The comment sections below Internet news sites give a glimpse of what America thinks and how it uses, or abuses, the English language and common matters.
The quality of the debate is downright appalling from the bad grammar and bad spelling to the vitriolic attacks and name calling. Rational, thoughtful debate gets lost in the screaming and demeaning.
Blithering idiots toss around their epithets like firebombs to inflame, rather than inform.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Monday, December 19, 2011
A Conversion -- Chapter 16
Out one day on my typical loop, I
encountered a fellow bicyclist riding on the wrong side of the road and heading directly
toward me. As he approached, I stopped,
and when he was near, I asked, “Could you explain to me why you’re riding on
the wrong side of the road?”
“F--- you a------!”
As he passed me, I replied, “Have a
safe ride.”
Again the double expletive flew out
of his mouth as he pedaled on.
“Have a safer ride,” I said to his
backside.
He looked like a Fred, what avid
bicyclists call those who are not as far into the sport as we are. He wore a baseball cap instead of a helmet, a
t-shirt instead of a jersey, jeans instead of lycra shorts, tennis shoes
instead of bike shoes atop an old beater of a bike that appeared to have been neglected for years in the rain, snow and cold.
My loop took me about a half mile
more down the road before I turned back in his direction
As I approached him from the rear,
he corrected his path – moving from the left side to the right side of the
road.
Without looking over his shoulder at
me, he raised his left arm with a one-finger salute. As I passed him, I turned toward him and said
with a smile, “God loves you,” and rode on.
Later in the ride, I saw him again
riding toward me. This time he was
riding on the correct side the road, the right side with the traffic and not
against it.
With this encounter, he hurled neither
expletives nor displayed a raised finger. Instead, he shot a big toothy
grin my way, and I reciprocated.
Was I to assume I had made a
conversion of sorts? Could I assume the
honorific of being the Pastor of the Pedal for at least one day, one rider? I would like to think so. Call me The Rev from now on.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Did's Bicycling Saga -- Chapter 15
My bicycling world has changed dramatically in the last 55 years. I’ve gone from riding a reconditioned red, 20-inch, steel-framed Murray workhorse to a lightweight carbon thoroughbred.
In the 1950s, my buddies and I rode our heavy, fat tired, gull-winged handle-barred bikes without helmets, colorful jerseys and black tights beside cars and trucks on narrow streets with no sidewalks, no shoulders in Canton (Ohio) Township. Share the Road signs were unthinkable then and totally unnecessary.
We traveled to baseball games on our bicycles with our gloves dangling from the handlebars on which we balanced our bats. In the spring and fall, we used our bicycles to escape the tedious school bus rides for the freedom and enjoyment of coming and going on our own.
Our parents did not make play dates with our friends and chauffeur us in the back seat of an SUV. We managed our own social calendars and our own transportation via bikes. We disappeared for hours without a cell phone or a parent checking on our whereabouts every 30 minutes. Our lives were simpler then, and I dare say a half century later, freer and more fun that we ever imagined.
In all of this, I can’t recall a single child who ended up in the hospital from a collision with a car or truck. Sure, we fell off our bicycles, cried a tear or two, but jumped back on our bikes and rode on.
Today bicycling is still fun and has taken me places I would never have imagined as a kid. My bicycling friends are numerous, stretching from coast to coast. I have ridden with them on their roads, and they on mine. Now approaching 65, I plan to ride as long as I can.
But I have discovered America’s roads are not the ones of my youth. Streets have become less friendly, less safe than I knew them as a car-free, care-free kid. A.vehicle vigilantism has taken hold among a minority who can’t tolerate the sight of bicyclists, who possess a long-established legal right to be on the road in all 50 states.
Irate drivers blare their horns, race their engines, raise one-finger salutes, spout epitaphs and throw beer cans. Even seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong has not been immune from intimidation. Those things never happened to my pals and me when we were kids.
A few radio personalities have even exhorted their listeners to bully bicyclists off the road and worse. Their callers support this illegal lunacy. Bike crashes with cars and trucks, often leading to injuries and deaths, are regular occurrences across the country. If the driver is at fault, the justice system often times produces nothing more than slap on the wrist, even when the bicyclist has been killed because of the driver’s negligence.
Some motorists justify their aggression by saying bicyclists ignore traffic laws. Some bicyclists do run red lights and stop signs, block traffic and ride as if they own the street. They need to obey the laws too. But a driver encased in a three-ton SUV is no match for a bicyclist on a bike weighing 25 pounds or less.
If our roads can be made safer for bicyclists, then they will be safer for children walking or riding to school, joggers, seniors out for a stroll, parents pushing strollers, motorcyclists and for other motorists. Drivers should slow down and observe the speed limits, red lights and stop signs, and yield the right of way. They also need to focus their attention on driving, not yakking on cell phones, text messaging or fiddling with the GPS among a list of other modern distractions behind the wheel.
