I can’t remember a time when I haven’t owned a bicycle although I’d be hard-pressed to list them all. A few do stand out in my memory. The bright green Raleigh with the white seat and handlebar grips that we won in a raffle from the BP gas station at the end of our street. I think the intention was that it was to be shared, but I recall claiming it for myself. The glowing orange CCM ten-speed that served me well during my teens. The first “mountain” bike I bought and rode as I camped across Ontario the summer after I finished College.
There was the yellow Rocky Mountain model that was stolen twice. The first time my neighbour spotted a stranger walking it down my driveway from the shed in the backyard. He called out and the thief dropped it and ran. With renewed diligence I locked it up regularly, until I didn’t. And then one day it wasn’t there.
The bike I have now is one that I bought when living in Calgary. It had a tough upbringing on gravel fire roads and single-track trails in the foothills of Alberta, so it must be happy with the paved roads, bike lanes and occasional rail trails that I mostly ride now. I’ve upgraded the components, switched the seat for one more ergonomic, added bag carriers and replaced rims on successive spring tune-ups so I’m not sure how much of it is original beyond the frame. This bike is my work horse. It has been slightly abused in the sense that I have left it outside a couple of winters. The black paint job has faded and there’s a bit of rust in a few places that used to shine with chrome plating. Now bring it inside when the weather turns cold, usually after at least one snowfall covers it in sticky snow like the branches of the spruce tree in the back yard.
I got serious again about riding regularly when we were locked down during covid. My routine was to get up early and do a lap around the east end of the city. Down the Don River trail across to Cherry Beach, out on the Leslie Spit and up the Woodbine hill. Since then, I’ve clocked 13,178 km on 553 rides. I know this because the Strava app tracks my rides.
Measuring distance on my bike seems to have always been on my mind. At first it was a mechanical cyclometer that counted the revolutions on the front wheel as a striker mounted on a spoke ticked past a star-shaped cog attached to something that looked like an old-school odometer. I upgraded to a rotating sensor that linked to a little LCD screen mounted on the handlebars and was calibrated to convert rotations into distance and speed. Now I use the GPS function in my phone and get all sorts of analysis.
Knowing how far I ride always seemed to be an important measure. Distance is the currency of independence when you are a kid. Ending up 10 kilometers from home had the effect of expanding the boundaries of your freedom. It gave confidence and required self-sufficiency. You had to be able to find your way home, requiring both a sense of geography and the skills to repair your bike should something break down. It was necessary to plan and bring essentials - a snack, a full water bottle, a rain jacket and a spare inner tube.
I don’t remember learning to ride a bike. Did my dad run along behind me holding the back of the seat or did my brothers and I take turns coasting down the slight incline of our street first on training wheels and then coasting between the lawn and curb. When it came time to teach my own kids their bicycle education came in stages starting with their position as passengers in the Burley trailer and then on the third wheel tag along hitched to the seat post.
There’s a rhythm to riding and getting into a consistent pedalling cadence creates the right conditions for thinking things through. It’s also the perfect pace for observation. Riding the same roads that I might otherwise drive; I can see life on the edges. Spy on things that would have been missed when I would speed by. Looking down the lane and spotting a deer that I knew I would never have noticed from behind the steering wheel. Hearing the laughter of kids running around the yard. A dog that would watch me and consider giving chase.
Much has been written about the merits of bicycle design and its efficiency. What can I add but to say the consequence is that I feel virtuous riding my bike. I’m not spewing out emissions as I sail past the stuttering line of traffic. My blood starts circulating and the wind in my face gives me healthy glow. The same rewards I had as a child return. I can go just about anywhere, and I know that I am self-sufficient.
There’s a picture of my mother as a young girl with her bicycle that I cherish. She looks happy and a little bit wild. I know from looking at her that she experienced the same joy. When did she surrender it, I wonder? I don’t recall either of my parents riding bicycles. Certainly, they had given it up long before they reached my age now. I hope to keep going and hold onto that feeling as long as I can.
Last year I was on the verge of getting a new ride. Bicycles seemed in short supply so when a friend’s son said he had a bike he was looking to sell, I was delighted. We struck a deal, and he took it away to switch tires and do a little maintenance. Something in the way he said he would call me when it was ready gave me a pause. I spoke with his mom the next day and asked if he was having second thoughts. She was relieved I asked as, yes, he was reconsidering. Instead, I did another round of component swaps and a tune-up at my local shop. He kept the bike, and I got the satisfaction of keeping mine on the road.
As we head into the heart of winter, I know I will miss my regular outdoor rides and excursions to the gravel rail trails north of the city. My indoor trainer just isn’t the same, even with music or a podcast for distraction, there isn’t the same stimulation of the senses. I will have to look forward to the first warmer mornings in the new year when the ice and slush have melted from the pathways, and I venture out again.