Bicycles provide a lesson in parenting and physics

My quiet walk in the country was being disturbed by the roar and clang of a power saw and hammer. Topping the rise at the two-mile point from my house, I discovered the racket’s source: a young dad and his ten-year-old son building something in the front yard.

Drawing closer, I saw that the “something” was a ramp, the sort kids use to perform stunts on their BMX bikes.

“Evening,” I said. “Nice ramp.”

Dad removed his baseball cap and used it to wipe sweat from his brow. 

“It’s taking us all day to build,” he complained.

Looking at the ramp, I could believe it. It wasn’t just a couple pieces of plywood hammered together with rusty nails salvaged from some old board in the garage. It was a work of art.

Stainless steel sides gleamed in the light of the setting sun; rubber “safety” bumpers lined the edges of the sanded, stained oak. 

Frankly, I’d feel guilty riding a bicycle over that lovely piece of woodcraft.

It was just another example of how much things have changed since I was a kid. Back then, there was no such thing as doting parental involvement. If we wanted a ramp to race our bikes over, we scrounged up a sheet of splintery, nail-filled plywood and propped it over the nearest curb. 

The traffic on Michigan Street only made the ride more exciting for me and my buddy, Jim. We were young and fearless. And mostly brainless.

So it was with a real sense of adventure that we approached the sinkhole in the parking lot of Arsulowicz Mortuary. We’d had heavy rains that fall and the gravelly soil near the railroad tracks had washed away, leaving a hole in the parking lot about six feet deep and at least that wide. The otherwise flawless asphalt had caved in around it.

Jim and I dropped our bikes by the tracks and immediately set about building a makeshift ramp from old timbers that always seemed to be laying around back then. Why?

See the “mostly brainless” comment, above.

Neither Jim nor myself had ever been accused of being particularly bright, but of the two of us, I was the dumber. I volunteered to go first.

I wheeled my 26-inch, bright red, Firestone 500 bicycle to the opposite side of the parking lot, carefully aligning my front wheel with the rickety ramp, which was maybe 8-inches wide and held in place with cinder blocks and wishful thinking.

My cycling skills were every bit as impressive then as they are now. I hit that ramp doing about 22 miles per hour and received an immediate lesson in physics. Namely, that a 75-pound boy riding a big, clunky bike at 22 miles per hour will not fly gracefully over a 6-feet wide hole, but will instead drop like a stone.

I still remember the taste of blood and gravel.

Maybe doting, 21-Century parents are not such a bad thing, after all.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If I’m found by the side of the road dead, the first suspect should be my bike seat

I’ve sweat off half my body mass in the past week and have developed a tan to rival James Brown’s, but I’m loving every minute of it. In addition to playing with my new bike, I’m training for the second annual Geezer-thon Cross-State Bike Tour, coming up the first part of August.Last week I told you about my new Wonder-Bike, normally a crazy expensive road bicycle I purchased off Craigslist.com for $95 from a woman determined to give her ex-husband (the bike was his) an apoplectic fit. Since then, I’ve put nearly 300 miles on the thing, despite the fact temperatures have been in the high 90s nearly every day.

Last year, I pedaled from Port Huron to Stony Lake, near Lake Michigan. This year I’ve planned a slightly more modest route, from Grand Rapids to Traverse City and back, about 300 miles as the bike rolls.

I’m not sure how many days it will take me. Originally, I thought about doing four 75 mile days back-to-back. Then last Saturday I did a 70 mile ride and it nearly killed me. Seriously, it took me about 20 minutes to extricate myself from the car when I got back home. My knees were stiffer than the Tin Man’s prior to Dorothy’s application of oil. My butt felt like it’d gone 15 rounds with Muhammad Ali in his prime.

The problem is the seat that came with my new Wonder-Bike. Like the rest of the bike, it’s a miracle of modern technology and French engineering; part carbon fiber, part titanium alloy…if the Space Shuttle came with bicycle seats, they would look like this thing.

And because my Wonder-Bike was designed to be raced by guys like Lance Armstrong, the seat is about the size of a postage stamp. It weighs next to nothing. In fact, if detached from the bike, it must be tied to a string to prevent it floating away like a helium balloon.

