Therefore, after that kind of long day, when she arrives at the velodrome and suits up and begins taking a few slow laps around the track’s lower lip, she can’t help thinking that her life is about as regimented as it could be: gym, work, track, dinner, bed. A monk’s life. On weekends, she usually races. That’s it. That’s not a very fancy life. Oh well. She’s not complaining. Deep down, she wouldn’t want a fancy life even if it were available to her.
The track’s never fancy, either. She rides around it. That’s what you do on a track. Endless ovals. She races the various events, too—scratch race, miss ‘n’ out, time trial, pursuit (when they have it)—and at no time does she believe she should be doing something else with her life.
Today’s workout is a ladder interval set—not very scientific, really, and not what her coach would tell her to do. But one workout a week, she follows her own instructions instead of her coach’s. This workout is one lap hard, one lap easy, two laps hard, two laps easy, three laps hard, three laps easy, all the way up to six and then back down. She’s been doing this ladder workout for years, every Tuesday, and it’s always brutal.
On the first hard lap, which is always the toughest, everything hurts, but she rams through it, opening up her lungs and getting her legs used to the sting, then she eases up and pedals easily through her off laps. When she ramps into the two-lap hard section, her mind drifts to something that happened at work today. One of the trucks broke down in central Missouri and was going to be at least 10 hours late to its destination in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The customer was pissed, too, sending her a number of nasty e-mails, followed by a lengthy and incredibly nasty phone call in which the customer was screaming at her and telling her she may be the worst logistics coordinator in the entire country! Heidi remained calm. She absorbed the insults. She assured the customer the truck would get there within a reasonable time frame, and the customer hung up.
Now she digs deep and pushes out of the saddle and focuses all the strength she’s developed in the gym into powering her bike forward. She feels like she is floating over the track and going faster and faster, and if she were to search through her brain for any trace of her job, she wouldn’t find it.
the Messenger: TRAY
Lean racer’s build.
Eyes hyperalert for whatever may appear on the road ahead.
Helmet, sign of wisdom.
Tray could have been a track racer.
Everybody says that to him because they know he’s really fast. Everybody says he should race in the Alley Cat races downtown, too. They say he’d win by huge margins! But Tray doesn’t give a rat’s ass about official measures of speed. He does like his track bike a lot, but he’s using it to make a living. He’s delivering envelopes and packages and legal documents and the like from one office building to the next.
On this particular trip, he’s delivering 10 submarine sandwiches to a law office.
He has the sandwiches placed carefully in his messenger bag, and the bag rests as comfortably on his back as a baby would rest in a crib. He doesn’t know exactly the speed he’s traveling along the street, but he’s keeping up with the traffic, no problem. At one stoplight, he executes a track stand so perfect that he amazes himself. Ah, the joy!
At the law office, he locks his bike on a light pole, goes inside into the insane air-conditioning, and stands before the receptionist’s desk. She’s old—like, really old, like in-her-sixties old—and doesn’t appreciate the look of him one bit. A black kid with dreadlocks? In a law office? She stares at him as if he has been sent to drag her off somewhere remote and keep her hostage for the rest of her life. She can’t seem to speak.
Tray’s used to the looks, so he keeps the situation on task. He says, “Delivery.” He reaches into his bag and produces a wrapped sandwich. She freezes. “It’s a sandwich, ma’am.” But he skips saying, “Not a gun.” “The office ordered these sandwiches.”
“Oh,” the lady says. “Of course.” She rises and tells him she’ll be right back and then disappears down a hallway.
Meantime, Tray places all 10 wrapped sandwiches on the receptionist’s desk and gets his confirmation paperwork ready for signature.
Now the receptionist returns with a tall, lean white guy in a shirt and tie. The guy says, “So you’re the bike delivery guy.” A statement, not a question.
Tray confirms that he is.
“I’m a rider, too—though I don’t deliver anything. I do some racing, from time to time.”
Tray gives the guy a big grin and doesn’t pursue the subject of bike racing, because he prefers to keep things on a business level with people when he’s on delivery. He says, “Sign for delivery?”
