Its Not About the Bike

part two

WELCOM TO SATURDAY STORIES: TODAY IS PART TWO OF A TWO-PART STORY. CHECK OUT FEB. 3RD TO READ PART ONE…

David and I climbed out of my truck to be confronted by the condescending stares of the spandex-clad hoard of riders.  While we were untangling our bikes, which had been unceremoniously thrown into the back of my truck; we noticed everyone else gently removing their magnificent two-wheeled machines from intricate mounting devices on the top or the rear of their environmentally friendly vehicles.  We wondered why people were airing up their tires and examining their bikes so closely when we had aired up our tires several days earlier!

We could only take so much of the disdain.  We knew our bikes were not as sleek as the average cyclist, but we still felt confident we could conquer the task in front of us, even on cheap eBay bikes. Though the start time for the ride wasn’t until 7 am, to escape the derisive gazes of the other participants, we took a map and headed out on our own at 6:30.  It was a beautiful morning.  We wound peacefully down tree-lined streets through quiet neighborhoods before heading into the rural roads north of Tulsa.  The first 20 miles of our first training ride were fantastic!

We were far from civilization when I realized not only the folly of undertaking this task with the bike I purchased, but also the foolishness of doing so without a backup plan.  As we wound through lonely rural back roads my right pedal began to feel a little odd.  I kept looking down at it, but couldn’t figure out what the problem was.  Then suddenly, while pushing down hard with my right foot, the pedal flew off the bike.  My right foot went to the pavement causing my body to jerk forward and off the saddle with my crotch landing with a thud where most males prefer not to sit.  My upper body was thrust forward and I found myself lying over the handlebars, dragging my right foot and coasting to a stop.

After I gathered myself, I retrieved my pedal from a patch of milkweed on the side of the road and proceeded to try to discover the source of the problem.  To my chagrin, during that very inglorious moment, while I was looking over the situation, the real cyclists from the parking lot descended upon us.  There I was holding a pedal in one hand and a bike in the other while they zipped by shaking their heads.   

The threads of the pedal were stripped out and it would not stay attached to the crank arm.  I tried to no avail to make it work. I would put the pedal in, pedal for a few yards, put the pedal back in, and repeat.  After 15 minutes I had only moved one-half mile further up the road.  At that pace, I would draw Social Security before I finished the ride.

This was in the days before we carried cell phones around with us everywhere we went. I couldn’t call anyone. My only hope was a house just up the road.  It was the only house we could see anywhere close, so I had to give it a try.

All decked out in my spandex shorts, odd-looking jersey, and my bright blue bike helmet perched atop my pointy head I went and knocked on a stranger’s door.  When the door opened my first thought was, “I’m dead.”  Towering over me was a giant of a man.  His shoulders were as broad as the doorway and his head nearly touched the top of the frame.  His shirt consisted of a leather vest – that’s it - just the vest with hair protruding everywhere. 

His attire made it easy to see his biceps.  They were as big as my thighs and covered with tattoos.  I was particularly distracted by one which displayed a dagger dripping with blood.  His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his beard had been around a while.

It was too late to turn back.  I sheepishly told him of my plight and for a moment I think I saw a smile start to break out on his face.  He stepped past me without saying anything and motioned for me to follow.  I did and he led me around to the back of the house and into a garage.  With a grunt, he took my bike and the pedal in hand and proceeded to weld it all back together.  After cooling it off he gave it a couple of turns with his hand and said, “That oughtta getcha where you need to go.”

With much gratitude, I waved goodbye and rejoined my son who, not willing to risk his life, was patiently waiting in the shade of an oak tree along the road.  As we rode away, I thought about what Lance Armstrong had said: He said, “It is not about the bike.” I would say that Lance never saw my purple eBay bargain.  The bike may not be the only thing that matters, but it sure helps to have a good one.