Life on the bike

After my last post several people have asked me why I continue biking if I don't think it helps the environment or my pocket book. And last Wednesday when a misguided fellow, who apparently hasn't been reading my blog, tossed some garbage at me while I was riding my bike home, I started wondering; Why do I do this?
It is somewhat of a miracle considering initially the one rule my parents gave to my babysitter was I had to spend at least a half hour learning to ride my bike. I still remember Valerie Etchel trying to talk me into riding to the end of the street. I would argue that my parents didn't like me riding to the end of the street, because of all the traffic on the end of our street. Looking back I realize this wasn't the best excuse, seeing how I stayed on the sidewalk and never even ventured out onto the road. That, and the fact that we lived on a dead end. And had a total of about 7 cars drive on our street per day. I never even took the training wheels off until my uncle brad (yes, the same Uncle Brad who would have me sit in the back of his trailer so branches wouldn't fall out, the same one who would have me fix roughs on three story houses with a 45% slant, the same one who once told me to watch out while throwing a chain saw in my general direction) told me he would hold the back of my bike while I rode up the street. I wish I could say the feeling of finally riding without training wheels was a liberating one, but it was actually just as terrifying as realizing that uncle Brad actually wasn't holding onto the bike or as terrifying as the crash that followed that realization. No, my biking career didn't start to promising. But for some reason in junior high I wanted to get a mountain bike. Looking back the only reason I would want to buy such a ridiculous item was that Greg LeMond had been on the cover of Boy's Life. Whatever the reason for wanting it was, I must have really wanted it because, my parents remarkably got it for me. Now to many of my readers this may seem a run of everyday events, but getting something from parents who were struggling to make ends meet with 7 kids is usually considered a miracle like unto the feeding of the 5 thousand.
And shortly after getting it I got to go on a bike ride with my scout troop. It was a 50 mile ride (25 miles to our camp site, and 25 miles back the next day). After that ride I considered myself to be a member of that elite league where only a select few made it (namely Greg LeMond, Lance Armstrong, and my scouting troop). I had plans to continue making 50 miles treks for the remainder of my life, but for one reason or another the bike got tossed aside and probably didn't get another 50 miles on the tires for the remainder of it's life.
But in high school a friend of mine was a mountain biker, I went with him once and I was hooked. I quickly started laying money aside so I could purchase a new mountain bike.
Eventually I saved up about $250 in excess founds, and I headed up to the highlander bike shop. The reason I went to the Highlander shop was a member of our stake owned it, Doug Moffit. Since Doug was a member of our stake I didn't really question his suggestion of bicylces. But I was a little skeptical when he showed me a shiny blue Nishiki bike. Most of you have probably never heard of Nishiki bikes, indeed I hadn't either. In fact my friend had mentioned several good brands of mountain bikes, and Nishiki wasn't on the list. I mentioned this to Doug and he was quick to point out the reason my friend hadn't heard of Nishiki bikes was because he was American (as it turns out my friend was indeed an American) so I didn't argue the point. Had I thought for a second I would have realized that Doug was also American, and one quick look at the bike would have revealed the large American flag that said Made in the USA across it. And an astute observer may have asked "so in what country would they have heard about Nishiki". Since that little trip to the highlander shop I have been to Germany, Japan, and China yet I still haven't seen a Nishiki bike. But at the time I still wasn't very astute. So I bought the bike and decided to take it on it's maiden voyage up to my grandparents house. My dad drove off ahead and I started the trek. Unfortunately I didn't really have a good route to get there, and so I took (what I would later find out was the worst route possible) 27th up to my grandparents. This is where I was introduced to the pure hatred Salt Lakians have for bikers, particularly inexperienced ones. After riding for over an hour I arrived at my destination, thinking I had just made the worst purchase of my life. My dad gave me a ride home, and I wondered if I would ever ride the bike again.
A few months later though I was faced with a slight conundrum. The problem was I loved swimming, and I wanted to continue doing it throughout the summer, but my parents wouldn't be able to provide the taxi service I required (I lived about 15 min away, on the freeway, from my school). So if I wanted to swim I would have to ride my bike to the pool. I still remember getting up at 4 that first morning, just enough time to do my paper route and then head up to school. It was about 15 miles away going up (and I mean up. Mt. Olympus is not very merciful to bikers) I basically had the whole road to myself. I think sometime between 4:30 and 5:30 one of those summer mornings I feel in love with biking. But like any relationship you have to keep working at it, or before you know it you don't even know the person sleeping in your garage...well, maybe that doesn't apply to all relationships.
To insure my biking relationship didn't go stagnate I decided to take it to the next level. And, as circumstance would have it, I did so with the help of my Uncle Brad. Brad after graduating from high school had decided to move to hawaii, while there he fell in love with the women who would become my aunt, and the bike that he would eventually give to me. The bike had two names; the Honolulu express, and the '77 special. Both coming from the licensed sticker it had from Honolulu in '77. Although, my roommate Jared tried to change the name to the bikecetomy, mostly because the only padding on the seat was a small piece of leather Brad had taped on, and also...well the rest of the story we will have to save for another time.