Today’s kids and adults deserve what my buddies and I took for granted a half century ago -- the safety and the pure enjoyment of riding our bicycles.
In the 1950s, my buddies and I rode our heavy, fat tired, gull-winged handle-barred bikes without helmets, colorful jerseys and black tights beside cars and trucks on narrow streets with no sidewalks, no shoulders in Canton (Ohio) Township. Share the Road signs were unthinkable then and totally unnecessary.
We traveled to baseball games on our bicycles with our gloves dangling from the handlebars on which we balanced our bats. In the spring and fall, we used our bicycles to escape the tedious school bus rides for the freedom and enjoyment of coming and going on our own.
Our parents did not make play dates with our friends and chauffeur us in the back seat of an SUV. We managed our own social calendars and our own transportation via bikes. We disappeared for hours without a cell phone or a parent checking on our whereabouts every 30 minutes. Our lives were simpler then, and I dare say a half century later, freer and more fun that we ever imagined.
In all of this, I can’t recall a single child who ended up in the hospital from a collision with a car or truck. Sure, we fell off our bicycles, cried a tear or two, but jumped back on our bikes and rode on.
Today bicycling is still fun and has taken me places I would never have imagined as a kid. My bicycling friends are numerous, stretching from coast to coast. I have ridden with them on their roads, and they on mine. Now approaching 65, I plan to ride as long as I can.
But I have discovered America’s roads are not the ones of my youth. Streets have become less friendly, less safe than I knew them as a car-free, care-free kid. A.vehicle vigilantism has taken hold among a minority who can’t tolerate the sight of bicyclists, who possess a long-established legal right to be on the road in all 50 states.
Irate drivers blare their horns, race their engines, raise one-finger salutes, spout epitaphs and throw beer cans. Even seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong has not been immune from intimidation. Those things never happened to my pals and me when we were kids.
A few radio personalities have even exhorted their listeners to bully bicyclists off the road and worse. Their callers support this illegal lunacy. Bike crashes with cars and trucks, often leading to injuries and deaths, are regular occurrences across the country. If the driver is at fault, the justice system often times produces nothing more than slap on the wrist, even when the bicyclist has been killed because of the driver’s negligence.
Some motorists justify their aggression by saying bicyclists ignore traffic laws. Some bicyclists do run red lights and stop signs, block traffic and ride as if they own the street. They need to obey the laws too. But a driver encased in a three-ton SUV is no match for a bicyclist on a bike weighing 25 pounds or less.
If our roads can be made safer for bicyclists, then they will be safer for children walking or riding to school, joggers, seniors out for a stroll, parents pushing strollers, motorcyclists and for other motorists. Drivers should slow down and observe the speed limits, red lights and stop signs, and yield the right of way. They also need to focus their attention on driving, not yakking on cell phones, text messaging or fiddling with the GPS among a list of other modern distractions behind the wheel.
Today’s kids and adults deserve what my buddies and I took for granted a half century ago -- the safety and the pure enjoyment of riding our bicycles.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Did's Bicycling Saga -- Chapter 14
Aches and pains are a natural part of bicycling. They are messages sent from various remote points on your body to your central control that something is not right and must be answered, like a telephone that won’t stop that annoying, piercing ring until you pick up the receiver, find out who’s there and what they want. Ignore the messages at your own peril.
Numbness in the hands, numbness down there, tingling in the toes, burning in the quads, spiking in the hamstrings, an aching in the neck, piercing between your shoulder blades, soring of the knees, tightening of the lower back, searing in the lungs, cramping in the abdomen -- they can all come with cycling, and they must all be examined and addressed if riding is to continue.
Luckily, some aches can be cured easily and quickly by making minor adjustments to your position and your bicycle. Wearing padded gloves, loosening your grip, bending your arms at the elbows and changing hand positions can eliminate the numbness in your hands and reduce road shocks from traveling up your neck and shoulders. Wearing bicycling shorts with padding and finding the right seat for your one-of-a-kind bum can take the numbness away down there. Improving your pedal stroke by doing perfect 360-degree circles can eliminate hot foot while improving your overall efficiency.
Stretching before, during and after a ride can prevent aches, pains and cramping. Raising or lowering your seat by a fraction of an inch can dispatch knee pains. Relaxing your shoulders so that they’re not up around your ears avoids aches in your neck and upper back. Strengthening your lower back through exercising and weightlifting can lessen strain and give you more power to race, face the wind and climb hills. Eating and hydrating the right foods in the right amounts at the right times can keep stomach distress to minimum and fuel you for a long day’s ride.
Some pains and discomforts cannot be dispatched as swiftly and easily.
