Spring Pedals

Dust off that old 21-speed. The weather is too nice to sit inside.

I pulled my bike off the rack and took it outside–the first time in a long spell. The frame was covered in a thin layer of dust. The tires were soft from a lengthy hibernation. The brakes and shifters were right where I had left them, though the rear lever had much more give than I preferred. Time to tighten the cables and clean the discs. The chain definitely needed some love. A blast of degreaser and a full shift cycle with a bead of chain lube was in order. The derailleur was stiff too, and reluctant to move to the outermost chainring. In short, a full spring tune up was due.

It would have to wait. The weather was too pleasant. I opted instead to fill the tires, employing the inexact science of giving the rubber a good squeeze to confirm PSI. (Would not recommend the same method for car tires). The dusting and degreasing, cable tensioning and gear tuning would be another day. It was good enough for now. It was the First Nice Day of Spring. The inaugural event. Opening day.

As I tilted my bike against the garage and pumped my tires, I thought of the excitement as a kid that surrounded the spring bike liberation. All winter they hung in our garage, upside down like prisoners strung up in the rafters. Suspended from J hooks, they endured their long imprisonment without complaint. As the ice began to thaw and trickle through the gutters, the lawn emerging in patches of bristled grass from the driven snows, you could sense the anticipation. Not long now.

The liberation required outside assistance. It was the sole decision of the warden of the garage–dad, as to when the bikes were fit for release. After a string of passable sunny days and with enough pestering, he would move the cars out of the way to take them down. With the advantage of adult height and a strength that seemed herculean to an elementary school child, the bikes were finally brought out from their captivity. Spring had arrived.

Next we would paw through the odds-and-ends shelf by the door and retrieve our bike helmets. I always had to finagle with the straps that had somehow gone askew and tangled despite sitting untouched for the months. One of those little mysteries. By then, dad had inflated the tires, given it the good squeeze test for proper gauge (its an inherited mechanism, apparently) and then we were turned loose.

Up and down the subdivision we would tear on our chrome steeds. Hells Angels without combustion engines and the criminal record. We would rip along the damp asphalt, narrowly averting the potholes formed by the freeze and thaw of winter. We would skirt off the paved path, dipping into the dirt shoulders, putting up rooster tails of glorious mud as we tore through the slop. The backs of our sweatshirts were coated in the tailings of these rut runs as we whooped with delight. We engineered untold hours of laundry for my poor mother.

I replicated the whine of a 125 two-stroke with my mouth, even twisted the handle bar as a false throttle for full effect. We raced side-by-side, three abreast if we could entice enough entrants. We would see who could make the fastest sprint between one mailbox and the finish line four addresses down. Huffing with exertion we jockeyed like horses, finally letting our bikes coast after the final marker, catching our breath just enough to exclaim and protest who was the outright winner.

Fatigued from time trials we endeavored for minor stunts and jumps. At the end of our drive where the asphalt tapered to the shoulder was a natural hump. We carved it out further with our tire tread, making full runs at it and jerking up on the handle bars to see how much of a wheelie we could pull off.

Much like the races, performances and participant placement was subject to much scrutiny and inarticulate shouting. Arguing was half the appeal and always upped the ante, daring the next rider to pull off the incontestable—a decisive winning performance. I achieved such a feat once. Heading toward the ramp with full speed I caught it perfectly and popped up my handle bars, sending the bike and myself completely vertical–a full wheelie. I lacked the poise to keep it balanced and panicked. The front tire was level with my own face and I careened to my doom. If I recall, I earned a nasty scrape on my knee and ran to the house in tears. It was a definitive showstopper, but one I was not to repeat.

Keep in mind these bikes were single fixed gear contraptions. The type where you peddled backward to brake, and the output was commensurate to how much you pumped your legs. My first love was a burnt red Magna beauty. It had a sparkle coat finish like a Lund bass boat and foam tubing guards with decals and logos like a stock car. It could take me wherever I wanted to go.

My current bike lacks the panache of that original roadster. It is a practical piece with drop handlebars, 21-speed gear configuration, and a flat black paint job. It is what’s known as a “gravel bike” which has gained some popularity for its utility. I’ve outfitted it with a few amenities, some water bottle holders, a small saddle pouch with a multi-tool to work my way out of minor jams–a phone in my pocket to get scooped up by Sarah Jane if I were to ever actually have issues. I am not a serious enough rider to be bothered with shaving ounces and maximizing watts. Apparently not even bothered enough to wipe off the dust or re-lube the chain immediately, though I’ll get to it.

It’s sunny today. A special sort of light and warmth that you can only appreciate after its absence for so many cold months. A few clouds meandered across the sky but for the most part it was a piercing empty blue. Idyllic. The wind was up just a bit, gusting in from the north with enough chill to remind you that spring here comes with many false starts. The ground and yards are still matted from the winter weight, yet unkempt and unmanicured—A reminder that sometimes beginnings can be a bit unsightly but you have to trust in the tulip bulbs and perennials concealed beneath.

I saddled my bike and ventured out. The air was dry and held that befuddling April mix of thawing earth, dried grasses, the scent of warm sunshine and the nip of cool swirling wind. The trail was bustling with neighbors, out for walks with friends and their dogs. Puffer coats and sweatshirts tied about their waists as they chat and laugh, walking with vigor in the newfound sunlight. I am riding alone today, no one to race to mailboxes with or make ruts through the muddied edges of the trail. Wheelies are out of the question. I do my own laundry now too. The music in my headphones keeps my company. I pedal along unhurried, shifting gears to climb the modest hills instead of rising from my seat and pedaling with all my might as I did as a boy.

The delights of spring are still as renewing as they always were. I glance at my watch, checking my relative speed. I am getting nowhere fast, and that is ok. I make a mental note to ride down to the tennis courts, to see if the nets are up for the season. The bike creaks a bit, groans with lack of use as the chains work over gear teeth covered in grit. The afternoon sprawls before me much like the lake I am encompassing, open and blameless. I am not on any schedule. I take my time as this burgeoning spring also appears to be doing.

I glance down at my modest bike, unadorned with brilliant decals or logos spouting flames. Perhaps it could use a sticker to add a boost of speed. It is a good bike, a trusty machine. And like that original Magna, now only residing in my boyhood memories, it will take me anywhere I want to go.