Typically a fairly stoic person, few things get me choked up, and as a general rule I don't grow attached to any possessions, but just thinking about the '77 special still requires me to go grab a kleenex. There are two reasons for that. The first was due to my ignorance upon receiving the bike. After Brad gave me the bike I let it sit outside for a month or two, when I finally looked at the bike the tires where flat and looked completely tattered. So being the ignorant person I was decided to to pull the tires off and replace the tires and tubes. I quickly realized the tires weren't coming off as easy as I had thought, and what was even stranger was the tire didn't seem to even have a tube at all. But being ignorant as I was, I continued scrapping the tire off of the wheel. I bought new tires and tubes and the Honolulu Express was back on the road. It took about 2 months before I realized my crime. Brad asked about the bike, I told him how much I was liking it. He then asked if I liked the tubeless tires. There was a long awkward pauses followed by me saying "yeah, it is riding great". I couldn't believe it, I ripped out tubeless tires! I felt sick to my stomach...and still do anytime the memories of the '77 special come back.
Once I had the new tires on the Honolulu Express I decided to take it for a spin. Originally the plan was to just take it for a spin, with no particular route in mind. It was the middle of summer so one would think I would have brought a water battle with me, but with no destination I wasn't sure I was going to be out all that long. After wandering through Salt Lake for about 45 min. I found myself at Hogle Zoo (the base of Emigration Canyon). I paused at started to consider how I was going to make my way home when I saw (as strong bad would say) "a challenger". Actually it was a whole team of challengers, in full biking gear. I couldn't see them well, but I could see them getting close, and fast. This was my chance to go head to head with what appeared to be real bikers. I couldn't back down to the competition, so I started to make it up the canyon. I don't remember if I had initially planned after starting if I would go up the whole canyon or not. I had only been all the way through the canyon once and that was at night, and years ago at that. I also had a friend who lived up the canyon. I knew her house was a ways up, but I didn't know if her house marked the half way point, the three quaters mark, or if it was considered base camp. After what seemed like for ever I finally passed by my friends house. I was sure my legs would give out at any time, but seeing the team of bikers behind me kept me motivated to continue riding. Finally I came to a very steep hill, I had been biking uphill constantly for the last 2-3 hours the grade had been around 5%, but now it was more like 15. My legs couldn't go any more. Now with improvements in modern technology they have instruments that could have tracked my movements to let you know that I was indeed moving forward, but this was still in the last melenium and those instruments weren't available, so when the team of bikers passed me they undoubtedly thought I was just standing still. So perhaps they thought it was a tree talking when I asked them, in the weakest most feeble voice I have ever used, "How...muuuuch...fuuurrthhhher?". Whatever they thought I, a tree, or one of the flies who had found his final resting spot on my helmet had asked the question, they chose not to answer and they just biked on by. I was certain I was going to die there somewhere in emigration canyon. When just then I turned the bend and saw the team of bikers standing next to their bikes resting. I had reached the top! I very slowly started making my way toward the group of bikers hoping they would spare me a few drops of water. But, as soon as they saw me coming toward them, they hopped back on their bikes and started on the road toward Park City. I tried to yell out to them as they left, but it was to no avail. In the past 27 years I have met a lot of bikers most of which would do anything to help a fellow biker/anger passing car driver, but I am fairly certain those guys must have been commi's who figured the government was going to send someone to help me.
I took the next few minutes to look out over the valley to see my achievement. Then fearing I was on the verge of dehydration, I began my trip down. When I finally made it to This is the Place park (the place where Brigham Young declared, yes you guessed it, "This is the Place") I was estatic. I found the visiting center. I could see a drinking fountain just inside one of the doors so I parked my bike just outside and ran in to get a drink. I nearly died when I saw the "Out of Order" sign pasted across the fountain. Not wanting to leave my bike unattended I hurried on hoping to find a park with a fountain near by, or perhaps there would be a fountain at the zoo.
I had no such luck, and not seeing anything coming out of the canyon I continued home as fast as I could. I was starting to loose focus and was not thinking clearly at all when I saw sugar house park which after carefully combing it in it's entirety I did not find one drinking fountain. I say I was not thinking clearly because I looked everywhere except for in the large bathroom facility in the center of the park, which I found out later does have a fountain. I guess this is just a long way of saying when I made it to Liberty park and drank from the fountain for a good 10 minutes, it was the best water I had ever tasted.
After that trip the '77 special and I would make 4 more trips to the top of emigration canyon, I was never as tired, they never took as long, and I was never that thirsty again.
But that brings me to the second reason I get sad when I think about the Honolulu Express. After leaving on my mission I let my brother Gardner use the Honolulu Express, and my roommate Jared use my mountain bike. Sadly they were both stolen while I was in Germany. I don't really miss the mountain bike at all, but I still think of the good days I spent on the '77 Express.
I replaced it with a very nice road bike a few years later, it was never quite the same as the '77 special though. But that bike gave me a little more courage and biking prowess. It was on that bike when I started biking daily during rush hour on busy streets. It was there were I was reintroduced to the hatred Salt Lakians have for bikers. I had garbage thrown at me for the first time, had people try to run me off the rode, and eventually on my last day of work (and the day before I was to compete in another triathlon) I was hit. It was rather funny, I was hit on my last day of work. Which was ironic since the only 2 days of work I was ever late for was my first and last day.
It has taken me several years to buckle down and get a new bike and start riding again, but I am happy to say the bike and I have reconciled our differences, and I once again am loving life on the bike.
So why do I ride if I don't feel it is saving me any money or helping the environment? Because I love the bike.