Bike Tribes

by Mike Magnuson

  the High School Cyclists: WILLIAM and KATRIN

  Old-school bikes. Accept no substitutes.

  Kick stand, because that’s old-school, too.

  Jeans, because who goes for a bike ride without jeans on?

  No helmets. High school kids, they just can’t help it; they just don’t have any common sense.

  THE OVERWHELMING MAJORITY

  On a midmorning in June, William rolls his mountain bike along the bike path.

  He stops at a bench alongside the path, leans the bike against a tree, takes a seat, and enjoys the view of trees and the sunlight filtering through the leaves. He is 17 years old, one more year of high school left. He prefers to be called William because he likes the way the name gives the impression that he’s a poet. He is a poet, too. And he does painting and sculpture. And plays the acoustic guitar. And he’s totally into organic, locally grown food and sustainable living.

  His girlfriend, Katrin, rolls up on a vintage Schwinn Continental, stops, and sets a foot on the path.

  “Ride downtown?” she says and smiles a very pretty smile. She has an elfin look, light-blue eyes, pointy features, ethereal expression. She shares William’s love for poetry and for music and for sustainable living and for getting around on bicycles instead of in automobiles.

  William rises from the bench and in a dorky British accent says, “With you, my dear, I will ride anywhere.”

  “Why, William, that is so nice of you to say.” She winks.

  William thinks she’s awesome. She may be a real elf, for all he knows.

  They start rolling toward downtown, about 3 miles on the bike path from here. They pedal side by side, in no hurry, and the sunlight dapples the maples along the trail, which William can’t help mentioning.

  “That sunshine sure does dapple those leaves,” he says.

  Katrin laughs. “Dapple? Where’d you get that word?”

  “Gerard Manley Hopkins.”

  “Really?”

  “‘Glory be to God for dappled things.’”

  Katrin says, “That certainly is a Manley Hopkins line!”

  They laugh for a bit and keep pedaling.

  A man in a bright-red spandex suit riding a fancy sort of space-age time trial bike comes toward them on the trail. He is blazing, tilted forward with his hands in his aero bars, eyes invisible behind his sunglasses, and he flies by without acknowledging William and Katrin.

  William can feel the wind blowing off the rider when he passes. “Geez, that jerk is sure taking himself seriously,” he says.

  Katrin smiles and says, “I hope he slows down for that stop sign back there.”

  “That would suck for him,” William says, “if he rode that bike right into traffic.”

  “Hold up. Maybe he will.”

  They slow and turn around and look behind them on the trail. No sign of the man in spandex.

  William says, “Vanished.”

  “That’s crazy.” Katrin pedals down the path again and seems to be thinking about something quite seriously. Finally, she says, “You think Gerard Manley Hopkins would ride a bike like that?”

  “That’s the ultimate question,” William says. “What would Gerard Manley Hopkins do?”

  “I’m pretty sure he would love that red spandex outfit!”

  “Maybe I should get one then?”

  “If that helps your poetry,” Katrin says, “I’m all for it.”

  William is just so into riding bikes and hanging out with Katrin that for a second he contemplates buying a skin suit and getting a fancy time trial bike. “You really think that would help?”

  “No, you goof,” Katrin says. She tells him if he were to buy her a cup of coffee downtown, that would help his poetry a whole lot more. He likes that idea. He believes he will ride just about anywhere to buy Katrin a cup of coffee.

  the Retiree Cyclists: HARRIET and GLENDA

  Helmets. After a number of years on this planet, people can’t help having common sense.

  Sensible cycling outfit—purchased online, after much contemplation about color and multiple searches through various Web sites to find the best price.

  Upright position on the bike.

  Large bags on the handlebars carrying maps of the bike path, sun block, bug spray, Chapstick, an apple, a banana, a granola bar, and $5 for coffee and a muffin after the ride.

  Harriet and Glenda, retired schoolteachers, 62 and 65 years old respectively, don’t miss a morning on the bike path all summer, except for when the weather’s bad, which doesn’t happen too often.

  Most mornings, they always say to each other, are perfect—cool temperatures, not much wind, not too many people on the path. Every morning at exactly this time, in fact, they put on their SPF 50 and their bike shorts and sleeveless shirts and sensible helmets, and hop on their hybrid bikes. They meet up at the trailhead and roll down the path together and have such a wonderful time.

  Harriet says, “Another nice day.”

  Glenda says, “Yes, it is.”

  They usually don’t chit-chat too much early in their ride, on account of it takes a while for the bones to get acclimated to pedaling. The path is so nice, trees on both sides and a river alongside it all the way back to downtown. Side-by-side riding. Ideal. They have the whole bike path to themselves.

  Harriet coughs and asks, “How many more years you think we can do this?”

  Glenda says, “Pfft. A lot more years. How could you even ask that?”

  “Oh, I don’t want it to end, is all.”

  “Put that kind of thing right out of your mind, Harriet.”

  They don’t talk for a while—just enjoying each other’s company, keeping things positive. The only sound is their tires rolling and chains passing over their sprockets and the sound of summer birds. Glenda feels the ache escaping from her bones and starts pedaling a fraction harder. Harriet matches her, not out of competition but out of a feel for each other’s efforts, something they’ve learned from riding together the last few summers.