On a bright sunny Sunday one spring while on my mountain bike a pain began in my right hip and shot down my leg to the knee like supercharged electricity, z-i-i-p, z-i-ii-i-p. I hobbled off the bike and began massaging the area to disconnect the message to my brain. Another z-i-i-i-p, z-i-i-i-p of surging pain. I had no other choice but to pedal the best I could back to my car and go home to bed rest.
Over a period of weeks the pain returned while commuting on the train to work, walking and even resting in bed. Sometimes the pain was so sharp that I jumped about frantically trying to dislodge the tentacles of pain from their grip on my leg, but to no avail.
The message was coming through loud and clear: See a doctor. The diagnosis: a slight bulging of a couple vertebrae in the lower back, putting pressure on the nerves, erupting in a paroxysm of unbearable pain, in short, sciatica. The treatment: physical therapy.
Here’s where I lucked out. Already, I had been doctoring with a physician whose son was an avid cyclist. My physical therapist was a tri-athlete. She instructed me on the different ways to exercise, stretch and strengthen my lower back to reduce the mind-numbing pain.
She also recommended spinning classes to build up my lower back – the core strength of a cyclist. She advised that the best I could hope for was learning to manage the pain and to not expect complete and forever elimination of that pain. With her help, the management part has been an unqualified success.
Since then, I’ve seen a podiatrist who is a road cyclist and a dermatologist whose husband and children love to cycle together. Long live the brotherhood and sisterhood of the bicycle.
Other pains crop up in my aging body; hang around then one day I notice that I don’t ache in that spot any more. The aches and pains move about my entire body like a busload of tourists looking for new places to haunt.
The foot, the calves, the knees, thighs, abdomen, shoulders, elbows, upper and lower back, neck and hands have all shared their time on pain duty. They all end up being distractions and annoyance, but not real deterrents from my riding.
I’ve learned to listen to these pain messages, catalogue them, monitor them and go on riding just the same. More often than not, they don’t restrict me and apparently disappear only to be replaced with a new ache in another geographical part of the body.
At other times, it’s not the pain so much as my mood. I have become quite proficient in finding all the negative reasons for not bicycling today. If it’s not the weather, it’s my attitude. If it’s not my attitude, then it’s the ills with my body. If it’s not all these, then there’s something more important that must get done that day.
When I get in this state, the perfect antidote is a bicycle ride and the sooner the better before I fall into the depths of depression from which I could never pedal out. I don’t know what physiologically happens, but when I force myself to get on the bike and ride, I seldom regret it.
Something chemically, magically happens to me physically and mentally after a ride. Can endorphins be so powerful? They must be because when I return from such a ride, I feel wonderfully exhausted, but exhilarated by the ride. I’m ready to take on the world another day.
Numbness in the hands, numbness down there, tingling in the toes, burning in the quads, spiking in the hamstrings, an aching in the neck, piercing between your shoulder blades, soring of the knees, tightening of the lower back, searing in the lungs, cramping in the abdomen -- they can all come with cycling, and they must all be examined and addressed if riding is to continue.
Luckily, some aches can be cured easily and quickly by making minor adjustments to your position and your bicycle. Wearing padded gloves, loosening your grip, bending your arms at the elbows and changing hand positions can eliminate the numbness in your hands and reduce road shocks from traveling up your neck and shoulders. Wearing bicycling shorts with padding and finding the right seat for your one-of-a-kind bum can take the numbness away down there. Improving your pedal stroke by doing perfect 360-degree circles can eliminate hot foot while improving your overall efficiency.
Stretching before, during and after a ride can prevent aches, pains and cramping. Raising or lowering your seat by a fraction of an inch can dispatch knee pains. Relaxing your shoulders so that they’re not up around your ears avoids aches in your neck and upper back. Strengthening your lower back through exercising and weightlifting can lessen strain and give you more power to race, face the wind and climb hills. Eating and hydrating the right foods in the right amounts at the right times can keep stomach distress to minimum and fuel you for a long day’s ride.
Some pains and discomforts cannot be dispatched as swiftly and easily.
On a bright sunny Sunday one spring while on my mountain bike a pain began in my right hip and shot down my leg to the knee like supercharged electricity, z-i-i-p, z-i-ii-i-p. I hobbled off the bike and began massaging the area to disconnect the message to my brain. Another z-i-i-i-p, z-i-i-i-p of surging pain. I had no other choice but to pedal the best I could back to my car and go home to bed rest.
Over a period of weeks the pain returned while commuting on the train to work, walking and even resting in bed. Sometimes the pain was so sharp that I jumped about frantically trying to dislodge the tentacles of pain from their grip on my leg, but to no avail.
The message was coming through loud and clear: See a doctor. The diagnosis: a slight bulging of a couple vertebrae in the lower back, putting pressure on the nerves, erupting in a paroxysm of unbearable pain, in short, sciatica. The treatment: physical therapy.
Here’s where I lucked out. Already, I had been doctoring with a physician whose son was an avid cyclist. My physical therapist was a tri-athlete. She instructed me on the different ways to exercise, stretch and strengthen my lower back to reduce the mind-numbing pain.
