Every good story needs to be told, and I have one.
First, some background. I have been riding a bicycle since August 1981, when, at the age of 24, I purchased a Sears Free Spirit 10-speed for just over $100. When August 2021 rolls around, nine months from now, I will have been pedaling for 40 years. After today’s 30.5-mile ride, I’ve accumulated 116,910.6 miles, which is equivalent to 4.69 times around the Earth at its Equator.
From the fall of 1989, when I moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, until June 2014, I participated in 576 bike rallies (an average of 23 per year). A bike rally is a gathering of cyclists at a designated time and place. Some rallies, such as the Hotter ’n Hell Hundred in Wichita Falls, attract thousands of cyclists. Others attract only a few hundred. The rally organizer, for a fee of $25 to $40, lays out courses of various distances (say, 40, 62, and 100 miles) and provides food, water, energy drinks, portable toilets, and police support (at intersections).
A rally is not a race, but many of the cyclists treat it as one. They congregate near the front of the pack at the start and go out like the proverbial bat out of hell. Those who cannot maintain the pace of the fastest cyclists may form packs of their own. (Some people prefer to ride alone, for safety or other reasons.) At the Hotter ’n Hell Hundred, there are huge packs traveling at every speed, from 28 miles per hour to 26 to 24 and on down to 15 or 17.
You might wonder why cyclists ride in packs. There are many reasons, but the main one is efficiency. Those who ride at the front of the pack break the wind, which requires greater effort than staying in the pack. If riders take turns at the front, as they usually do, they share the work. Everyone goes faster than he or she would by riding alone.
Speed is an aphrodisiac. It’s simply great fun to be rolling along at 20 to 30 miles per hour with a group of others. You feel part of something larger than yourself. There have been times, during rallies, when I glimpsed what it is like to be a professional cyclist. That is heady stuff for a recreational rider.
It’s also dangerous. Your front wheel is only inches from the wheel of the rider in front of you, and sometimes you’re shoulder to shoulder with people you don’t even know and have never seen. When wheels touch or handlebars cross, bad things happen. I have seen many accidents during my years as a rally rider, some of them serious. I’ve even been involved in a few, with broken bones to show for it.
Now to the story, which I recite to you both for its inherent interest and because it is instructive. Many years ago, I was doing a bike rally in Rockwall, Texas. I have been in the lead pack at this rally many times, and the pace is always fast.
In this particular year, there was a rider—a young man—who stood out from the crowd. He didn’t dress like the rest of us (in lycra); he wore what appeared to be ballerina shoes instead of the hard-shell shoes cyclists wear; and his shoes didn’t clip into the pedals as the rest of ours did, which means he was pushing downward with each stroke rather than pushing and pulling both. As I recall, he wore an unusual helmet as well. Everything about this cyclist marked him as an outsider.
But the most unusual thing about this man was his bike. It was different from everyone else’s. It looked like a kid’s bike, with a low seat, wheels that were about half the circumference of other wheels, and handlebars that stuck straight out instead of curling downward.
This man scared me. I had seen him in rallies before, right in the middle of the pack I was riding in, and I wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing. Whenever I found myself in a pack with him, I maneuvered so as to be in front of him rather than behind him. That way, if he caused a crash, as I was certain he would, I would be clear of it instead of caught up in it.
To watch him ride was a sight. Because his wheels were so small, he pedaled furiously. His cadence seemed twice that of everyone else. Partly because of the high cadence and partly because his handlebars struck straight out to the sides, he rocked back and forth (from left to right) as he rode. As I say, he scared me. I never said anything to him, but I wanted to. What I would have said is that he didn’t belong with the rest of us. He should be riding alone or with other weirdos.
On the day in question, we eventually dropped this cyclist. I know this because I finished before he did. As I stood next to my car, with its trunk open, packing up my bike and gear and getting ready to drive home, guess what I saw? I saw this cyclist turn into the parking lot, which sloped ever so slightly downward. Still moving at a decent rate of speed, he got out of the saddle and, with his hands on the handlebars, put his feet on the saddle. Then—and I confess that at this point I gasped—he let go of the handlebars and stood straight up, with his arms out to the sides and a broad smile on his face.
Though the incident occurred more than a decade ago (probably closer to two), I can see it in my mind’s eye as though it were happening now. The man went on like this for several yards before finally getting back into the saddle. To him, it was nothing. He was celebrating his completion of the rally. He had probably stood on his saddle many times. To me, it was beyond spectacular. It was miraculous. I could never do anything that dexterous or dangerous.
I have thought of this man and this incident many times over the years. I always wanted to tell him this story, but never got a chance to. Among other things, I would have apologized for thinking ill of him. I now know that he was tremendously talented, not (or not just) because he could do acrobatic things on his bike, but because he was able to stay with well-conditioned athletes for 50 or more miles on equipment that wasn’t made for the task.
Are there any lessons to be drawn from this episode? I believe there are. The lesson I draw is that clubbiness is wrong. The word “clubby” is defined as “friendly and sociable with fellow members of a group or organization but not with outsiders.” That precisely describes my attitude toward this cyclist—and toward others who didn’t wear what I wore or ride the sort of bike I rode.
Thank you, young man, for teaching me this lesson.