Blame the Grandparents
Being on a bike in my family was really not a choice. I was immersed in the same way a child is submerged in language. My education was as thorough as any fanatic could ever hope to produce –– perhaps not with the rigidity of the madrasa, but with the absolute thoroughness of any cult.
Introduction
I try to recall the mind of the child that first started to ride and find only hints and innuendo. More challenging than simple archeology, I walk into the territory of myth and family legend.
Being on a bike in my family was really not a choice. I was immersed in the same way a child is submerged in language. My education was as thorough as any fanatic could ever hope to produce –– perhaps not with the rigidity of the madrasa, but with the absolute thoroughness of any cult. Rebellious by nature, I am left with the question of how did I come to accept this? Even worse, how did I come to welcome it into the very heart of my identity?
Blame the Grandparents
I have no memory of my grandparents not riding. My emergence into the world and their transformation into cyclists were not quite simultaneous but close enough in the larger scheme of life.
They were solid members of the Greatest Generation who grew up in small-town Vermont during the Great Depression. My grandfather, Glen, returned from the Pacific Theater with a serious nicotine addiction and a lot of very bad memories. The only thing he ever said about the war was, “A lot of people got hurt.” They settled back in Montpelier, Vermont where he got a job as a traveling paper salesman. My grandmother, Esther, worked part time as a secretary at one of the local churches. They were active in the community with my Grandfather at the heart of many community initiatives in addition to his work as a lay minister.
Somewhere before my time Glen quit smoking. Although he played basketball in highschool and had been a coach for at least one of the highschool sports teams, there was no evidence of Coach Glen being eager to drink the fitness elixir. He was an avid gardener and equally committed to afternoon naps. Esther was handy with a needle but not much given to the kitchen. Apparently, there was nary a hint of ciclismo in either of them. I knew them as Grammy and Grampa.
They raised two beautiful daughters. One of them fell in with a confused young man a year ahead of her in the local highschool. At 18 she was pregnant out of wedlock. Her soon-to-be husband was a paradoxical mix of aspiring hippie and haunted workaholic. I’ve heard tales of difficult times as everyone adjusted to the situation, but I have no memories of any ill will. More than 25 years after my parents divorce, Grammy and Grampa were still laughing through holiday dinners at my father’s house.
Family legend has it that new empty nesters took their usual summer camping trip to Martha’s Vineyard and, for a change, decided to rent some bikes. Returning to Montpelier they bought a couple of hot five speeds and never looked back. I remember seeing those white Raleighs and so can deduce that this must have happened when I was in the neighborhood of five years old. In 1973, these were serious road machines.
Any credentials they may have missed in being late arrivals to the sport were more than compensated by their enthusiasm. They were evangelical cyclists, eager to preach the creed to all who crossed their paths. There was never an ounce of ‘you oughta’ in anything they did, but it was hard to have a conversation that didn’t involve the weather, routes or road conditions. They were just out there and their infectious energy made other people want to be out there too.
True evangelists, they assumed responsibility for the spiritual health of future generations. As the first of their grandchildren I became the anchor of their commitment to provide the next generation with their first set of wheels. It was not a promising start. The purple banana bike with the white seat looked really cool, but getting it to move was an entirely different matter. This must have been happening towards the end of second grade. I am certain that I was that last kid in my neighborhood to ever learn to ride, and I was duly embarrassed by that fact.
We lived on a steep hill in Brookfield, Connecticut, but our driveway cut across the contours of the descent to give us a short stretch of level pavement. To the left of the driveway we had a pair of massive forsythia bushes – huge haystacks of brilliant yellow in my 7 year-old memory. Beyond them, our lawn sloped away down the hill.
It was always the same. I would start back by the garage, pedal three strokes, veer left, and plow straight into the forsythia. With my parents, my friends, and possibly a babysitter, the result was always the same. 1-2-3 forsythia. 1-2-3 forsythia 1-2-3 forsythia FOR A MONTH! Maybe it was just one long evening but it felt like years. Grammy did not specialize in patience, but somehow she took the deep breath required and found the way to get me on the straight and narrow – at least from garage to mailbox.
Based on my performance to date, buying me a ten speed was a supreme act of parental faith. It was a maroon red, and slightly too big. On my first ride, I managed to get past the forsythias and out onto the hill where I tried to turn around, hit sand, and promptly ate shit –– my first taste of road rash.
My Dad was getting more into cycling at that point (or maybe he always had been). We started a Sunday tradition of riding to the country store to get the New York Times and donuts. I huffed the short climb out of our cul-de-sac up to Iron Works Hill Rd, and hung right past my friend’s houses to continue down around a bend. This was a New England country road, narrow and sinuous –– a reformed carriage path cut through the forests. Maple, Ash and Birch threw deep shadows over the asphalt except in a couple of places where the newer houses had been built. Cool hot. Hot cool. Dappled and textured. I remember empty roads –– just my Dad and me. Perhaps Sunday mornings really were that way. Perhaps my unsteady meanderings terrified no drivers and posed no danger. Perhaps.
Right at the next stop sign, down a sharp hill –– my first nemesis. On the return it was a gradual pull that suddenly got steeper as it rounded a corner near the top. I would zip down the little grade that led up to it, drop into my lowest gears and spin like hell, but the momentum was never quite enough. I have come to think of this kind of grade as a “Bitch Pitch”, they slowly sap my strength and then clobber me with that final steep incline. Returning a few years later I was pleased to note my former nemesis was at least worthy of the small chain ring. And a few years after that, it was all but leveled as the road was modernized.
Beyond the nemesis, we’d make our way across a couple of more small rollers. This may be the place where I first learned to let up on the brakes and coast up the other side of a dip. The tiny town center had no need for a stoplight in those days. My elementary school was down to the left off of the three way intersection. Later, that street, Obtuse Hill Road, was to become my home and primary riding grounds. The name was appropriate.
My Dad’s bike was a beat up mustard yellow 10 speed with one of those spring loaded clamp racks in back. The clamp was completely useless when confronted with a Sunday Times and a box of donuts. He had some trick involving bungee cords. I don’t remember anything falling off on the way back.
Total distance, round trip may have been five miles, but it was our first route, and my first taste of adventure. It had all the sparkle of a little bit of fear, a touch of challenge and that sacred bond of childhood –– just my Dad and me out in the world.