Rideology

Oh me, oh my, I bought a bicycle. This was all part of the 10-year plan but it came about a year earlier than expected. Let me explain.

I decided earlier this summer that I should wait until next summer to buy a road bike. That would give me time to save money, do research, and write my will. The only problem was I didn’t stop looking at used bikes on Craigslist and KSL Classifieds. (Note to self: “If you look, you will buy.”)

Bicycles and I have a long, somewhat complicated history. Here’s the run-down:

A Quick History of Bicycles

First (circa 1991) I inherited a light pink vintage girl’s bike with a banana seat from my sister’s best friend. I was eight-years-old when my dad taught me how to ride. We went to a construction area in my neighborhood where a brand new elementary school was being built. The area was deserted and after several trials and many errors I was riding like a pro. I was amazed that with the right momentum the bicycle would just “go” by itself. When I felt confident enough to go home and show my mom what I had learned I underestimated the difficulty of steering on a sidewalk. The bike made its way out of a driveway and, as my parents watched, I was nearly hit by a car. Talk about a great beginning!

A year or two after the new school was completed I found myself getting teased a lot for having such an old bike. One day I went to Burger King with my mom and the lady at the drive thru handed us a kid’s trivia booklet. I filled out the booklet and mailed it into Burger Kind headquarters as the instructions indicated. The number of questions answered correctly determined the number of times participants were entered into a drawing for prizes. A few weeks later I got a letter from Burger King congratulating me for winning a bike kit. I had no idea what it that could include but I hoped and prayed it meant I had won a halfway normal-looking bike.

As I counted down to the delivery of my mysterious “bike kit” I rehearsed for a school talent show with my best friend Naomi. We did a skit where I sat on her lap with a sheet covering me up to my neck and a table in front of me. I kept my arms out of sight while her arms were visible and acted as though they belonged to my body. The table was full of objects and Naomi had to blindly find them and use them as I recited a monologue my mom had written. I specifically remember putting on lipstick and getting a tin pie pan filled with whipped cream squished in my face. It was really fun and it was great to know my mom was in the audience.

Our performance happened to coincide with April Fool’s Day. When we got home my mom said we did a good job. She also told me there was a surprise in the garage. I thought, “This is it! I might have a new bike!” Naomi and I rushed into the garage and found a large cardboard box addressed to me. I was disappointed there was no bike but we took the box into the living room to open it up in front of my mom. She had a huge smile on her face. I carefully cut the packing tape, opened the box and reached inside. I grabbed a handful of cushioned nylon material and pulled it out with my eyes closed. When I opened them I was very puzzled to see a very familiar sight – one of my old taupe snow boots. Worst thing was, there only one. Or perhaps the worst thing was my mom bursting out in hysterical laughter.

This is probably a good time to tell you my mom is a big jokester. She once forged a letter from the First Presidency and sent it to her friend to inform her that all full-time missions were being extended by six months. Her friend’s identical twin sons, who were about to come home, were instead going to miss a third Christmas at home. The poor woman was devastated until my mom confessed her prank and assured her that the boys would be home in time for Christmas.

Back to the boot. My mom was laughing, Naomi’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and I was wondering if the entire Burger King letter was one of my mom’s scams. I was really sad. Before I could start crying in earnest my mom pulled out a box with a much more official postage label. I hardly trusted it to be the real deal. My mom swore it was. This time the box revealed a pair of biking gloves, a helmet, a water bottle and a Haro sports bag. I was thrilled and for a long time I considered it one of the best days of my life. The only problem was none of the modern, streamlined items coordinated very well with a floofy, frilly light pink bicycle.

Second (circa 1995)

I remember trying to bargain with my parents. “What if we sell the pink bike and use that money to pay for a new bike?” They replied that it was wrong to sell a gift. Instead, years passed and I finally outgrew my bike. Hallelujah! Seventh grade was right around the corner and my parents took 5’2” me to the store to buy a new bike. We found something well under $100 and thoroughly less embarrassing than the pink bike. My new bike was dark green with thick tires, four gears and magenta accents. I also got a new Bell helmet and with that I was ready to ride. I rode the bike to middle school with Rosario countless times but there was a problem – I kept getting flat tires. That left Rosario with a difficult decision to either ride on without me or walk beside me and my useless bike. She was a great friend and always stuck beside me unless I insisted she go ahead without me.