The guy signs and says, “You know, that’s really cool you can ride a bike for a living. I wish I could do that.” Then the guy puts a 10-dollar bill in Tray’s hand and pats him on the back.
“Thanks, man,” Tray says. “Gotta run now.”
Outside, Tray unlocks his bike and gets ready to mount up. He sees, a few feet away, a skinny white hipster kid with red Chuck Taylors and skinny jeans and a striped long-sleeved T-shirt standing next to a bright-red fixie bike with bright-red rims. The kid is staring at Tray as if waiting for a comment.
Tray knows what the hipster wants to hear. He says, “Cool bike.”
The kid says, “It certainly is.”
Tray’s bike is plain, with regular unpainted aluminum rims, which he likes because he doesn’t want to look at his bike, he wants to ride his bike.
Tray nods at the kid—who doesn’t really react—then jumps on his bike and books down the street to pick up his next delivery.
the Hipster: JASON
Classic cycling cap promoting components that aren’t on his bike.
Cigarette.
Tats, meant to make nonbadass arms look badass.
Chuck Taylors, perhaps the world’s worst cycling shoes.
Jason watches the dude in dreads riding off on his lame fixie.
That guy’s bike has no sense of flair whatsoever—just a bike, nothing more.
Now Jason’s friend Derrick comes pushing his bike around the corner from the coffee shop. Derrick’s bike is really awesome—lime-green rims and a flat-black frame. In black light, you’d only see the wheels, which would be trippy indeed.
Derrick digs a pack of cigarettes out of his skinny-jean pocket, taps out two smokes, and gives one to Jason. They both light up and lean against their bikes and blow simultaneous funnels of smoke toward the sky.
Jason says, “You shoulda seen this dude on a fixie a minute ago.”
Derrick asks, “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. A dude with no clue. I mean, if you’re gonna get a fixie, you need to turn on the style just a little, show you care.”
Derrick drags long off his cigarette and exhales through his nose. Smoke washes over him like a tired wave over a slacker beach. “You ever see the guy at the Alley Cat?”
“Nope.” Jason chuckles some smoke out. “Totally had the I’m-a-bike-messenger vibe working, too. Like anyone with a messenger bag is supposed to be the real deal!”
“Totally. See my bag, people! Ain’t it cool?” Derrick outstretches his arms in a form of dismissive crucifixion.
“Even more pathetic: The guy’s messenger bag was from L.L. Bean.”
Derrick says, “Maybe his mom bought it for him for Christmas.”
They have a deluxe laugh about this and take a few more drags on their smokes and then toe the butts on the sidewalk.
Jason asks, “Where to?”
“To Rummy’s house?”
Jason agrees and takes his Campagnolo cycling cap from his back pocket and places it on his head. Once Derrick’s done the same, they get on their bikes and roll on the sidewalk off into the very hip, very styling distance.
Fixed Gear Cyclists
True enough, fixies are currently the trend du jour among young skinny hipsters—or maybe the trend is already over and those ultragroovy urban skinny kids
have moved on to the next thing that turns the crank of their youthful hearts.
It really doesn’t matter. Once the photo ops have gone away and the kids have gone away and adopted a new style of clothing and hair and so forth, fixed-geared riding will still be there, stoically carrying on the way it always has: on velodromes, on delivery bikes, and of course on single-speed mountain bikes and cyclocross bikes.
Fixie riding, in fact, is the original form of cycling—the idea being you have one gear, and if you want to stop your bike, you pedal backward. This is so simple that, yes, even 2-year-olds on tricycles can do it! The fixie’s place in the pantheon of Bike Tribes, however, is difficult to pin down precisely on account of the wide range of fixies and because certain aspects of fixie cycling simply aren’t available everywhere. Not every community has a velodrome, which is a shame, but the consequence of this is that track racers are spread out in a few cities around the country, and most cyclists have never been on a track and have never seen a track except on TV. The same is true of bicycle messengers. Most cities don’t have bicycle messengers, and for certain, if you live in a small town, you will never see a bicycle messenger.
