Cycling Ab Initio

Behold, the cyclist. Or his shoes anyway.

This past Monday, I did something I've never before done in my life: I mounted a serious cycling bike (Mark's old bike), allowed my feet to be affixed to the pedals thereof, and after a couple of spins around the block so as to learn the rudiments of how the bike's gears shifted, I went on a bike ride with Mark.  

There were two new sports I committed last fall to learning. The first was snow skiing. Mark is an avid skier. I have skied a half-dozen times in my life, the last time being 10 years ago when I went to Snowbird with the Boy Scouts and Adam and I hung out at the bunny slope. The time before that was in January of 1982 which was, um, a few years, er decades, ago. I had planned to get some serious skiing in this past winter, but with the snow situation being what it was here, Mark and I went twice.  

Cycling, however, is not dependent on weather. So I am committed. But like skiing, cycling is an activity that I haven't engaged in for years and years ... and years. I had a bike in high school and used it to ride to work across the booming metropolis of Carmi, my home town (population 6000). However, once I got my car, I stopped using the bike. (No one "cycled" in Carmi in 1974.)

The next time I mounted a bike was in the fall of 1984 after I arrived in Brest, France on my mission. The day after my arrival in this Breton city, my companion took me to a bike store to purchase un velo. This was the first time I heard that wonderful French word, merde, uttered by a Frenchman when he saw that the shop had closed for lunch.  

Here I am with my new velo in the doorway of our building in Brest.

I had another learning experience involving French slang in another bike shop, this one in Tours. The pedal on my companion's bike broke and we stopped at a shop across town from our apartment so that he could purchase a new one. Since he was fairly new on his mission, his French wasn't that great, so I made him ask for what he needed himself. Now, the French word for bike pedal is "une pedale"; i.e., the noun is feminine. My companion, however (pictured below), asked for "un [masculine] pedale," which is slang for a male homosexual. I got a good laugh out of that one. 

I was to use that bike during my four months in Brest, then - after a four month hiatus while in Paris - would use it for four months getting back and forth across the small but charming city of Tours in the Loire Valley. Though the bike was primarily used for utilitarian purposes, a group of us missionaries did cycle once to an outlying chateau, Villandry. It was also in Tours that I had my one and only major accident. A car turned right in front of me, running over my front tire with its rear tire.  

The grounds of the Chateau de Villandry near Tours.

My bike, a little worse for wear.

But I digress.

The ride this past Monday went fairly well, I thought. One of the things Mark cautioned me about - I having never used biking shoes - is to release at least one of my shoes from the binding as I approach a red light so as to prevent the inevitable, i.e., falling over. I did great, until I forgot. And the inevitable happened. Too late, comprehension dawned on me. Fortunately, I was next to the curb and a grassy spot. Unfortunately, there were two other cyclists three feet away from my landing spot, not to mention all the cars at the intersection.  

However, the only thing bruised - slightly - was my pride. And I had learned an important lesson.

The next important lesson would come as we coasted down 3900 South on our way home. It is a pretty good grade, and I was ahead. Another thing Mark had cautioned me against was over-using my front brakes, explaining that I could quickly throw myself over the handlebars if I wasn't careful. Well, I experienced a few moments of anxiety bordering on fright as my bike started wobbling on the way down the hill, me wondering for a split-second whether I was going to lose control of the bike. Then I realized what was wrong: I was using both front and back brakes. Another lesson learned.  

We went out again the next day and it was easier. No falling. No wobbling. I enjoyed the ride. It was a beautiful spring afternoon and the scents of flowering trees and shrubs filled the air. I was glad to be alive ... and tried not to think of those training rides up Cottonwood Canyon that await me when we get back from Hawaii.