A few days ago I bolted out the door and went on a relatively spontaneous 10 km ride. I was high on hope and hadn't yet combined my image of a leisurely bike ride to the reality of pedaling a very heavy machine up and down hilly streets.
I was comfortable with signing up for the MS Bike-a-Thon for two reasons: (1) they advertise their event as family friendly and (2) they welcome participants on "bikes of all kinds." Family friendly is important because this implies that you don't have to be a pro athlete to participate. If there aren't any bike restrictions, I feel confident knowing that I won't feel madly out of place and horrendously unprepared on my vintage Elan amidst a set of professional riders on road bikes. I can hope that there'll be someone on a unicycle or better yet, an adult tricycle! Maybe my vision of an eclectic group of misfits riding along in brightly coloured costumes with feathers in their caps isn't accurate (how awesome would that be?!!), but still, there's the sense that even with professional riders zooming through trails, I'll be okay put-putting along on Olivia.
But to ride 30 km I've got to prepare so I thought I'd test out a route from my house to Erindale Park using a trail through the woods and a bike lane along Collegeway that leads right into UofT Mississauga and then onwards into the park. It's roughly a 10 km round trip and very scenic, so an early morning ride before the world woke up sounded so lovely.
Worry #1: As I wobble my way onto the steep and narrow entry into the ravine I envision myself losing control and wiping out: the entry is a little rough around the edges and drops off onto very uneven ground while going into a steep decline. Maybe a helmet was a good idea. And knee pads. Olivia's front wheel rides a little "squirrelly"; it's a little unpredictable and wobbles off track easily. I've gotten used to the feel but getting back on her after a lapse in riding always throws me off course--I think it's a matter of experience and with more riding won't be such an ordeal.
Worry #2: As I coast down the path and over the little wooden bridge that arcs over a brook, I slowly settle into my crisp morning ride. I take a new path that forks off to the left knowing it exits onto Erin Mills Parkway and will let me enter the trail along Burnhamthorpe Rd. Very quickly I'm gaining speed without pedaling, swerving along sharp curves. I'm going so fast that the trees look threatening and my panic rises--what if my brakes go out? What if I lose control? Why am I going so fast? Why is this path so curvy? I'm going to smack into a tree--here it comes! Except I pump my brakes and everything's fine.
Worry #3: When I finally exit the trail, I discover another dilemma. There are giant signs telling me to dismount my bike and walk it across the crosswalk. Not a big deal. I'm not so cool that I can't walk my bike. I don't care. Sure, nobody likes the safety freak who walks their bike across the road. They hold up turning vehicles like any other pedestrian; drivers point and laugh at them; children on rugged mountain bikes zip past in three seconds, but it's okay. That's what the sign says. Safety first. So I wait for the light to change and I walk my bike to the other side where the bike lane begins. As I hop onto my bike and push off, I realize that if there were cars waiting to turn right, I'd be blocking them trying to get on my bike and into the bike lane. If I had ridden across the crosswalk, I could easily weave into the lane with little disruption. The rules are killing me.
Worry #4: I make it to the next light reveling in the glory that is a dedicated bike lane when I reach the next set of lights. I need to turn left to continue down my route, but I'm not yet comfortable taking the left lane and turning like a vehicle. So I cross the intersection still in bike lane position, but have to stop awkwardly on the other side so I can wait for the light to change and cross over again. If there were cars, where would I stop? Should I dismount and cross like a pedestrian and then mount again to get into the bike lane? This feels like too much starting and stopping and not enough riding. I'm annoyed and stressed. I can't turn left like a vehicle yet because what if I'm too slow? What if the car behind me honks? What if they give me the finger?
Anyways. I'm finally in the bike lane on Collegeway and riding along the route I've dreamt of taking for months. It's through a quiet part of the city, few cars, lots of trees--and wow, I'm totally zipping down this road! This is easy!!! I'm hardly pedaling! So fast! So free! Wind whipping in my face! Sun twirling in the trees! This is what it's all about!!!
