I can’t afford to dress properly for modern biking

When I was 17, I rode my bicycle from Grand Rapids to Quebec. I no longer remember how far that ride was, but it was a long way. By the time I got to where the road signs were in French, I had calluses on my butt that rivaled any bicep Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his “Terminator” days, could have boasted.

I pedaled my Fuji the whole way wearing cutoff Levi’s and a pair of Red Ball Jets sneakers. If I stopped at a roadside café, I’d pull on a T-shirt. Other than that, I had no specialized equipment.

If I chafed, which I sometimes did, I stopped pedaling for a day or two and pitched camp in a pinewood or nearby corn field. It gave me a chance to read whatever Ray Bradbury had written recently and partake of the questionable nutritional value of Lipton’s Cup-a-Soup, the camper’s best friend (at least in the ‘70s).

I was thinking of those times earlier today, while riding my bike for the first time this year. The temperature finally climbed above the 45-degreee mark, melting most of the snow from the bike trails near my new home in Ada.

The first thing I noticed is: my new neighborhood is hilly. Riding around Ada, I felt like Hannibal trying to get his elephants over the Alps. Holy moley! What were they thinking when they built this town? No two homes should be located anywhere near the same sea level? It’s like San Francisco without the palm trees and silicone-enhanced actresses.

Anyway, it’s a lot of up-and-down for an old guy whose only exercise since last November has been drinking beer and eating pizza. But the hills I’ll get used to, or die trying—a distinct possibility. (That “elephants over the Alps” reference wasn’t entirely metaphorical.)

I only rode for about 15 miles, a short run by summertime standards, but enough to work up a sweat beneath my ski jacket this time of year. And while cruising the neighborhood I discovered something wonderful—and dangerous; there are two really good bike shops nearby. They’re the kind of places that offer bikes that require financing plans. Bikes made not from steel, but from carbon fiber. Bikes that weigh six ounces. Bikes that Lance Armstrong would prefer over Sheryl Crow.

And along with all those cool bikes, they have the cool bike accessories. Headlights, tail-lights, water bottles, water bottle holders, bags, baskets, bells, air pumps, and clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes!

Apparently, riding a bicycle around here without the proper attire is considered rather gauche. Before I go any further I’ll admit, I do have a pair of Spandex bicycle shorts and no, they do not do my backside any favors. The only purpose they serve, that I’m aware of, is to alert approaching motorists to my presence. (The shock value alone often causes drivers to swerve to the opposite side of the road.)

At any rate, the stores offer all kinds of clothing, including leg, arm and knee warmers. Most of these duds are skin tight, because cyclists are supposed to look like Lance Armstrong and date girls that look like Sheryl Crow.

Did I mention I rode to Quebec in cut-offs and sneakers? Quebec, man! I was built like Lance Armstrong back then, but nobody had invented Spandex. Now that they have, I (sadly) look more like Drew Carey than Armstrong. Spandex is no longer an option for me (except as a means of startling motorists).

I just Google-mapped Quebec; turns out the trip was just over 1,000 kilometers. I don’t know how many miles that is, but it looks like quite a few on the map. And I did it without Spandex, special shoes, a helmet or padded underwear.

I had a point to make earlier in this column, but I can’t remember what it was. I’m chafing that bad right now.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.