She also recommended spinning classes to build up my lower back – the core strength of a cyclist. She advised that the best I could hope for was learning to manage the pain and to not expect complete and forever elimination of that pain. With her help, the management part has been an unqualified success.
Since then, I’ve seen a podiatrist who is a road cyclist and a dermatologist whose husband and children love to cycle together. Long live the brotherhood and sisterhood of the bicycle.
Other pains crop up in my aging body; hang around then one day I notice that I don’t ache in that spot any more. The aches and pains move about my entire body like a busload of tourists looking for new places to haunt.
The foot, the calves, the knees, thighs, abdomen, shoulders, elbows, upper and lower back, neck and hands have all shared their time on pain duty. They all end up being distractions and annoyance, but not real deterrents from my riding.
I’ve learned to listen to these pain messages, catalogue them, monitor them and go on riding just the same. More often than not, they don’t restrict me and apparently disappear only to be replaced with a new ache in another geographical part of the body.
At other times, it’s not the pain so much as my mood. I have become quite proficient in finding all the negative reasons for not bicycling today. If it’s not the weather, it’s my attitude. If it’s not my attitude, then it’s the ills with my body. If it’s not all these, then there’s something more important that must get done that day.
When I get in this state, the perfect antidote is a bicycle ride and the sooner the better before I fall into the depths of depression from which I could never pedal out. I don’t know what physiologically happens, but when I force myself to get on the bike and ride, I seldom regret it.
Something chemically, magically happens to me physically and mentally after a ride. Can endorphins be so powerful? They must be because when I return from such a ride, I feel wonderfully exhausted, but exhilarated by the ride. I’m ready to take on the world another day.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Did's Bicycling Saga -- Chapter 13
The wind had been at me all day in south central Wisconsin, blowing in my face no matter which way I turned.
It was the midpoint of the 2002 AIDS ride* from Minneapolis-St Paul to Chicago, 1,200 riders, 500 miles in a week.
The wind stayed with me like the young lawyer from Washington who was glued to my rear wheel to shelter her from the wind. Not once did she pedal past me to take a pull on the front and give me some relief. She didn’t even offer.
There she sat behind me chatting away while I did the work up front, and work it was. The monotony of the ubiquitous wind was only broken by occasional rain.
When I rolled into the last rest stop of the day, 15 miles short of the campsite, my energy level meter blared: DEFICIT DEFICIT DEFICIT!
I couldn’t even manage the idea of finishing those last 15 miles on a bike and inquired when the sag vehicle would arrive to deliver me from this pedaling purgatory.
While waiting, I wolfed down an ice cream bar. Oh so delicious! I cared little that my lactose intolerance might flare up to complicate my physical condition. And to prove how I could toss caution to the wind, I ate a second ice cream bar. Both hit unbelievable pleasure spots somewhere inside my mind and body.
My next urge was to find a grassy spot in the shade and get some shuteye. I dozed for I know not how long when a gentle hand shook my shoulder and a soft voice said, “Are you all right?”
I roused myself from my sweet slumber to answer, “Yes, I’m fine.” I sat up while my eyes adjusted to the summer sun. Soon the sag vehicle -- a large touring bus -- had rolled into the rest stop. My deliverance was at hand, but then I began to calculate when I thought the vehicle would be departing for the night’s campsite.
A couple more hours of waiting here was the bottom line, which became unacceptable to me. I stood up testing what once had been a pair of weary, rubbery legs. They felt fine, not great, just fine. I found myself marshalling my limited resources and mounting the bike.
Sag vehicle, to hell with it! I jumped on my bike and rolled out of the rest stop. Fifteen frigging miles, how tough can that be? When you’re dead tired, 15 miles might as well be 115 miles. I started playing mind games to trick my body to come along for those last miles of the day.
Ahead me on the road was an acquaintance, a young man with dreadlocks from Cincinnati. I decided to keep him in view and never letting him get away from me. Sometimes he was as close as 50 yards, sometimes he was 100 or more yards ahead of me, but I never lost sight of him. The gimmick succeeded, pushing me on to the end and tricking my body to cooperate in the process.
Early arrivals at the camp were at the entrance cheering on the latecomers, like me. It buoyed my spirits tremendously. Once in camp, I searched out the young man to thank him for his assistance. I told him that I had attached a long mental tow rope to him, and he had pulled me into camp without every knowing it. He was as much surprised by his feat as I was pleased with it.
Around 1 a.m. the next morning, the winds started to blow. My tent mate and I sat up and put out hands on the tent walls thinking we could ride out this storm.
Soon an announcement was heard that all campers had to abandon their tents and gather in the local high school gymnasium to ride out the storm and possible tornado. Some 1,200 were scattered in the bleachers and on the floor rustling their thin, silvery, space-age blankets that made crinkling sounds with every move.