  Harriet clears her throat again, a habit—it helps to get people’s attention before she speaks. At the exact instant she starts to say something, shouts ring out behind them on the trail. Men yelling, “Bikes back!” One man yells, “On your left!” Another yells, “Single file and to the right, please.” Sounds like a police officer saying it. “Come on, ladies!”

  The ladies immediately quit pedaling and squeeze their bikes close together because they don’t know where else to go but toward each other.

  One biker passes on their left, a man on a road bicycle wearing a red-and-white spandex racing suit with “Big Ed’s Cyclery” on the back. Then another man dressed just like him passes. Then a third man, in a darker uniform without any writing on it, rolls by and slows and turns his head to the ladies. His sunglasses are so dark his eyes are invisible. He looks almost like a bike-riding robot out of a science-fiction movie. He says, “Remember to stay to the right, ladies. There are other people using this path.”

  Harriet and Glenda just nod silently, which satisfies the man on the road bike, and he sprints away on the path in pursuit of the other riders he was with. This is all too sudden and too shocking. It feels like three single-engine airplanes have buzzed them suddenly.

  The shouting is over, and the three men become a small object evaporating into the horizon of the trail ahead.

  The ladies pedal again, slowly. They need to think about this awhile. The sun is out. Not one trace of dew is left on the path-side grass.

  Finally, Harriet starts laughing. She says, “Well, it looks like we need to get our shit together. All these years riding the trail—apparently, we haven’t been riding it correctly.”

  Glenda laughs, too. “You know what we need to do? Trade in these bikes for a couple of those fancy bikes. I bet we could teach those young whippersnappers a lesson!”

  Harriet says, “Whippersnappers! That is so funny.”

  Pretty soon, they’re busting a gut laughing. The sting is gone. “O
h, we shouldn’t laugh like this,” Glenda says. “But did you hear that guy? ‘Remember to stay to the right, ladies.’ Some people take themselves a little too seriously, let me tell you.”

  They keep laughing and talking about those guys for the rest of the ride.

  The Average Rider

  Let’s be brutally honest: Most people who ride bicycles aren’t fanatics about cycling.

  They are just using bikes to roll from one place to another. They’re not posting pictures of themselves in bicycle gear as the profile picture on social networking sites, not falling asleep at night with a bicycle catalog in their hands, not spending a fortune on the clothing they wear to ride their bicycles. It’s important to know this because when we think about the social stratification of cycling culture—about roadies and mountain bikers and fixie riders and all the rest of us who make up the Bike Tribes—we are making distinctions that apply to a mere fraction of the total cycling population.

  So when we (meaning those of us of the more fanatical cycling persuasion) behold the cyclist on a hybrid bike, sitting upright, not wearing Lycra bicycle shorts, not wearing bike shoes or using a clipless pedal system—a cyclist who doesn’t worry about speed or distance or calories burned or any measurable form of performance—we have to keep in mind that this is a person who likes to ride, meaning this person is worthy of respect and admiration. We should take joy that one of our fellow human beings can cruise at an indeterminate pace along a bike path, with the point of the activity being nothing more than fresh air and mild exercise and maybe a chance to stop along the way and lean the bike up against a tree and take a seat on a park bench and reflect on all that is wonderful on the face of God’s green earth. The destination of this person’s ride is rarely somewhere exotic, but indeed the destination is always noteworthy, for the point of this person’s ride is nothing other than the ride itself. And the bicycle’s purpose on this earth is for riding, not for the manner in which it is ridden. I think Lao-tzu might have said that, were bicycles around in his time.

  In other words, you roadies who think you are hot shit when you’re looking down your noses at ladies on a bike path, you need to keep your place in the larger world in perspective. After all, there are a lot more of them than there are of you.

  the Weekend Mountain Bikers: KAREN and MARY

  Midrange full-suspension bikes, disc brakes, well maintained by the local shop mechanic.

  Helmets.

  CamelBaks and bike jerseys.

  Clipless pedals.

  THE OCCASIONALLY DIRTY

  One sunny Saturday morning at the trailhead, Karen and Mary have unloaded their bikes from Mary’s Volvo wagon and are getting ready to mount up and hit the trail.

  It’s not the longest trail in the world—about 3 miles each way—but there’s a beastly climb near the halfway mark, which is why Karen and Mary come here every Saturday, to do the beastly climb and, of course, enjoy the view once they get to the top. Plus their husbands get to spend some quality time with the children, which is always a fine thing for husbands to do.

  Today, they’re in for a special treat because the view in the parking lot is as spectacular as the view will be at the top of the hill. About 20 yards away, near the back of a Hummer 2 with its tailgate open, there is a very tanned, shirtless, muscle-ripped man in spandex shorts stretching on a mat he has placed on the lot’s asphalt. The mat is purple. The man is a muscle.

  Karen says, “He has amazing flexibility.”

  Mary chuckles quietly. “You think he’s going to stretch all day? Or will we have the pleasure of riding behind him on the trail?”

