Oh please daddy, please. Just take them off, they get in the way!"
I was so insistent my father had no choice but to oblige.
And so my Father reluctantly removed the training wheels from my first bike. The look of astonishment, fear and concern on his face as I hopped on my newly unshackled steed (well, pony) and rode away is forever strong in my memory. Only now, at age thirty-one have I learned that I was only three years old on that day, and that the training wheels were only on my bike for a mere hour or two.
That set the stage for the next two and a half decades.
I devoted most of my twenties to bicycling events and competitions. I also found inner peace by exploring the alpine regions of the Pacific Northwest on my mountain bike. But lately I have committed myself to the goal of higher education and I haven't been able to travel to the mountains to ride.
Wanting to explore the other aspects of riding, I cannibalized an old broken Specialized Allez road bike, mounted the components on a hot red/orange Pro Series Trek 560 road frame (circa 1985) that I won on Ebay for $40.00.
I have built many bikes over the years, but this one was special. It was going to redefine my passion for the pedals. It was so sleek and light compared to my fat tire Klein. The skinny steel tubes, the tiny 20mm tires, and the petite "c" brakes were all so foreign to me. I feared the bike would either crumple under my weight, or I would lack the braking power that kept me alive for so many years.
As soon as I pushed the pedals though, my concerns were left behind. The acceleration was like nothing I had ever experienced. I immediately realized that I had found another pathway to the endorphins and adrenalin that soothed my soul so many times in the past.
But after a few rides around the city, I grew bored of the restrictions from traffic lights, and frustrated by the dangerous cell phone toting SUV drivers. I longed for the solitude and serenity of the mountain trails. Like so many other bikes it began to collect more dust than road grime.
During winter break though, I managed to find a safe, fun and hilly bike route to work. It was a twenty-three mile trip around the North end of Lake Washington, with some of the longest, steepest hills to be ridden in the Seattle area.
On a particularly dry and crisp Friday afternoon in December, I gathered up my biking gear and work clothes and started down the road. It was my third time pedaling the new route and I was now comfortable enough with my ride to let loose on the downhill sections. I had been riding for an hour and was well into an intense "runners high" when I started up Big Finn Hill, a two and half-mile knee grinder. My blood was thick with endorphins, my legs were burning but there was no pain. Not even the cars passing at fifty miles/hour three feet to my left could draw my attention away from the climb.
I shaved ten minutes off my best time and my seven-hour shift was fueled by limber legs and unbridled energy. It was an intense, busy night and it sapped much of my remaining energy.
With tired resolve, I dug out my five-dollar headlight, found a good jazz CD and clicked in for the long cold push home. It was midnight and I had a long way to go.
I started the trip with a high cadence; just a little bit faster than the music thumping my inner ear. After a short climb and downhill section, I found myself on the backside of Big Finn. Within minutes of starting the climb, the lactic acid in my thighs reared its thorny head and the music quickly began to outpace me. Thankfully, the next couple songs provided a slower rhythmic beat, and my cold, noodled legs held out for the rest of the climb.
I then decided to take the Burke Gilman trail for the remainder of the ride. The Burke is a fantastic, yet flaccid interurban trail that snakes its way around the lake avoiding all of the major climbs.
The first two miles were torture. The trail was riddled with pressure cracks that bulged up from the ground like mid ocean rifts. With little warning, they hammered my rear end and sent shockwaves from my tailbone to my cranium.
After a couple of miles when the rifts subsided, I took a moment to appreciate the clear night and fresh air. To my astonishment, I noticed an abundance of ambient light from above. When I looked up to the sky, there was a beautiful radiant full moon framed by a few thin wispy clouds. Within a minute of turning off my light, I began to see the details of the night emerge before me.
The dispersion of light through the clouds and trees brought out every detail of the mid winter environment. The barren trees, long devoid of their leaves, cast stark shadows across the path. The Rhododendrons reached out to show off their sticky glistening seed pods nestled in their fleshy oblong leaves. All of this was happening at eighteen miles an hour as the cold, dry, fragrant air soothed my lungs. It was like I was in a high alpine region of the Cascades just prior to sunrise.
These heightened sensations continued to lift my senses for the next ten miles. Every section of trail had something new. My rhythmic breathing and the steady hum of slicks on the pavement were the only noises to be heard. I was a silent traveler experiencing the world for the first time.
In a way, somewhere deep inside, it was like I had just rounded the corner from the garage to the sidewalk for the first time on two wheels. The freedom, the exhilaration, and the experience of riding had returned.
The Trek won't last much longer, but that memory will fuel me for a lifetime.
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