I Can't Part with my Old Friend, My Bicycle
Posted: Sunday, August 08, 2010
by Brian Foley
Magic and Learning
Today I decided to finally give up on my 1981 Peugeot 10 speed bicycle. Last week Mimi gave me a wonderful birthday present of a tuneup at the local sporting goods shop for my old friend.
When I brought it in, they warned me that it probably would not be worth it. They were wrong. It was worth it to have it tuned up as good as possible, and to ride it one more time, even though I was to find out that it was true – it's a death–trap. There is no way the old-fashioned center pull brakes would ever be able to stop me sufficiently, even on the mild hills we have in our neck of the woods.
So Mimi's gift probably saved my life. I love that bike, but if I ride it much longer, we'll probably both end up where the bike is going to end up tomorrow. I'm going to take it to the metal recycling center.
We considered giving it away, but really, what's the use? Do we want to give someone the dubious present of a death–trap?
When Mimi and I first got together, about 11 years ago, she suggested I ride her bike instead. It was a fairly new 15–speed touring–bike. At the time I was so prejudiced towards my own bike, which I'd had so many great adventures with, that I wouldn't even consider it. It seemed too small for me (even though Mimi and I are the same height, and her legs are longer than mine).
I stayed stubborn for almost ten years, but when I took a test ride on my old 10-speed, after tightening her cables again, and it would barely brake on a perfectly dry day, on a very mild slope, well, that was that.
So I condescendingly raised the seat on Mimi's bike about one quarter of an inch, and what do you know? It was perfect!
I took it for a short spin, and even though it had barely ever been ridden for ten years, the brakes and gears worked perfectly. It doesn't even need a drop of oil, or a millimeter of adjustment anywhere.
It's going to be fun to ride a bike again! And as much as I hate to admit it, I think I am going to need all fifteen gears, considering my age and the shape I'm.
I used to be so proud of the way I could go 120 miles a day on rolling hills with 100 pounds of gear on the bike, day after day. (I also used to remember where I left my keys.)
When I bought the bike, I was living in Wuerzburg, Germany, as a student, and moonlighting as the Teen Activities Director At the Dependent Youth Association, at Leighton Barracks –a US army installation.
The bike was purchased at the PX, at a significant discount from what it would have cost in the States. At that time you couldn't even get a bike that good "on the economy “ in Germany. It was one of the nice perks of working for the Army.
There wasn't another bike that cool anywhere around, and I was the envy of every two–wheeled traveler.
I almost never got off the thing. It helped me get in really good shape, and I got to see parts of Germany and the rest of Europe that most Germans and Europeans never saw.
That bike took me all over the landscape of lower Franconia that summer.
I even used to take nocturnal trips to towns like Waldbuettelbrunn and Randersacker.
At some point I took to making longer solo trips, like to Munich and the Bavarian Alps.
In around '91, I took my first long trip. After a particularly nasty argument with the psycho–terror Frau from hell, I packed my tent and sleeping bag, and within an hour was on my bike.
About a week later, the bike and I were on the ferry to Dover. In another week we were in Ireland, having the time of our lives. We ditched the tent somewhere along the way, to make better time on the way home, and to take it easy on the bike's wheels (I had to replace a lot of spokes because of that Irish cobblestone).
Somewhere, I have some mini-cassette tapes of that trip. I would like to digitize them someday.
The bike and I spent some nights in an ancient stone hermit-hut on one of the Aran Islands. We viewed dozens of beautiful Irish countryside-cemeteries, many of which were overgrown with brush, next to the ruins of an old church.
After the trip even the terror-Frau no longer fazed me.
In 1997, when I lived in Frankfurt, I used to ride to my friend Jochen's place in Darmstadt very often. We'd hang out until deep into the night, when I would ride home. I remember riding home on many frigid nights that February, my way illuminated by the moon and the glow of the Hale–Bopp comet.
Sometime in the late 90s, the bike and I went on our biggest trip. I had a magic-gig (I'm a magician) in a new hotel that had just been built after the wall went down in East Germany. The hotel was in Frankfurt on the Oder (as opposed to Frankfurt on the Main, where I lived).
I brought the bike with me on the train to the show. After the show I mailed all my props and wardrobe back to Frankfurt on the Main, and the bike and I went for a ride.
There is too much to tell about this trip to be able to fit it into this story. Here's the short version:
We rode over the border into Poland, then down along the border to the Czech Republic. We rode through the Czech Republic, over the Bohemian Alps, into Austria. Then it was up to Germany into Bavaria, where we were once again into familiar territory -we had done Frankfurt to Munich and back a few times before.
This Munich–Frankfurt run was to be our last ride on that stretch together, but neither of us knew that at the time. It was a great trip. These short paragraphs do not do it justice at all. The interesting people we met, the few dangerous situations we encountered, the amazing landscape and some of the greatest architecture in the world were part of our trip. As far as I'm concerned this is the best way to travel to get a feeling for where you are. Well, maybe by foot would be better, but there would be no bicycle–human companionship.