My dad fixed all of my flats and even though we bought special tubes they still got punctured. The combination of constant flat tires and increasing social pressure at school led to a decrease in my riding. During this time my dad was getting into mountain biking and although my sister was brave enough to go with him a couple of times I could never gather the courage to ride with them. I knew that it would be easier to pick up the hobby early in life as opposed to waiting until I was grown up and brave enough. However, as my dad came home with bruises upon bruises, cuts and even broken ribs, I became cemented in my refusal to ride. By my sophomore year of high school my bike had turned gray with a thick layer of dust.

Third (made in 1987, bought in 2011)

The last time I rode my green bike I was probably 15-years-old. There is a certain amount of guilt associated with wanting something so bad, finally receiving it, enjoying it for a while, and then abandoning it as soon as it becomes incompatible with your lifestyle. I had begged for that bike but in the end the pink bike had been a steadier companion. When I began browsing for my current bike I wanted something with a solid reputation – something I would be proud to sit on. I eliminated the cruiser category because I wanted to get something light enough to lift. I eliminated the mountain bike category because of my deeply burrowed fear of getting injuries like my dad’s. That left me with one traditional category: road bikes. And so the search began.

I am usually very meticulous when researching a big purchase. I am usually positive I have enough money before handing over the funds. I figured that buying a bike next summer would be the way to go, but when I spotted a used red and white Bianchi Premio on Craigslist, I lost all control. I was disheartened to see that the seller lived an hour and a half away so I decided to calmly send an email and see if the bike was still available. (It had been posted three weeks prior.) Over the next 24 hours I pushed it out of my head and prepared myself for disappointment. When I found out the bike was still available, I started carving out time in my schedule to drive to M-town the next day.

When I arrived at the seller’s home I caught a glimpse of the bike leaning against the frame of the garage door. As much as I wanted to hold onto all of the $20 bills I had just taken out of the ATM, my heart jumped at the mere sight of the bike’s brilliant red frame and worn white tires. It had to be mine. The seller was very patient with me and worked with me for almost an hour as I learned how to ride, turn, shift gears, and stop. One time I panicked and forgot where the brakes were and was well on my way to crashing into the neighbor’s fence before I bailed. Before I left the seller gave me a small rock with an angel painted on it to keep me safe. That day I drove home with a few bruises, a bike in the back of my car and a huge smile on my face.

Present Day

I completely underestimated how hard it would be to “learn” to ride a road bike. Either my 12-year hiatus from riding bicycles is to blame or I am the biggest chicken in the world. A month ago I was only willing to ride on deserted residential streets in a gated community. I’ve made progress thanks to patient friends and their contagious taste for adventure. Three practice rides with friends and two solo rides later I can honestly tell you I have a love/hate relationship with my bike. There are moments when I’m convinced I’ve done the right thing and I might be a roadie for life. I dream of my next bike – most certainly a Bianchi, preferable painted Celeste – and think about participating in some kind of triathlon. Then there are moments when I want to call it quits, snap a photo of my bike and post it on Craigslist before I get in a wreck.

Today I was walking my bike along the side of the road to a stoplight where I intended to begin my first ride in two weeks. Another cyclist passed me and asked if everything was alright. I told him I was just learning and didn’t want to begin my ride in the street. He wished me well and continued on his way. An hour and a half later he found me again. This time we were on our way down the canyon and I was hating life. My hands, wrists, arms, shoulders and neck were all exhausted from braking during the constant descent down the canyon. We rode and talked for a while and he clued me in that even though the experienced cyclists make it look easy, it never is easy. It is always hard. He encouraged me to keep at it and not give up.

Although my rideology might fluctuate between ends of the spectrum during the course of one ride, one thing is for certain: Good things in life are hard to come by and once you get them it is a fight to hold onto them. Sometimes our own guilt, regret and fear rip our dreams right out of our grasp. Other times it is the mocking glances, whispered rumors and pointing fingers of our peers that reduce us to sniveling messes. Whether the opposition is physical or social, inflicted or self-imposed, real or imagined there is no doubt our bodies, our courage and the people that surround us can fail us. The part that matters is whether or not you hit the brakes and bail. For me, there only seems to be one choice. “Ride On.”