Plus, it looks really cool! So cool, in fact, that I left it on there during my recent 70 mile ride. I could have achieved similar results by sitting on a rabid porcupine.

Since my butt looks more like Homer Simpson’s than Lance Armstrong’s, the cool seat and I are not precisely simpatico. The seat is small. My bootie is big. It’s as simple as that. One good bump in the road and I’m off to the proctologist’s office. I’ve heard the outpatient procedure for bicycle seat extraction is not pleasant.

So I broke down and bought a new seat. Like my own backside, it is somewhat wide and somewhat padded. It doesn’t look as cool as the old seat, but I can perch on it for hours without whimpering like a wet kitten.

And when I get to Traverse City sometime early next month, there’s a good chance I’ll still be able to walk.

Mike Taylor’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available online at mtrealitycheck.com or in eBook format from Barnes & Noble, Borders and other major booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylore325@gmail.com.

For once, I got the deal of a lifetime and I’m not going to feel guilty about it

Yesterday, I bought the bicycle of my dreams. It’s a Motobecane, a carbon fiber/titanium/aluminum alloy beauty that retails for exactly twice what I make in a year. I’ve had dreams about a bike like this, the sort of dreams which, back in high school featured cheerleaders and Swedish flight attendants. I’ll admit it; I have, in my heart, lusted after this bike. I’ve put nearly 100 miles on it already, and I still can’t believe it’s mine.

How did a lowly doofus like me come into possession of this two-wheeled miracle of French engineering and cutting edge science, you may ask. Go ahead, ask. I’m dying to tell somebody.

I found it yesterday morning, around 6 a.m. As is all too usual, I was suffering from insomnia. To pass the time until the sun came up, I opened my laptop and began paging through the Craigslist classifieds. I like to peruse the high-end bikes listed there. I knew (or thought I knew) I’d never be able to afford one. I like to look at ‘em anyway, in much the same way guys who are never going to date Irina Shayk like the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue--it’s fun to dream.

I pulled up ads for Specialized, Trek and similar upscale two-wheelers, marveling at the four-figure price tags and wondering how anyone besides Lance Armstrong could justify paying $6,000 for a bicycle when my first Schwinn—purchased for five bucks at a garage sale back in 1965—served me just fine for nearly a decade. In 1976, I replaced the Schwinn with a used Fuji for the then unheard-of price of $300 and rode that for the next 30 years. So, yeah, six large seems kinda pricey to me.

But like I said, I like to look, to ogle, to…well…drool a little bit.

Then suddenly, there it was, right at the top of the listings; my dream Motobecane, one of the company’s top end models, priced at $95. Being a rational man and not given to flights of fancy, I assumed the price was a typo and the ad should have read $950, which still would have been a steal. Since the ad had posted just seconds earlier, I called the listed number, even though the sun had been up for only a few minutes. A woman answered.

“Hello,” I said. “Sorry about the early hour, but I’m calling about the bike you just listed? I was just double-checking the price. It says $95.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the woman. “But if that’s too high, I might be willing to entertain an offer.”

Twenty minutes later I was driving up to a prearranged meeting place. She had the bike, a thing of exquisite beauty and in like-new condition; I had 95 bucks. We made the exchange. Once the bike had been transferred to my car rack, and locked securely in place (touch black! no trades back!) I couldn’t resist asking her the question.

“Why are you selling this bike so cheap?”

 “Am I?” she asked. “Is it worth more?” I told her it was. “Well, I guess I knew it was an expensive bike,” she said. “It belonged to my (expletive deleted) ex-husband. He left it at the house when he moved in with his girlfriend. He called yesterday and said to get what I could for it and send him the money. How much is it worth, exactly?”

I told her.

“Whooooo,” she whistled. “He is not going to be happy.”

She didn’t sound too concerned about Mr. Expletive Deleted’s happiness. As I drove off with my dream bike, I realized that I wasn’t either.

Mike Taylor’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available at mtrealitycheck.com or in eBook format at Barnes & Noble, Borders and most other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.