My blue road bike sits nicely against a sliding glass door of our already cluttered kitchen. Penelope’s cat food and water bowl lay between the front wheel and the pedals. Now-a-days there is reason to believe my bike is clutter: it is rarely used and occupies space in a place where more space is needed.
It wasn’t always that way. I bought my bike in June 2010 right before my first triathlon. Prior to that I had been sitting on the couch for 6 years. I bought it used for $300 at Key Cycling, my local bike store. Here I was thinking I had made a “ginaourmous” (in my son’s language) investment, and little did I know what I was getting myself into.
It’s a running joke that I asked the owner, Sergio, if I could put a little basket in the front as I still did not have a regular bike to ride around the island. Yes, I live in an island paradise where we get around on bikes, golf carts and minivans. He said “no” in an “are you seriously asking me this?” kind of tone. Okay. I did not know what I was getting into.
I was terrified. The bike seemed so light, so thin, so …. wobbly. My feet were going to be bound to the pedals so that I could go faster, I was going to have to ride up Mount Miami (aka the William Powell Bridge linking Miami to Key Biscayne) and if I wobbled then, I would fall because my feet were going to be *gasp* bound to the pedals. It was quite funny, in a pathetic way, the first time I rode it. I fell three times, all of them in the middle of some major intersection where half of Key Biscayne (the half I know, of course) saw me.
So race day came and off we went. Nothing went wrong. On the contrary, everything went great and I was hooked.
Since then my bike and I have been through a lot. 12 triathlons in 2 years from sprints (.5 mile swim, 10 mile bike, 3 mile run) to a half ironman (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13 mile run). I did it all with my blue faithful used road bike. There were two things I loved most about training on my bike. One was riding on a 3 mile loop we call Virginia Key in the pre-dawn hours. There were few, if any, cars. I felt the wind, heard the birds, and embodied the quiet. It was perfect peace. It was my alone time with the universe and it gave me all the energy I needed to get through the busy day ahead. I also loved riding my bike over the Powell bridge at sunrise and see how the sun would begin to light up the Miami skyline. It was powerfully beautiful.
But my bike was always difficult. My teammates and competitors fly by me with their $1500+, light as a feather, perfectly fitted bike. In comparison, I am riding a heavily armored tank. To give them credit, my teammates physical abilities are indeed stronger but I can only keep up with them for about 5 minutes. As soon as we start heading up the Powell bridge (and that is 5 minutes into the training) I am left in the dust. As my coach points out my bike needs to be upgraded. I agree. I understand but I can’t justify the expense. Truthfully though, neither the speed nor the price tag are the reasons my bike is now clutter.The reason is this guy:
His name is Aaron Cohen. I never met him. He was riding on the Powell bridge, at the time I am usually there, in the pre-dawn spectacular hour I described before. The time I enjoyed most in one of the places I found peace. That is where he was hit by a drunken driver who then fled the scene. Aaron died of brain injuries the next day. This happened on a Wednesday. Had it been a Tuesday or a Thursday, the days I ride, this could’ve been me.
There was another fatal accident on the Key Biscayne causeway a couple of years ago. This was before I started riding. It was another drunken hit and run of another father of two young children.
Both drivers, both hit and run drivers, live in the same building in the Key: my building. Well mine before I got married. The one my parents have lived in for over 20 years. The building I go to at least once a week.
So in a weird, bizarre, self centered way, I somehow connect all this to me. Some karma, some way of God telling me “don’t do it, riding is not safe. You have too much to lose.”
There is this story of a man who had faith and a hurricane came. I am sure someone can tell it better but the basic premise is this: there was a big flood and the police came around helping people evacuate. The man told the police he was a man of faith, he would be ok. The water rose and he sat on the second floor of his house. A boat came to rescue him and he said, “no thanks, I am a man of faith”. The water rose some more and he sat on the roof of his house and a helicopter came to rescue him. He said, “no thanks, I am a man of faith”. And he eventually drowned. When the man got to heaven he asked God “what happened? I thought I was a good man, one of faith and you let me die”. God answered: “I sent you a police escort, a boat, and a helicopter but you weren’t willing to listen”.
No real changes have been made to make cycling safer. No one is really enforcing more accountability for both drivers and cyclists (because if you are from down here you are well aware of a polarized, hateful squabble between drivers and cyclists). Cycling activists are doing all they can but change will be slow. There is a whole lot of work to be done here. And in the meantime, my bike is collecting dust because I promised my family I wouldn’t ride until change came and it were safer.
So now I am a driver, and when I drive by the cyclists I look out my window and long to be there, riding. I want to yell out “hey! I am one of you too! I am in a car now but I did ride once!”. And then I look at the rear view mirror and see my two boys ages 4 and 6. They are either singing, smiling, or more frequently fighting. But for a moment they take my breath away because the love I have for them is overpowering, so incomprehensible. I think of the two fallen dads and their kids and my eyes fill with tears. I don’t want to miss a second of my boy’s life and I don’t want anyone but me to be their mother. Is riding my bike that important to me? Is the risk really worth it? It’s not like I have been a triathlete my whole life, and I do have a crappy bike anyways. Then I don’t envy those cyclists on the road so much anymore because I have too much to live for. I can find another way to exercise and I can find another way to find my peace. And all of a sudden the bike in the kitchen turns more into a trophy, than clutter. A sign of past challenges conquered.
I do still however, have this nagging inside of me that one day, one day, maybe I could do an Ironman triathlon. But to do so would entail some riding. Not just a a little riding but some serious mileage. The Ironman distance is 2.5miles swim, 116 miles bike, 26.2 mile run. Unfathomable right now. But I know the impossible can become possible so who knows.
A type of moment I am not willing to miss
So today I am looking for an indoor bike trainer. This thing that holds your own bike so you can train inside on the same bike you race. Its one of those “if you don’t go to the mountain, the mountain comes to you” solutions. I will be able to at least maintain what I have gained over the past two years of riding my good ole’ blue. And if all this were to pass, my bike would no longer sit against the sliding glass door in the kitchen. It would be nicely mounted on the trainer ready to do some spinning probably next to my boys watching TV. And I will be grateful.