The real fixie rider, therefore, is a person of mystery to most people in cycling, and because of this, everybody thinks fixies are cool. If more people rode fixies, this coolness would probably not be so cool anymore.
the Vintage Riders: BRIAN and ANNE
They hope people are watching them.
Bikes look like they have been teleported from the 1960s.
WHAT VINTAGE DO YOU PREFER?
Brian and Anne love riding their bikes to the art openings at the gallery downtown, usually a couple, three times a month.
They think it makes an excellent statement, as a couple, that they are not driving their boring Volvo to the art opening but instead are arriving on human-powered pieces of art at a place where people appreciate pieces of art. And tonight’s bikes are just perfect. Matching men’s and women’s 1967 Schwinn Collegiates. Brian bought them for cheap off eBay about a year ago and completely restored them with original parts, even the chains, meaning the only items not authentic on these bikes are the tires and inner tubes.
Brian and Anne are dressed to match the bikes, too—Brian in his corduroy pants and sweater and RFK-style glasses, and Anne in her plaid skirt and white shirt, hair pulled back in a vintage bun, cat’s-eye glasses, naturally, and bright red lipstick. So when they roll up to the gallery, they look about as Norman Rockwell as a couple in their midthirties possibly could.
They step off their bikes and stand next to them looking very proud. There’s art in the gallery, of course—their friend Jesse is having a show tonight—but there’s no need to rush inside.
“Well,” Anne says, “where is everybody?”
Brian looks around. A few cars move up and down the street. Inside the gallery, a few people are mingling around the art and around the snack table.
Brian says, “They’re inside.”
Anne asks, “We don’t have to go in yet, do we?”
They linger for a while, hoping somebody will ask them about their bikes, and eventually they’re in luck. Big Ed himself, from Big Ed’s Cyclery, comes walking up the sidewalk with his wife, Cheryl. They’re in shorts and T-shirts and have their usual air of hippie mellowness about them.
Brian asks, “Ed, what are you doing here?”
Ed says, “We’re gonna check out Jesse’s art show, of course.” Ed looks at the matching bikes and nods and smokes. “Tell you what, Brian, you always have the coolest bikes. How long it take you to rebuild these?”
Anne says, “Brian spent almost a year on these.”
Ed says, “Looks like it’s worth it. Wow.”
Then Ed excuses himself and goes inside the gallery with his wife to see the show.
Brian and Anne smile at each other now. “Did you hear that?” Brian asks. “Big Ed digs our bikes!”
Anne is so happy her cheeks flush. “I love our old bikes, Brian.”
Brian gives her a big kiss and a hug. “And I love you, baby.”
They lean their bikes against the gallery’s outside wall, lock them together, and walk into the gallery holding hands.
The Vintage Bike Rider
The most important item to note about the rider of vintage bicycles—we’re talking the authentic rider/collector here—is that this person views bikes the way people used to eat Lay’s potato chips, which is to say you never can have just one.
Because of this, the vintage bicycle enthusiast is almost never a person living in a tiny apartment. The vintage bike person needs room to spread out, and sometimes a normal garage just isn’t enough room for the bikes, not to mention the vintage parts and wheels and clothing and God only knows what else a person can find on eBay or on various cycling message boards throughout the world! Ideally, the vintage bike collector would have a large outbuilding on a spacious property with, of course, plenty of room in the driveway to test out the bikes during the restoration process.
For clarification, then, when we refer to a vintage bicycle collector, we don’t mean the old drunk who’s lost his driver’s license and gets around town on a brown 1979 Schwinn Continental with the handlebar flipped upside-right. Now, that is a vintage bike, and the old drunk is a vintage in and of himself. But by “vintage,” we mean a bicycle of a certain age that has been either maintained excellently or rebuilt to roll the way it was originally intended to roll, which is at a level of magnificence, of course.