I fell asleep quickly in the stands only to awaken around 3 a.m. unable to go back to sleep. I tiptoed over and around the sleepers, went outside where the weather had calmed. The tent had survived the storm and had not taken on any water.
In the end, I had weathered the worst of the week-long ride and the elements to achieve a personal record for the most miles traveled a week.
*Soon after, the organizer of these AIDS rides around the country folded, the victim of its own greed. The organizer had a sorry history of returning around 30 percent of its proceeds to the AIDS charities, which had been scammed. That meant of the $3,250 that I had raised from family and friends, less than $1,000 went towards finding a cure for AIDS.
It was the midpoint of the 2002 AIDS ride* from Minneapolis-St Paul to Chicago, 1,200 riders, 500 miles in a week.
The wind stayed with me like the young lawyer from Washington who was glued to my rear wheel to shelter her from the wind. Not once did she pedal past me to take a pull on the front and give me some relief. She didn’t even offer.
There she sat behind me chatting away while I did the work up front, and work it was. The monotony of the ubiquitous wind was only broken by occasional rain.
When I rolled into the last rest stop of the day, 15 miles short of the campsite, my energy level meter blared: DEFICIT DEFICIT DEFICIT!
I couldn’t even manage the idea of finishing those last 15 miles on a bike and inquired when the sag vehicle would arrive to deliver me from this pedaling purgatory.
While waiting, I wolfed down an ice cream bar. Oh so delicious! I cared little that my lactose intolerance might flare up to complicate my physical condition. And to prove how I could toss caution to the wind, I ate a second ice cream bar. Both hit unbelievable pleasure spots somewhere inside my mind and body.
My next urge was to find a grassy spot in the shade and get some shuteye. I dozed for I know not how long when a gentle hand shook my shoulder and a soft voice said, “Are you all right?”
I roused myself from my sweet slumber to answer, “Yes, I’m fine.” I sat up while my eyes adjusted to the summer sun. Soon the sag vehicle -- a large touring bus -- had rolled into the rest stop. My deliverance was at hand, but then I began to calculate when I thought the vehicle would be departing for the night’s campsite.
A couple more hours of waiting here was the bottom line, which became unacceptable to me. I stood up testing what once had been a pair of weary, rubbery legs. They felt fine, not great, just fine. I found myself marshalling my limited resources and mounting the bike.
Sag vehicle, to hell with it! I jumped on my bike and rolled out of the rest stop. Fifteen frigging miles, how tough can that be? When you’re dead tired, 15 miles might as well be 115 miles. I started playing mind games to trick my body to come along for those last miles of the day.
Ahead me on the road was an acquaintance, a young man with dreadlocks from Cincinnati. I decided to keep him in view and never letting him get away from me. Sometimes he was as close as 50 yards, sometimes he was 100 or more yards ahead of me, but I never lost sight of him. The gimmick succeeded, pushing me on to the end and tricking my body to cooperate in the process.
Early arrivals at the camp were at the entrance cheering on the latecomers, like me. It buoyed my spirits tremendously. Once in camp, I searched out the young man to thank him for his assistance. I told him that I had attached a long mental tow rope to him, and he had pulled me into camp without every knowing it. He was as much surprised by his feat as I was pleased with it.
Around 1 a.m. the next morning, the winds started to blow. My tent mate and I sat up and put out hands on the tent walls thinking we could ride out this storm.
Soon an announcement was heard that all campers had to abandon their tents and gather in the local high school gymnasium to ride out the storm and possible tornado. Some 1,200 were scattered in the bleachers and on the floor rustling their thin, silvery, space-age blankets that made crinkling sounds with every move.
I fell asleep quickly in the stands only to awaken around 3 a.m. unable to go back to sleep. I tiptoed over and around the sleepers, went outside where the weather had calmed. The tent had survived the storm and had not taken on any water.
In the end, I had weathered the worst of the week-long ride and the elements to achieve a personal record for the most miles traveled a week.
*Soon after, the organizer of these AIDS rides around the country folded, the victim of its own greed. The organizer had a sorry history of returning around 30 percent of its proceeds to the AIDS charities, which had been scammed. That meant of the $3,250 that I had raised from family and friends, less than $1,000 went towards finding a cure for AIDS.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Did's Bicycling Saga -- Chapter 12
From Allen Avenue in Canton, Ohio, to Allen Street in Tombstone, Arizona, it was a pure time warp to be on a bicycle among the stagecoaches and cowboys mingling with camera-toting tourists trolling for Old West memories along the boardwalk.
The journey began at the O.K. Corral and headed south on Route 80 about four miles to a two-lane pavement called Davis with no berm and only sandy shoulders of the encroaching desert. Balancing on the solid white line along the asphalt’s edge, I pedaled the rolling hills under a cloudless bright blue January sky, encountering a few cattle guards that rattled my bike and my bones.
