When peers discover I've been cycling since the mid-80s, they pop the question: "What got you into biking?"
I wish I had a simple answer like, "My dad used to ride," or "My brother attended Indiana University and raced the Little 500." But none of those are true. I don't even have a brother. Toss in that I grew up in the 70s when cycling was a subculture and I avoided exercise, and it's a wonder I found the sport! But in reality, the sport found me.
My journey began when I was seven in central Illinois in the mid-60s. I don't recall if the bike was a Christmas or birthday present, but that fire-engine red frame is tattooed on my memory. As a boy, I sensed what cyclists today hold as an urban legend: red bikes are faster.
Everything about my Schwinn Bantam was mesmerizing. But I had no idea what Bantam meant, so I assumed the company misspelled Batman. And to a seven-year-old in corn country, I couldn't think of a more fitting name.
I started with training wheels, and Dad religiously raised them to improve my balance. Inevitably, the day came when he asked the question: "Are you ready to take them off?" I was scared of falling and failing. Who isn't? But I nodded.
Once removed, Dad ran beside me, hands on my shoulders, urging me onward and keeping me balanced. The time came, and as all fathers must do with their sons, whether biking or in life, he released me. I took off.
Neurology, physics, and physiology became my allies. The wind kissing my face and muffling my hearing were welcomed guests. The pavement rolled past in a blur, my piston-like legs in sync with the bike's propulsion. It was my first taste of freedom. It was intoxicating, addicting. I smiled for weeks. Shoot, I'm smiling now.
On "Batman," I was a fighter ace on dangerous WWII missions. Zipping around a corner, an Indy driver on the final lap to victory. Hitting a makeshift ramp, I was the world's greatest stuntman. When my imagination waned, I'd ride beyond my street into the vast unknown of my neighborhood. While only a block from home, I felt worlds away, like Lewis and Clark exploring the Pacific Northwest.
One day, while playing in my bedroom, Mom called me. Her tone told me to hurry; there was something exciting to see. I raced into the den, and on the tiny black-and-white TV screen, men on bikes dressed in goofy clothes soared down a Swiss alpine road. Hunched over their handlebars, they navigated their bikes like rockets, taking the narrow serpentine switchbacks with grace, finesse, and grit. There was no guardrail, safety net, or recovery from a miscalculation. I was captivated by their bravery.
Something deep within me stirred, and a question formed as the race unfolded: "I wonder if I could do that?" Why Mom wanted me to watch this stage of the Tour de France, I'll never know. Perhaps it was her intuition or watching me from the window on Batman, rolling down the street in all kinds of weather. Whatever the reason, she planted a seed. And oh, how it would grow!
The years passed, uneventful regarding cycling, until I was at Ohio State University in the mid-80s. I was living off campus, and the extent of my cycling was riding two miles to class. While sitting on my front porch one Saturday morning, I noticed my two neighbors across the street on ten-speed racing bikes. As they rolled down the road, my curiosity was piqued, and childhood memories flickered to life. I was back on "Batman," reliving thrilling adventures and freedom. Next, the TV bike race flashed, and the question I'd forgotten from that day rose like a Phoenix: "I wonder if I could do that?" The seed Mom planted twenty years ago had sprouted.
When they returned after lunch, I was eager to hear about their adventure.
"Wow," I said, crossing the street, "How far did you go?"
"Eighty miles."
"Eighty miles?! That's insane… that's…amazing."
My eyes were glued on their bikes, the frame's angles wooing me like a lover, the components sparkling, signposts of discovery.
"Boy, I'd love to have a bike like that," I cooed.
"So go buy one."
"I'm in college. I can't afford it."
And with that, we parted ways.
But this wasn't a one-and-done experience. It repeated every weekend.
Until the day it didn't. On this particular Saturday, I greeted them upon their return. Our conversation started precisely the same, like a scene from Groundhog Day. But when it got to the part where I whined about being unable to afford a bike, one of the riders dismounted and waved for me to follow. He led me down concrete steps into the dark, unfinished basement. Hanging from the low wooden rafters was an arsenal of cycling gear that would put some bike shops to shame: wheels, frames, tires, components, chains…
Without a word, he went to work, a magician grabbing this and that for his young apprentice. Soon, my arms cradled a mish-mash of steel and aluminum bike parts, the genesis of a ten-speed.
"There," he said, laying the last piece atop the pile, "go build your bike."
Dumbfounded and as thrilled as a kid at Christmas, I offered a heartfelt thanks and turned to leave. With eyes riveted on my treasure, I floated up the stairs and crossed the road, my thoughts spinning and pulsating with the possibilities. While I didn't know the first thing about building a bike and didn't have a book or manual, I wasn't concerned. I had a racing bike. I'd figure it out!
The frame was an inexpensive Motobecane, and the components were low-grade, but in my mind, I held a handmade Italian thoroughbred adorned with coveted Campagnolo parts.
I labored feverishly, an apprentice eager to show his master his worth. I sanded the chipped paint, dings, and rust off the frame until it was smooth, pristine, and pure. Then, I primed it and chose the spray paint color that best suited my journey into cycling: fire-engine red.
I got it shipshape and took it to my local bike shop to have the derailleurs and cable tension adjusted.
When I rode it for the first time, the culmination of key events, like seeds, took root. From when Dad pushed me into freedom on “Batman” to Mom and me watching a bike race to the gift of the Motobecane, the dots were connected: I was a cyclist.
Like any passion, hobby, or discipline, this merely marked the starting line of discovery. To this day, I'm drawn to unchartered roads, the challenge of a steep climb, and the thrill of soaring down a hill, my heart ablaze with the bliss of youthful dreams.