In '98, when I returned to the States, after eighteen years of being an ex-pat, I knew I couldn't leave the bike behind. So, through a stewardess friend of mine, I mailed most of my possessions back to New York at a cheap rate. I then took only what I needed, and packed it on my bike. We left from Frankfurt, went to visit a good friend of mine in Stuttgart, where we had a nice visit with his family, and once again I headed for Dover.
During this trip, I kept thinking, “Here I am, a middle-aged man, on an almost 20-year old bicycle, with almost 100 pounds of gear, and I'm still passing most of those young, trendy heinies, on their new, titanium status–symbols. Man, I'm so freakin' cool!"
While thinking how cool I was, somewhere on the west coast of France, I noticed some real geezers riding vintage bicycles breezing past me. There were dozens of them. I actually thought I was hallucinating. There were guys on recumbents, that were almost 100 years old. When the penny-farthings started blowing by, I knew I needed some rest.
I pulled into the next pub, and there they were. Drinking large glasses of what was certainly not Coca-Cola. It turned out that it was a vintage bicycle club of older British men. Some of them had their sons and daughters riding along on modern bicycles, and there were even some grandchildren involved. But none of the younger people could keep up with the geezers on the antiques.
It turns out that they do this ritual every year. They all meet up in vans full of vintage bicycles at the ferry port in Dover. I don't know if they start drinking there or wait till they get on the ferry, but I know the drinking starts early.
By the time they get to Calais they are nice and lubricated. They go for a long bike ride. I'm not sure where we intersected (I'm sure I have it written down in some old journal, somewhere in my basement) but we traveled together after that. They stopped for drinks in every open establishment they passed. I'm not much of a drinker, but I tried to keep up. I didn't have a prayer.
The story is worth a chapter, if not a book in itself. But it will have to wait for another time. I will say that they let me ride back with them in one of their vans so I wouldn't have to pay the ferry fee. I'll also say that I occasionally think of the American woman who was with them as a friend of one of their daughters. We had a short but intense flirt.
From Dover I rode my bike to the airport (Heathrow?) and the bike and I flew off, to leave our European adventure behind, and begin our American adventure together.
We landed at Kennedy, and from there we rode to where I always knew I wanted to live – the upper Catskill Mountains of New York.
We rode up to Oneonta, a trip we had made once or twice before, when we had visited the States together.
The landmark I always used to know when I had arrived “home" was the Oneonta Roundhouse. It had once been the largest railroad roundhouse in the world, but had been slowly falling apart since the 70s, when I first saw it.
But something was wrong –when we got to where I knew it should be, it it was nowhere to be found. I thought I had passed it, so we backtracked. Still no roundhouse. We circled the area several times, until I looked down and saw some concrete, and track, and bricks.
Some idiots had made the decision to tear it down! It should have been on some sort of National Historic Register or something. But no, some civic functionaries had let this landmark become a sign of the stupid decisions that have plagued the Oneonta decision–making establishment for years.
That didn't stop us from having a great time, meeting terrific people, and settling into this wonderful area. I got a small apartment right off of Main Street, and we did some heavy traveling from there, too. A few round trips to Boston kept me in shape my first year back in the States.
I got a magic-gig in one of the coolest places I ever worked – The Franklin Stage Company. It was summer. Franklin is about 12 miles from Oneonta, over Franklin Mountain. I commuted the 24 miles a day, through planning and rehearsal weeks. It doesn't sound like much compared to the trips of before, but Franklin Mountain is pretty steep, and rehearsals were strenuous, but fun.
It's been 11 years since then. The bike and I haven't been on any big trips in that time. I guess we're both getting old, and at least one of us doesn't want to admit it.
We have had some good times with Mimi and her 15-speed, riding around on the hills of Wheaton Creek Road, near where we live, and picking lavender to bring home. Mimi has always encouraged me to get on my bicycle and get some exercise, because she knows how much I love riding it. But the easy life of the Catskill Mountains has made me soft. So I was totally excited when Mimi suggested that as a birthday present this year, she would have my bike tuned up.
The more I write, the less I can seriously consider bringing that bike to the recycling center tomorrow. Maybe, instead, I'll work on the shed, and make some room for it, until the day comes when someone invents a way to put some heavy-duty brakes on its creaky old frame.
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Top-level comments on this article: (3 total)All the while I've been reading, I've been protesting wildly, PLEASE don't throw the bike away - turn it into a fountain in your garden or something! Great article, thanks!
What a wonderful set of memories you have... all due to a bicycle!
Brian: Thank you for sharing some wonderful experiences you had while in a foreign land. It certainly illustrates, once more, why Mom and I have always enjoyed you (albeit at a distance). Dad
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