Bicycling along this Arizona road slicing through a nearly desolate domain of yucca trees, dry grasses and hazy, blue mountains in the distance, what a thrill! No buildings, no people, no animals in sight for much of the ride.
Civilization’s reminders were scant -- the road beneath me, the fences beside me, the occasional hum of oncoming rushing rubber and the whoosh of a passing truck and high above the desert floor, a jet trail graphing the passengers’ trajectories.
The pedal below was an escape from a frigid Chicago winter and my first cycling trip as a retiree. Left behind were a glaring computer screen, the never-ending e-mails, the teleconferences, deadlines, new assignments and what’s-this-meeting-about and how-long-will-it-last entrapments of the daily work world.
The job was history, the ride was now, and the future was over the next climb.
Several miles down Davis, I stopped for water, a muscle stretch and a 360-degree scan of the expansive landscape. The stillness, the calm, the peace of the desert embraced me.
Closing my eyes¸ I experienced the nothingness of the moment. No sounds, no sights. Pure nothingness. Nirvana! Buddha found me astride a bicycle in the southern Arizona desert. The experience was pure, transcending but transient.
The mighty bicycle had delivered me to this place, to this moment, this mood, and it brought me back to a sweet reality. I had to pedal back to my car.
The journey began at the O.K. Corral and headed south on Route 80 about four miles to a two-lane pavement called Davis with no berm and only sandy shoulders of the encroaching desert. Balancing on the solid white line along the asphalt’s edge, I pedaled the rolling hills under a cloudless bright blue January sky, encountering a few cattle guards that rattled my bike and my bones.
Bicycling along this Arizona road slicing through a nearly desolate domain of yucca trees, dry grasses and hazy, blue mountains in the distance, what a thrill! No buildings, no people, no animals in sight for much of the ride.
Civilization’s reminders were scant -- the road beneath me, the fences beside me, the occasional hum of oncoming rushing rubber and the whoosh of a passing truck and high above the desert floor, a jet trail graphing the passengers’ trajectories.
The pedal below was an escape from a frigid Chicago winter and my first cycling trip as a retiree. Left behind were a glaring computer screen, the never-ending e-mails, the teleconferences, deadlines, new assignments and what’s-this-meeting-about and how-long-will-it-last entrapments of the daily work world.
The job was history, the ride was now, and the future was over the next climb.
Several miles down Davis, I stopped for water, a muscle stretch and a 360-degree scan of the expansive landscape. The stillness, the calm, the peace of the desert embraced me.
Closing my eyes¸ I experienced the nothingness of the moment. No sounds, no sights. Pure nothingness. Nirvana! Buddha found me astride a bicycle in the southern Arizona desert. The experience was pure, transcending but transient.
The mighty bicycle had delivered me to this place, to this moment, this mood, and it brought me back to a sweet reality. I had to pedal back to my car.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Did's Bicycling Sage -- Chapter 11
Renting a bicycle on vacation opens up new experiences that you might not otherwise have if you stuck to only planes, trains or automobiles.
In most large and medium-sized cities and resorts, a bicycle can be had one way or another. Upscale hotels and resorts often have bicycles available for free for their guests or for a minimum fee.
Rental bikes have taken me through the tulip fields of the Netherlands, to the bowling greens of Christchurch, New Zealand, through the streets and parks of Vancouver, through Torrey Pines State Park near Del Mar, California, through the beachfront communities of Southern California, around Martha’s Vineyard, up and down Sabino Canyon near Tucson. The list goes on, and, I hope it, will continue to grow each year.
At the top of the list is bicycling the hills and valleys around Lodeve, France in the Languedoc region. Bicycling almost didn’t happen in Lodeve. A lack of rentals and the language barrier almost dashed my dream to bicycle for two weeks in the south of France. My Lonely Planet “Cycling France” book had provided me with the phrases and sentences I needed to express my wants. The problem was I didn’t understand much more than oui, non, merci and a French shrug of the shoulders.
“Je voudrai louer un velo,” became a mantra I practiced before venturing out. “Un velo como Le Tour de France.” (Translation: “I would like to hire a bicycle. A bicycle like the ones in the Tour de France.” Or so I thought.)
At the first shop with plenty of kiddie bikes on display, I was told, “Non.” The next and the only other shop in town divided its showroom floor between bicycles and motorcycles.
I approached the counter ready with my mantra and did my spiel. “VTT,” was the response, then some arm movement, more words, and I became lost and frustrated. VTT I knew to be the French description of a mountain bike, but my understanding took me no further than that.
I looked at the operator, shrugged my American shoulders and began to leave when I spied my London-based, Canadian-born brother-in-law strolling along the street. I grabbed him, explained my predicament, hoping his French might help me consummate the deal. He succeeded in not getting any further than I did and left me in his wake.
