Only Moving Does It Have A Soul
Many years ago, I’m talking probably nearly forty, I was a fairly serious cyclist. I did hundred mile rides (called “Centuries”)in a day, trained for triathlons and went on camping trips, carrying supplies like stove, tent and sleeping bag in panniers. I was a bicycle messenger in Boston for a while. It’s a gig accompanied by a constant frisson of possible danger due to traffic and pedestrians, one of whom I hit once, though I got hurt worse in the spill. I accidentally went down a flight of stairs at the Prudential Building, disabling my bike and getting banged up and scaring the shit out of myself. We had to move fast to make any money.
In college, I had gotten sideswiped by a car, years before that. I had a photo of Greg Lemond in the Tour de France which I looked at a lot for inspiration, thinking I’d like to be as cool as that and as buff and sleek. I even subscribed to cycling magazines. So, my riding bona fides were real and I even learned to do some of my own maintenance, too. I could fix flats in a hurry, adjust a chain and even do some rudimentary wheel truing. I had all the specialized tools and sometimes thought I was very clever and self-sufficient.
I can’t remember what it was, something about ball bearings as I recall, but I attempted a repair that was above my pay grade. It did not go well and I had to take the bike to a real shop. As I was leaving the machine behind, I recall saying, “OK, I’ll just go have a beer, hit a bookstore and be back in a while.” “Cool,” he said, “go have a beer. I’ll get on it. By the way, whoever worked on this is a real turkey.” He obviously didn’t know I was the turkey and I said “Yeah, what an idiot, huh? Guess I’ll never take my expensive bike there again.”
I thought of that yesterday when we got out for our first ride in two years. The tires had gone flat, but we finally rolled out, dutifully wearing our masks, on our path by the river. I felt like a twelve-year old, the way it was long before I became a serious rider. And a great day to be outside it was indeed, seventy four and sunny. I couldn’t shift into the lower gear ratios, though, and I said out loud “Guess I’ll take a look at that later and see what I can do.” That’s when I remembered the repair shop turkey.
I don’t feel so cocky now, and will take it to a professional, if I can’t fix it. I’m content that we can just noodle around and exult in the sun and the spring zephyrs, taking our time, poking around. We don’t even have a pump anymore, but had to go to the filling station and deposit fifty cents. There’s been a lot of talk on zoom calls about how bike shops are essential businesses and where the good paths are and I’m glad for all the attention on such an enjoyable and low carbon footprint activity. I’m glad people are outside and moving.
In his Ode to Bicycles, Pablo Neruda wrote–
only moving
does it have a soul,
and fallen there
it isn’t
a translucent insect
humming
through summer
but
a cold
skeleton
that will return to
life
only
when it’s needed,
when it’s light,
that is,
with
the
resurrection
of each day.
