In the Saddle
The earliest picture of me in the saddle riding with my daughter at a friend’s Malibu Canyon ranch was the beginning of a short-lived fascination with horses. It had the added allure, in the land of movie making, that the ranch was used for western movie shoots. I went on to renting horses from stables and rode the dry river beds of Palm Springs skirting country-club golf courses. The land was owned by an Indian tribe and that too put an allure to the horseback riding experience.
When I moved to Washington DC, another friend encouraged me to ride in Rock Creek Park at a stable that predated the construction of the Washington Metro subway line. The stable housed several horses that belonged to embassy personnel. The stable manager was soon convinced that we were regular patrons and knew how to ride. He allowed us to exercise these very expensive and privileged horses. That period was also short-lived with the start of Metro construction in Rock Creek Park.
Bicycles caught my attention with altogether different saddles and my own horsepower. I had recollections as a teen of newspaper deliveries on a bike during high school in Rochester, New York. There, throughout winter and summer at dawn I rolled up papers, stuffed them in a bag, which straddled the handlebars, and hurled them at front porches. I owned a plain vanilla, one-speed bike. In winter storms that crossed Lake Ontario from Canada, I switched to dragging a sled with the bag of papers.
Over the years I owned a variety of multi-speed touring bikes with very slim saddles, a recumbent bike with a very wide saddle resembling a chair and backrest, and a folding bike that was easily tucked into a car trunk or flown overseas in the luggage compartment.
My next foray in saddles was a Suzuki motorcycle, a combination 125cc street and off-road trail bike. A friend and I explored trails in the Bethesda suburbs of Washington, DC and we entered an Enduro race in nearby Tennessee. To my surprise, I came in second-place only because many riders got lost navigating the complicated and poor signage indicating the race route. I did not fully appreciate the damage to the environment that was associated with by off-road motor-biking
I loved the idea of commuting the busy Washington, DC traffic in a motorcycle and exploring the surrounding countryside. The need or temptation for a bigger, more powerful bike soon took hold and I bought a Triumph 650cc Bonneville. The Peter Fonda Easy Rider spirit took hold and touring trips got longer. I bought a second Triumph, this time in England with the intention of touring the southern coast of England from London to Lands End and selling the bike in the US. The motorcycle tour was one uncomfortable rainy day after another. The papers called the period, “The Rain of Queen Elisabeth.”
The motorcycle was shipped across the Atlantic and I called a Washington DC newspaper to post a classified “For Sale” advertisement. I made a point of stating that the bike only had a few hundred miles on it. The operator said, “How is that possible? England is several thousand miles from here!”
The rain and snow in Washington DC soon dampened the spirit of motorcycling and the vroom-vroom gave way to bicycling again. To this day, I bike for the open-air feeling and exercise in both my seasonal migration habitats. I see a lot of electric bikes in Bavaria and not so many in Florida. I am reluctant to join the electric bike vogue favoring instead my own pedal horsepower. On a recent walk through the outskirts of Munich, I stopped at a bike store that stocked two thirds of its inventory in electric bikes — a sure sign that German population is aging. However, the young are taking to electric mountain biking on the Alpine trails. Hikers and cows alike are furious at young electric bikers competing over scarce narrow trails.
Who knows what the future has in store for me — an electric scooter, walker, or wheelchair?
As we grow older our values change: I recall events with bright lights and loud thrumming music. Now I cherish symphonies with close-ups of musicians and animated conductors. Recalling action movies with rapid editorial cuts and heroes who walk away from a crash-bang scene. Now I am drawn to dramas with slow development of characters. Recalling the fun of fast commutes and easy parking on a deep-throated motorcycle. Now I cringe at roaring mufflers and screeching tires. Remembering the thrill of cross-country racing on a dirt bike. Now I realize the resulting insult to the environment.
“When one is young, the circle around one’s life is the whole world. In maturity, it becomes your village. In middle age, your house and your garden. And then, when you are old, your bed.” Anonymous
