The Long Road to a Sensible Bike Ride

Words and photos by Linda Paul

My history with bicycles has been troubled. When other kids on the block had shiny red trikes, I had an absurd hot wheels contraption, propelled not by legs but by arms. By the time I’d graduated to a trike, the other kids were whizzing about on diminutive two-wheelers. Mom’s solution was to offer me her ancient, adult-sized bike with a heehaw horn and huge fenders humped over balloon tires. She dolled up this behemoth with a coat of leftover, Forest Service green car paint complete with paintbrush fur. Somewhere she scrounged up training wheels and sent me on my way. With the seat adjusted as low as it would go, I could push the upper pedal down and hope to catch the lower pedal on its way up. For months, I teetered from one training wheel to the other, as mortified by my incompetence at mastering two-wheeled spinning as I was by the outrageous appearance of my ride.

While I wobbled, my best friend graduated to an adult-sized, three-speed with metallic paint and thin, delicate tires. One summer afternoon, she took pity on me and resurrected her kiddy bike. With my tush on the seat, my feet touched pavement on both sides of the bike. Miraculous! Terry launched me down the sidewalk with a firm push and yelled to pedal like hell. I did__for the next four hours! When I staggered into the house for dinner that night, I felt like Neil Armstrong returning to Apollo 11 after his “giant leap for mankind.” My legs pedaled even as I slept.

My next bike was a stylish, metallic-turquoise, three-speed, which I admired the way a teenaged boy admires his first car. Unfortunately, a sweet ride couldn’t compensate for my short attention span. One day while riding a nice quiet residential street, I forgot to pay attention to where I was going; as my eyes strayed to the left, my bike headed for the rear end of a parked car. I extricated myself from the heap of flesh, metal, and broken tail light on the pavement. The sharp end of the brake lever had dug a hole in my thigh and scooped out chunks of something yellowish, which my fright interpreted as bone, but turned out to be nothing more than baby fat.

When I was in junior high, we moved several miles out of town. The only way connect with my brat pack was via my beautiful three-speed. The first mile and half of our pot-hole-pitted gravel road vibrated my delicate three-speed into a quivering mass of loose bolts.

During college my bike was my transportation. One night on the way home from work, the bike and I collided with a car. I came to in the bright dazzle of the emergency room with a nurse dabbing at my bloody skull. The bike survived this scrape only to be stolen a year later from in front of my apartment where I’d momentarily leaned it against the tree that we usually chained up to.

Years went by during which I owned sleek 10 speed bikes designed to conjure images of Tour de France victory. My high-strung racers were both literal and figurative pains in the ass, with chains slipping, gears jamming, and thin-skinned tires puncturing. Unavoidable puddles painted a donkey stripe up my backside. The dropped handlebars accentuated the unforgiving little racer’s seat; my shoulders and neck ached from craning upward to see where I was going.

Eagerly I followed the next fad to a utilitarian, fat-tired, 15-speed mountain bike with wide-stance handlebars. But the euphoria of the downhill glide was never enough to compensate for the uphill slog and the extra gears merely provided five more chances for a displaced chain. This bike spent most of its life hanging upside down in the garage, making occasional jaunts down the greenbelt when I would dream of a softer seat and even higher handlebars.

In the mid 1990’s I downsized and vowed to bike more and drive less. I invested in a sturdy commuter bike with fenders, built-in head and tail lights, and a cushy seat that invited an upright, European style posture. I smugly pedaled my Breezer to work more days of the year than I drove and stuffed the dual panniers with everything from boxed wine to kitty litter. Proud as I was of my Breezer, I still considered it more a form of transportation than of recreation.

Imagine my surprise when my beloved presented me with a bike in honor of my retirement! Did I want a bike? I already had a perfectly fine bike. But here it was, a finely crafted, steel Nishiki mixte. What is a mixte, I wondered? Why steel? It’s not even new! But it was a lovingly restored homage to mid-80’s bike technology, outfitted with light weight, quality components from Hyde Park Cycle Sports in Boise’s North End. So, began a wary new phase of bicycling. For starters, my new bike deserved a name. Her dusty-rose color and light-hearted response reminded me of a wonderful old mare we had when I was a kid. Pinky was a tall, slender, rose tinted palomino. She was a mature gal when we acquired her, as gentle and dependable as a St. Bernard, yet light on her feet, and willing to run like the wind with a well-anchored rider. My new, recycled Nishiki rides just like Pinky.

I’ve learned lots about bikes in the past few months. I even attended a Grant Petersen seminar hosted by Hyde Park Cycle Sports. After the seminar I joined a group of cycle enthusiasts to ride with Grant and shop owner, Jim Powers. It is a blessing that my companion, Don, is a Rivendell fan because many of the reasons that I formerly disdained “biking” were due to the manic hype of biking trends: the Lycra, the cleats, the aerodynamic, neck-twisting hunch. The Rivendell model appeals to my desire for simplicity and common sense. Now I understand the reasons why my former biking experiences were more excruciating than fun. As the fit of the boot is essential to skiing, so is the fit of the bike to all the pedaling to come. Why contort the human body into unnatural positions? If a seat__oh, I’ve learned it’s a saddle!__feels like an enema or rubs your nether parts raw, there’s a reason; poor fit or poor integration with the other components of your ride. Price does not dictate comfort. Weight does not dictate comfort__although on a long ride light feels right. You will ride your bike more often if you can hop on wearing the clothes you have on at the moment__that, I already knew!


There’s much more that I don’t know about bicycles, which is okay. I’ve picked up the important part, the Rivendell sensibility. In mid-July, Don, on his A. Homer Hilson and I, on Pinky, did a “Sideways by Bike” tour of Idaho’s Snake River Valley wine country. As far as we know, this is a first in Idaho. The wineries here are spread out and isolated. Few roads are bike-friendly. The weekend we picked just happened to usher in the first triple-digit temperatures of the season. We carried minimal gear, but lots of water. We paid $29.16 for one night in a motel, ate delicious local food at unpretentious eateries, and traveled 96 miles in two very hot days. What’s most impressive is that Pinky and I are looking forward to the next trip!