There is an element of retro art to the vintage bike community, too, and maybe vintage bike collectors are a healthier, more environmentally friendly version of people who are in vintage automobile clubs. It’s hard for anybody—cyclist or noncyclist—to take issue with things from the past that are maintained close to their original condition. If you give a person my age, for instance, an old View-Master that still works (for those of you who are still young, this was a little plastic 3-D picture-viewer device that was very popular with children in the late 1960s), that person will be more than delighted to see it! It’s nostalgia, for sure, which is something the snarky among us don’t appreciate. But then again, in the cycling world, we love bikes of almost any kind, and when we see the vintage bikes rolling on the street, we can’t help but feel happy because we are seeing the history of the thing we love. No member of any Bike Tribe feels bad when they see an old bike in good shape.
the Beach Cruisers: TRACY and PAM
Sunglasses. Strain on the eyes will ruin the vibe.
Upright position. Mellow speed. Why hurry?
BEACH CRUISERS
Tracy and Pam have it made on the bike path along the river today. Beach cruisers. Sunshine.
Not too hot, not too windy. Flip-flops and shorts and bikini tops. Is this not perfection?
Tracy is blonde and tall, and when she pedals, her cruiser rocks gently from side to side; her torso and back bob back and forth with each pushing-down on the pedals. Pam is brunette and holds considerably more still on her bike. They are both sitting upright, with their hair flowing behind them and their wide sunglasses reflecting a steady glint of the sun.
Tracy asks, “You think it’s weird we’re riding beach cruisers when there is no beach?”
Pam ponders this and pulls her lower lip under her front teeth. “Is it weird to ride a mountain bike when there is no mountain?”
They burst out laughing.
Tracy says, “You’re not going to start up with the thing about does a one-legged duck swim in circles, are you?”
“Not till we get to the bar.”
Pam clears her throat and becomes more serious. “Here’s a question: You think we look stupid riding bikes like this?”
Tracy says, “Who gives a shit? I’m triple-clicking ‘Like’ this on Facebook.”
“Smart-ass,” Pam says.
They both sigh in a happy way. This is truly great. They get to ride beach cruisers on the path in the sun, then they’ll have drinks on the pat
io with all their friends at Quint’s Riverfront.
Tracy says, “I’m thinking I’d like to accessorize.”
“With what?”
“A basket.” Tracy reaches one hand over the handlebar and makes a gesture in the shape of a basket. As she’s doing this, her bike wobbles, and she has to steady it with both hands on the bar.
Pam says, “You could carry a huge purse in there.”
“Or a cooler!”
“Or a Chihuahua!”
Tracy can’t stop laughing. “That’s what these bikes are made for—transporting Chihuahuas.”
They keep laughing and pedaling and talking about other little dogs they could take with them on their beach cruisers, and when they arrive at the Quint’s Riverfront deck, they’re still laughing. Lots of people are here today, too, under cabana tables and totally relaxing with drinks on this excellent afternoon.
The Beach Cruisers
Somewhere in the world of cycling, amidst all the intensity and people driven to achieve something specific—an exercise goal, a weight-loss goal,
a victory in a road race, a 32nd-place finish in a Masters cyclocross race, et cetera—there has to be a place where nothing really matters other than mellowness and taking it easy and redefining the art of chill even on the sunniest days of summer. Beach cruisers are what we all need, maybe, when our life on bicycles starts to wear us down and make us feel like we’re in a two-wheeled rut from which there will be no climbing out.
Serious cyclists almost uniformly poke fun at people riding beach cruisers because they’re going too slow and they’re not showing any level of dedication to cycling and, perhaps the worst, the people who ride beach cruisers don’t really think of themselves as part of the Bike Tribes. They’re just doing their thing and not worrying too much about how they fit in to the larger context of cycling. They’re certainly not going to get into a shouting match with somebody about the proper way to ride in a paceline or the best form of community cycling activism. No way. All of that stops with the beach cruiser. Serious cyclists, if they have one problem above all other problems, often don’t respect people on bikes who don’t take what they’re doing seriously.
Bike Tribes Page 11