  Karen elbows Mary and says, “You’re awful.”

  The man lies on his back and brings a knee to his chest and holds it there, then switches legs and stretches the other one.

  “Wow,” Mary says. “I could eat that for breakfast.” She winks at Karen and says, “I’m just kidding, maybe, sort of, just a little bit, but not really too much.”

  “Yeah, right,” Karen says and rubs her hands together. “Shall we roll?”

  They roll.

  The trail is fairly wide—a fire lane in the woods, really—and not too curvy, meaning on the straightaways Karen and Mary can ride safely side by side. It’s also not too rocky, meaning they can safely push the pace, which they do. They don’t have much breath left to talk to each other.

  When they reach the climb, they shift into granny gears and bear down on the pedals to keep a reasonable pace. They can hear each other breathing hard and hear each other’s bikes creaking and the small rocks flinging out from under their knobby tires.

  Karen says, through heavy breaths, “I really appreciate this time every week.” She says this each Saturday and means it.

  And Mary always says: “I wouldn’t miss this time together for the world.”

  They lower their heads and keep pedaling toward the top.

  the Weekend Mountain Biker: TODD

  Maximum intensity.

  Wobbly track left on the trail: Proof that sometimes maximum intensity doesn’t translate to maximum speed.

  Todd needs to get this trail ride over with.

  He completed his preride stretching and entered the number of minutes it took him to do it, 20, into an ongoing tally of his workouts that he keeps as one long note in his iPhone. Damn, everything takes so much time. He needs to get his butt down that trail and back, and then drive to the gym in time for muscle conditioning class at 11. Then there’s indoor rock climbing and lifting and more cardio after that. If he had a choice, he totally would skip this mountain bike nonsense and stay at the gym, but his personal trainer—the lovely triathlete Chareesa from the gym—told him he needs to keep his workouts fresh and varied. This means every 10 days or so, like it or not, he goes mountain biking.

  Without much enthusiasm, he pulls on an Under Armour sleeveless shirt, puts on his helmet, and jumps on his bike. He doesn’t even take one easy pedal stroke before laying the wood to the pedals, gritting his teeth, getting up to speed as quickly as possible, and then holding it. In a finger snap, he’s sailing along the trail full tilt, breathing hard and tearing his heart inside out. He remembers seeing those two women take off on the trail before him, and he decides this will give him a reason to push hard: He’s going to catch and pass those women before they get to the hill.

  He gets serious. He grinds. He pushes down and rocks the bike and gasps for air and feels almost dizzy hurtling down the trail. He keeps going and keeps going and keeps going. He should be passing those women soon. But now he’s on the hill, and it’s getting really steep, and he’s grinding it as hard as he can upward. The women must have turned off somewhere.

  When he finally reaches the top, the two women are standing near their bikes, talking with each other and watching him on his bike.

  One of the women says, “Wow, you were really going for it!”

  Todd doesn’t know what to say. He’s breathing too hard to form a word. So he nods and tries to say, “Yeah,” then he looks at his watch, takes a deep breath, and heads down the hill. He doesn’t like descending as much as he likes climbing because if he falls and scrapes himself, (1) he won’t be able to finish the rest of the day’s workouts, and (2) he will look horrible at the club tonight, and if he looks horrible, his chances with the ladies will be exactly zero. So to keep safe on the way down, he keeps his hands on the brakes, perches himself with his butt back over the saddle, and tightens his abs to hold his balance.

  Suddenly, he hears a woman’s voice behind him. “On your left,” it says.

  Two pastel blurs speed past him down the hill.

  The second blur says, “Hi! Nice day for riding, don’t you think?”

  The women disappear ahead of him, and there’s nothing Todd can do about it.

  The Casual Mountain Biker

  When you first see the casual mountain bike rider, you will not see this person riding.

  You will see this person driving a car, with a bicycle on a roof o
r rear rack, heading presumably to a trailhead and then to an exhilarating period of dirt and logs and gnarly drop-offs and such. Well, probably not the gnarly drop-offs, or at least we hope that the casual mountain biker has the good horse sense to play it safe on the trails. One thing is certain: Casual mountain bikers don’t necessarily list cycling as their top sport, which is to say they often possess a multidisciplinary athletic background and mind-set and consequently maintain a training regimen that is as varied as their mind-set. The casual mountain biker, therefore, is often a person who may assign one day of the week for mountain biking as a way to maintain a varied, healthy lifestyle.

  A COMMON EXERCISE schedule for this type of rider may look like this:

  MONDAY: Boot Camp class

  TUESDAY: Spinning and muscle conditioning class

  WEDNESDAY: Cardio kickboxing

  THURSDAY: Running; indoor rock climbing

  FRIDAY: Boot Camp class

  SATURDAY: Mountain biking

  SUNDAY: Golf? TV? Go to the movies?

  Maybe the schedule isn’t this tight, or maybe it’s tighter, but what we find in the casual mountain biker is a person desiring to keep the routine fresh and varied. And what better way to do this than to hit the trails Saturday morning and enjoy some fresh air and clean smells and add some adrenaline to the mix, too!