I left in despair of getting a bicycle to rent. After strolling about Lodeve, I realized that this shop was my only chance of getting a bike. And worse, what would be my vacation without a bicycle to explore the region?
With new resolve, I returned to the shop and repeated my mantra. When the man mentioned VTT and flung his arms about, I said “oui” not exactly knowing what I had agreed to. He disappeared in the backroom and came out rolling a tired old 21-speed bicycle of unnamed origin. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
First the bike, now I had to settle the matter of money. Any easy solution I thought was to hand over my credit card, which speaks all languages. When I did, he pointed to his electronic credit card box, all taped up with a handwritten note that I could not decipher. By the looks of things, it was out of order.
This was to be strictly a Euro cash transaction. I had the Euros, but how much do I give him. I made a motion like writing on a piece of paper. He grabbed a pen and scratch pad and wrote down a number, which I took to be the daily rate. I looked at it and said “oui.”
But then he started going on in French, and I became totally bewildered. It showed all over my face. He motioned to me to come behind the counter with him and follow him to his desk where he had a calendar. He pointed to today’s date, then moved his hand back and forward looking at me, I pointed to a Friday 10 days hence. He agreed, and I counted out the necessary Euros. Let’s make a deal in Lodeve had succeeded after all. You would have thought I had just won the national lottery.
He took my clipless pedals, installed them, and in no time I was rolling down the narrow streets of Lodeve with great joy and anticipation. My French cycling experience had been launched. I pedaled up and down and around the hills in the region, passing vineyards, tiny villages, stone buildings, stone walls and other cyclists. The bike allowed me to go places that I didn’t even know existed before I set out each morning. These were my days of discovery.
On one ride, I passed another cyclist at the crest of a hill and descended as fast as my VTT would propel me. A couple miles down the road, I pulled off for some rest, water and a snack. The cyclist passed me nodding his head. Soon I was back on my bike and caught up with him where he had pulled off to refuel.
We talked to each other, but really did not convey much meaning either way. I told him the town where I was headed, and he responded I know not what. Nonetheless, with a couple hand gestures, we agreed to pedal on together. After a while of this, he pulled over and signaled to me to drink some water and with his hand pointing upward, he advised that the way ahead was going to be a healthy climb. Back on the bikes, I followed his lead on this shaded, narrow country road that went up, up and up.
When we finally crested the hill, he turned to me and asked if I was an American. I nodded yes. Then he either asked how long I was going to be in the area or how old I was, having climbed that hill on a mountain bike with much aplomb. I said about two weeks and 57 years old, or something like that. I’m not sure he understood. We only understood bicycling together.
He rode down the hill and into Clermont Le’Herault, my original destination, where he stopped to tell me what direction he was headed. I didn’t comprehend exactly so I pointed in the opposite direction toward the center of town. I didn’t want to follow him, not knowing how far he would take me and where, and I didn’t know if I could find my way back to Lodeve. We exchanged “merci’s” and “aurevoir’s” and he was gone. The mostly silent pedal with another cyclist had been sweet, but far too short.
While I was in France, Lance was headed for his fifth straight Tour de France triumph. You would never have had a clue in Lodeve. The house where we stayed had no television and no radio. The cafes and bars in town had no tv’s either. The only way I could stay abreast of the tour was the International Herald Tribune the next day. Each morning I raced into town to get my copy.
On the final day of the tour, I went literally begging for a place to watch TV. Could you believe it? This is a town that had been a starting point for a tour stage just the year before. The peloton had gathered here and rode to Mount Ventoux. Towns across France jockey each year to be selected as the start or end of stage or even to have the peloton race through their streets. It’s always cause for celebration, but whatever joy Lodeve might have experienced from last year’s tour had long since evaporated into the ether.
When I inquired about watching the tour on TV outside a shop, a local told me in English that there was a TV strike of sorts somewhere in the country. I don’t know if that was true, but Lodeve had been blacked out from the coverage. Close and yet so far from the tour.
In most large and medium-sized cities and resorts, a bicycle can be had one way or another. Upscale hotels and resorts often have bicycles available for free for their guests or for a minimum fee.
Rental bikes have taken me through the tulip fields of the Netherlands, to the bowling greens of Christchurch, New Zealand, through the streets and parks of Vancouver, through Torrey Pines State Park near Del Mar, California, through the beachfront communities of Southern California, around Martha’s Vineyard, up and down Sabino Canyon near Tucson. The list goes on, and, I hope it, will continue to grow each year.
At the top of the list is bicycling the hills and valleys around Lodeve, France in the Languedoc region. Bicycling almost didn’t happen in Lodeve. A lack of rentals and the language barrier almost dashed my dream to bicycle for two weeks in the south of France. My Lonely Planet “Cycling France” book had provided me with the phrases and sentences I needed to express my wants. The problem was I didn’t understand much more than oui, non, merci and a French shrug of the shoulders.
