part in. It’s the cars. Every bicyclist has stories of untoward encounters with cars. Once as I pedaled along a bridge, a driver slowed and the passenger leaned out and shoved me into the guardrail. I was lucky not to go over the side and into the river below. On a country road, someone threw an open can of Coca-Cola out the window, hitting me in the helmet, soda spraying everywhere. Forced off the road by a delivery truck, I tumbled down an embankment into a mass of brambles. A policeman chasing a speeder ran a red light as I was crossing on the green. When I slammed on the brakes, I went over the front of the bike, landing on the asphalt. I don’t think the policeman ever saw me. Perhaps more disturbing than the accidents and near misses is unkindness — a car going by and the driver shouting, “Get the f*** off the road.”

But for every unkind person there’s a kind one, too. Once commuting during rush hour, I was hit when the door of a parked car opened as I passed. I flew through the air with one finger completely severed but jammed down in my hand, so the surgeons were able to later reattach it. Landing on a new VW Bug convertible whose owners, a recently married young couple, had received the car as a wedding gift, I crushed the car’s hood. Without a hint of complaint, the couple helped me get to a hospital. They also took my mangled bicycle to my house and never asked for money for the damage done to their car. 

There’s a 15-mile road ride I regularly take that runs north from my house, turns west toward the Bighorn Mountains, then south along the range, and finally southeast home. While the road is entirely up and down, I end where I start, so there is no overall elevation gain or loss. But it feels like I have to pedal uphill an awful lot more than down, which has led me to wonder how much time I spend slogging upward versus cruising down. To find out, a friend and I used the stopwatch function on two cellphones to measure the two times. It took 55 minutes and 34 seconds to ride the 15 miles that day, pedaling uphill for 37 minutes and 11 seconds, and downhill for 18 minutes and 23 seconds. That’s slightly more than 2/3 of the time uphill. 

So what have I learned bicycling? Life doesn’t have to be a race. The world is large and the road long. For every unkind act, there’s a kind one waiting. A policeman can make the same mistake I might. And it’s exciting to ride downhill, but you have to go uphill first and you’ll spend more time climbing than cruising down. 

Attending to these lessons, I’ve discovered I’m a better rider and a happier person.