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| M'ugly Bike |
| 04.20.04 (5:45 pm) [edit] |
I have an ugly bike and a beautiful bicycle. They are both in my garage waiting for me.
I bought the ugly bike first. It was my first bike as an adult. It is black. Not jet black and sleek. The paint is flat and now chipped in many places. A spot or two of dark orange rust have erupted. Small flecks of gray show where stones have chipped the paint. My ugly bike was made in a factory, but not for a mass market. Tens of thousands like it were made, but not millions.
A few years later I bought the beautiful bicycle. It was made in Italy, in a small shop where people still assemble steel tubing into bicycles by hand. It was not custom made, but hundreds of bicycles are made there, not thousands. My beautiful bicycle is blue. Not just blue, but cerulean blue. The color of very deep water on a clear day. I bought a small sleeve to protect the chainstay from chips.
My ugly bike is not a road bike. It looks like a wimpy mountain bike. It has smooth wide tires, as opposed to the aggressive nobbies of real mountain bikes. It came with a plain straight handlebar, but I replaced it with a curving monstrosity that comes to a single point, making the bike look like a cyclops. The saddle is covered with nylon, now torn. Even the chain and chainrings are black, with bits of gray wear showing through.
My beautiful bicycle is a thoroughbred road machine. The handlebars curve down in the classic ram's horn shape, and are covered with a thick, soft blue tape. The tape is held in place by shiny chrome buttons which fit in the handlebar ends. The front fork curves gently as it cradles the thin, strong front wheel. An impossibly small number of shiny spokes levitate the rim of the wheel. Even when greased, the chain is silver and glides almost silently around a sculpted chainring.
My ugly bike creaks and groans when I ride it. No amount of adjusting can keep the chain from rubbing the derailleur. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the ghostly echo of a boy running with a stick along a picket fence. The brakes chuff and hum when you apply them hard. Changing gears is awkward, twisting handgrips like revving a motorcycle. The sound is worse, beginning with a "click" from the shifter and ending with the "clunk" of the chain falling in place.
My beautiful bicycle is graceful in a way that I am not. On the road, the wind is louder than the tires and the tires louder than the chain. Changing gears requires the flick of a finger, less effort than it takes to redirect a pencil on the page. Gear changes are instantaneous, with the chain "snicking" into place without hesitation. Hitting the brakes is like pulling the reins on a smart horse, quickly and surely the bike stops itself without disturbing the rider.
My ugly bike is a cantankerous ride. The smallest gear is too small and leads to my feet uselessly spinning the pedals. Even its biggest gear is too small, leaving me to coast down large hills. A comfortable position is hard to find, with no good place to put my hands. There is no position that allows me to stretch my back just right. I lean too far forward on the saddle. Even with the correct saddle height my legs feel cramped and pedalling never seems smooth.
My beautiful bike is a joy to ride. The first time I rode it, I thought it was nice, but was afraid I had wasted my money. It fit better, yes, but pedallng on the flats seemed the same. Then the road turned upward. Each pedal stroke snapped the back wheel around as if an extra lever were doing the work. Full power was transferred from my back and buttocks directly to the pavement. I felt as though the law of gravity had been altered just for me. On the downhill, I found the biggest gear. I still felt a reassuring pressure on my legs as I pedalled downhill. The bicycle didn't wobble in the slightest as the speedometer approached 40 miles an hour -- too fast for my heart.
Now it is spring. After a long winter I stand in my garage looking at my two machines. I will clean them and grease them and prepare them for the days and nights that lie ahead. As I look ahead, I remember. Remembering those days and miles they have given me.
I remember the day I bought my ugly bike. It was like being a kid again. Sitting on the saddle, but feeling the wind lash my face was like flying. I remember the first time I went ten miles. Ten whole miles! The hours alone on the backroads, thinking that I was a Tour contender. The first time I rode with a group and got dropped like a rock. The first time I bonked, feeling that I couldn't turn the crank one more time, even though I was miles from home.
I remember the first time I crested the hill at the front of the group. The first time I had to wait for the rest of my comrades to make it to the water stop. The first time I rode in the rain. In the snow. The first time I rode all day, 12 full hours all the way across Indiana. The first time I rode for charity, the first time I actually raced someone. The most important firsts of all came on that bike as well. The first time I pulled my daughter in her trailer, the first time she rode beside me on her own bike.
All those firsts and many, many miles on that ugly bike. I now consider how the lower gears will be easier on my winter softened legs. I think how the upright position will be easier on my stiff, neglected back. Even as I look longingly at my beautiful machine, it is my ugly bike I am throwing my right leg over. It is my ugly bike that glides down the driveway to the street. It is the pressure of the pedals of the ugly bike that bite into my legs as the hill looms in front me. It is my ugly bike that brings back that feeling, that glow of good health that riding brings. The clearing of the mental cobwebs, the invigoration of the spirit.
All traces of winter depression disappear as the pedals turn and then turn some more. The road stretches to infinity just beyond my front tire. The first bead of sweat forms on my brow, only to be evaporated by the fresh breeze. My bike and I are flying in the winds of spring, laden with potential. I look down and admire the machine that carries me, the one that multiplies my efforts into supple forward motion. I just can't believe it. I can't believe I called my best friend "ugly." It must have been Winter talking.
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