TWO WHEELS GOOD!

Hurtling down the back-country mountain with the wind at my tail, the loose gravel and dirt on the precarious, narrow track threatens to topple me with each and every harrowing curve. My body is chilled from a sweat-sodden jersey as the air at such speed rushes past and through the fibers. All the while my head continues to drip, causing sunscreen to relentlessly seep into my eyes. There’s three more miles of this treacherous downhill passage and I can’t recall when I’ve ever felt this alive – every cell vibrating with glee. I’m enraptured.

In my adolescence, I got into cycling. I mean, really into cycling. As did my closest friends. Through grit and great fortune, we each acquired our dream bicycles – sleek, sexy Italian models with exotic names like Pinarello, Masi, Cinelli. Rosin & Colnago. These were the caliber of steel steeds ridden by the the real European cyclists and racing teams and we knew, if we had them, we’d be equally great – competing in the Tour de France or the grueling, mixed-terrain Paris-Roubaix, legendarily known as “The Sunday in Hell.” Or, at least, we thought so.

Days after school and every waking weekend moment was spent riding the endless, idyllic back roads deep in the wine country of Central California’s coast. For hours and hours, for days and days, for years and years we did this. On the rare occasion when the weather was unforgiving, we’d get together to swap issues of hard-to-find European cycling magazines that featured our favorite riders and teams, coverage of the major cycling races, season scores and, of course, adverts for all of the glorious bicycles and accessories that cluttered our dreams and fevered our imaginations.

We would also spend a somewhat ridiculous amount of time tending to our lovely two-wheeled ladies. Tuning, tweaking, adjusting, cleaning, lubricating and polishing them to a state of immeasurable efficiency and sheen. It was our small-town, big-minded version of zen and the art of bicycle maintenance.

Sure enough, all those hours of pedaling in and around the vineyards, up colossal mountain grades and along the coast of the majestic Pacific ocean, we, indeed, did become good. In fact, quite good. By our mid-teens we had joined the national cycling association and began to formally compete in officially sanctioned races throughout California. And, for all intents and purposes, we fared pretty well. My particular specialty was time trials, – competing against the clock to secure the fastest time as well as hill climbing. We did this throughout most of high school and all of us had plans to join the cycling teams of our respective universities once there.

In reflecting back, there was such a sense of joy, comradery and achievement. In addition, the simple act of riding a bicycle is inextricably linked to powerful, fantastic memories of being young at that particular time and in that particular place. Outside of that, I’ve always enjoyed riding as it, for me, is simultaneously tranquil and demanding which produces a unique rhapsody of spirit.

It was shortly after discovering cycling, that I also discovered music, which regular readers know, would play an extremely large role in my life. Though not at all mutually exclusive, once I began playing bass in high-school the siren song (pun intended) of music became a very potent and attractive captivator of my attention. While I still rode my bike and competed during this time, my mind was now becoming principally enthralled by music.

When I started university, I did try out for and made the cycling team, but was immediately disillusioned by the fact that the school did not fund any aspect of it. No equipment, no registration for races, no transport, not even branded jerseys. It was all expected to be paid for directly from our own non-existent student pockets. All of this despite the fact that the football program was grossing over $35 million annually. I believed, as I still do, it was total bullshit and I turned my back on sheer principle. Plus, being a rocker in LA had plenty of its own benefits.

And I stopped riding.

I stayed in LA for university and a couple more years before moving to Orange County for graduate school and, unwittingly, spent my entire adult life there. I still had my bike and was ceaselessly harangued and goaded by my best friend, who still rode religiously, to start riding again. He even took my bike and pimped it out with top of the line, state of the art components and got her all race-ready again. I did ride a couple of times, but while people do it frequently, outside of a velodrome, riding a bike in Southern California is tantamount to a death wish. It’s frightening enough to be in a car on the highways and byways there, but after a few near misses, I just had no interest anymore. And my bike then sat lonely and forlorn in my garage for nearly a decade…

When I made the decision to move to the Washington countryside, I began to get a little excited about riding again. Particularly mountain biking. This is because in my immediate vicinity there are literally hundreds and hundreds of rarely trodden gravel, dirt and forest service roads. Outside of the minimized fear of being hit by a vehicle, these roads are in and through some of the most majestic, spellbinding forests, valleys and summits in the state. I knew it would be a way to reengage with cycling and was practically salivating about getting back in the proverbial saddle.

Once I arrived, I was able to confirm everything I’d briefly seen previously or expected. I was stoked and ready to rock! I just needed to get my hands on a mountain bike. This need happened to correspond with the initial COVID shutdown and what stocks of cycles had been available were quickly decimated by folks now in quarantine who wanted some sort of activity. Of course.

The local bike stores all assured me that they were completely sold out and would not have replenished stock until the following year and directly informed me to call back then. In the interim, I spent a good deal of time researching what I needed and wanted, relying heavily on friends and reviews. I finally found the make and model of my choice and on January 3^rd, 2021 I made the call to the local shop that carried the brand.

He informed me that he had 3 on order and they were expected to arrive in March. Fired up, I put down a deposit and dreamt about wheeling around my back-country neighborhood. In early March I get a call informing me there’s been a delay and, hopefully, the bike will be in by June. The next month, it was July. The following month I get yet another call saying that they have no idea when, and even if, it will ever arrive. Frustrated, I get my deposit back and figure I’ll just wait until the global supply chains and shipping normalize. I forget about riding shortly thereafter.

Imagine my complete shock and surprise when I get a call in late February of 2022 from the owner of the shop who says, “We have a bike with your name on it!” I really couldn’t believe it. Over a year later, the bike finally comes in. I rush down to grab it, put it in my car and, with an ear-to-ear smile, drive home.

The next day I’m out on a relatively non-threatening gravel road for a quick six-mile shakedown run. I had learned the hard way last year when I did my first-ever mountain bike rides with my friend in San Luis Obispo, that riding and handling a mountain bike is extremely different than a road bike. Fortunately, I got the general hang of it relatively quickly and somehow managed to not fall off a cliff on a gnarly single track he took me on after one other preliminary ride.

I can’t lie, just pedaling along on the new bike in the clean air on a deserted country road triggered a barrage of wonderful memories and sublime feelings, even if my quadriceps were screaming. Adrenalized with emotion, onward I went – giddy and panting all the while. When I got home, I was a little worn, but in that good way. That way that immediately makes you excited to get back tomorrow and do it all again and do it longer.

And so I have. I’m on the trails about four times each week and I am getting better and better and going further and further. All in such an amazing, pristine environment. I’ve found a local cycling club and I am preparing to head to Montana in late May to ride the spectacular Hiawatha Trail and around Glacier National Park. Moreover, I’ve finally broken out my old, yet still gorgeous, glimmering lady – my sweet Italian road bike. With over a hundred miles of dedicated, paved cycling trails near Spokane, fear-free urban road riding can be had.

Damn, it’s been so awesome to have fallen in love with cycling again and be feeling two wheels good!