“Je voudrai louer un velo,” became a mantra I practiced before venturing out. “Un velo como Le Tour de France.” (Translation: “I would like to hire a bicycle. A bicycle like the ones in the Tour de France.” Or so I thought.)
At the first shop with plenty of kiddie bikes on display, I was told, “Non.” The next and the only other shop in town divided its showroom floor between bicycles and motorcycles.
I approached the counter ready with my mantra and did my spiel. “VTT,” was the response, then some arm movement, more words, and I became lost and frustrated. VTT I knew to be the French description of a mountain bike, but my understanding took me no further than that.
I looked at the operator, shrugged my American shoulders and began to leave when I spied my London-based, Canadian-born brother-in-law strolling along the street. I grabbed him, explained my predicament, hoping his French might help me consummate the deal. He succeeded in not getting any further than I did and left me in his wake.
I left in despair of getting a bicycle to rent. After strolling about Lodeve, I realized that this shop was my only chance of getting a bike. And worse, what would be my vacation without a bicycle to explore the region?
With new resolve, I returned to the shop and repeated my mantra. When the man mentioned VTT and flung his arms about, I said “oui” not exactly knowing what I had agreed to. He disappeared in the backroom and came out rolling a tired old 21-speed bicycle of unnamed origin. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
First the bike, now I had to settle the matter of money. Any easy solution I thought was to hand over my credit card, which speaks all languages. When I did, he pointed to his electronic credit card box, all taped up with a handwritten note that I could not decipher. By the looks of things, it was out of order.
This was to be strictly a Euro cash transaction. I had the Euros, but how much do I give him. I made a motion like writing on a piece of paper. He grabbed a pen and scratch pad and wrote down a number, which I took to be the daily rate. I looked at it and said “oui.”
But then he started going on in French, and I became totally bewildered. It showed all over my face. He motioned to me to come behind the counter with him and follow him to his desk where he had a calendar. He pointed to today’s date, then moved his hand back and forward looking at me, I pointed to a Friday 10 days hence. He agreed, and I counted out the necessary Euros. Let’s make a deal in Lodeve had succeeded after all. You would have thought I had just won the national lottery.
He took my clipless pedals, installed them, and in no time I was rolling down the narrow streets of Lodeve with great joy and anticipation. My French cycling experience had been launched. I pedaled up and down and around the hills in the region, passing vineyards, tiny villages, stone buildings, stone walls and other cyclists. The bike allowed me to go places that I didn’t even know existed before I set out each morning. These were my days of discovery.
On one ride, I passed another cyclist at the crest of a hill and descended as fast as my VTT would propel me. A couple miles down the road, I pulled off for some rest, water and a snack. The cyclist passed me nodding his head. Soon I was back on my bike and caught up with him where he had pulled off to refuel.
We talked to each other, but really did not convey much meaning either way. I told him the town where I was headed, and he responded I know not what. Nonetheless, with a couple hand gestures, we agreed to pedal on together. After a while of this, he pulled over and signaled to me to drink some water and with his hand pointing upward, he advised that the way ahead was going to be a healthy climb. Back on the bikes, I followed his lead on this shaded, narrow country road that went up, up and up.
When we finally crested the hill, he turned to me and asked if I was an American. I nodded yes. Then he either asked how long I was going to be in the area or how old I was, having climbed that hill on a mountain bike with much aplomb. I said about two weeks and 57 years old, or something like that. I’m not sure he understood. We only understood bicycling together.
He rode down the hill and into Clermont Le’Herault, my original destination, where he stopped to tell me what direction he was headed. I didn’t comprehend exactly so I pointed in the opposite direction toward the center of town. I didn’t want to follow him, not knowing how far he would take me and where, and I didn’t know if I could find my way back to Lodeve. We exchanged “merci’s” and “aurevoir’s” and he was gone. The mostly silent pedal with another cyclist had been sweet, but far too short.
While I was in France, Lance was headed for his fifth straight Tour de France triumph. You would never have had a clue in Lodeve. The house where we stayed had no television and no radio. The cafes and bars in town had no tv’s either. The only way I could stay abreast of the tour was the International Herald Tribune the next day. Each morning I raced into town to get my copy.
On the final day of the tour, I went literally begging for a place to watch TV. Could you believe it? This is a town that had been a starting point for a tour stage just the year before. The peloton had gathered here and rode to Mount Ventoux. Towns across France jockey each year to be selected as the start or end of stage or even to have the peloton race through their streets. It’s always cause for celebration, but whatever joy Lodeve might have experienced from last year’s tour had long since evaporated into the ether.
When I inquired about watching the tour on TV outside a shop, a local told me in English that there was a TV strike of sorts somewhere in the country. I don’t know if that was true, but Lodeve had been blacked out from the coverage. Close and yet so far from the tour.
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