Worry #5: And then it hits me. I'm going downhill. That's why it's easy. You're not some athlete with the magical ability to bike at high speeds with little training and not an ounce of sweat. You idiot. You're going downhill, which means your 5 km route back home will be uphill the entire way. Sure, 5 km is not a whole lot. Especially on a bike. But let's not forget who we're talking about here. We're talking about me. The girl who, without fail, got hit in the face with a basketball/soccer ball/volleyball every single gym class in middle school.
Worry #6: When I reach UTM, I find the trail that leads into the park and decide to walk my bike. It's unpaved, mostly gravel, and a lot of uneven ground. My wheels are pretty skinny and I'm pretty sure I'd wipe out the first time I hit the brakes. No need to be adventurous and go "off road" yet. All in good time. On the way down, I meet a frog:
The park is shrouded in rising mist, the earthy scent of wet grass is in the air, and there's the damp of dew soaking into my shoes. The morning is glowy, the silence and emptiness thrilling. I love it here. My tree stands waiting--'how long you've left me to host the haphazard picnics of common folk' she whispers:
Olivia enjoys the view from the bridge over the Credit River:
'How pretty,' she yawns.
Worry #7: After a nice walk through the park, my sleepless night starts to kick in and I want to get back home. I bike towards Dundas, the speeding cars scaring me onto the sidewalk. Look. I know I'm not supposed to bike on the sidewalk. It's unsafe. I know. I almost fell off a bridge. Well, one wrong move and I would've gone over--poof! And I did almost wipe out: there was wet grass caught in my brakes and I wobbled. But here's the thing. I think that if you're going to bike on the road, you better know what you're doing. You better know the rules. You better know how to signal. You better have confidence. And until I've got 3/3 I'm not veering onto a road unless it's got a dedicated bike lane. Especially not Dundas. I'm also keenly aware that confidence is built through trial and error, but I'd like more trials and less errors before I endanger my life, cause an accident, or really piss someone off. I also don't want someone to give me the finger. I'd be so hurt.
Worry #8: I make it back to Collegeway and my beloved bike lane to start the arduous climb homeward. And holy moly, I am dying. I know this is because I'm unfit and haven't exercised in a while, but I'm also keenly aware that my bike is heavy. Really heavy. That's part of the charm of a vintage bike, remember? This seems so much harder than it should be. I only have three speeds and I'm determined to believe that this is fine. I WILL BE OKAY. I pedal at approximately .25 km/hour and know everyone is laughing at me. The birds in the trees, the old women in their condos, the cars passing me at lightning speed, everyone. But, I'm determined. I will make it home without stopping. I can do this.
Whatever, man. I have to pull over and stop because my legs are jelly and I think I might die. So there I am, standing on the side of the road, chugging water like I just ran a marathon, except I didn't. I'm such a disappointment. By the time I reach Erin Mills and Burnhamthorpe, I have to walk my bike up the sidewalk because I can't pedal any longer. The bike feels like a dead weight and until I reach the bike path that zooms down a hill and into the woods, I'm not getting back on my bike.
Once I reach the path, I zip and zap through the woods and think if I keep doing this, if I keep worrying about every rule I could potentially break or every person who could point me out and say 'there's that girl who doesn't know what she's doing' or if I make myself bike 5 km uphill before I'm ready, if I don't pause and just enjoy the ride I'm going to hate this, and I'm going to fail.
So here's to letting the wind whistle through a mind empty of worries and what-ifs--we're going to make it Olivia, you just wait and see.
When I first brought my lovely Olivia home, I had to relegate her to the basement because leaning her up against the closet door in the front hall gave my mother panic attacks. The paint scratches, tire smears, and dried mud splattered over her freshly wiped walls and floors was just too much of a threat. I didn't protest. I figured lugging my bike up and down the basement steps would be part of a natural sort of workout. I'd have sweet little biceps in no time.
Part of the appeal of vintage bikes is that they are really heavy. Made from steel instead of aluminum, they're sturdy, last long, and in many bicycles, create a smoother ride. I didn't exactly forget this. I was just being optimistic, trying to look at the brighter side of things. I'd definitely get a good workout. I wouldn't ever have to lift weights again. Why should I? I'd be lifting my incredibly heavy bike. It would be a necessary and virtuous act that would condition my muscles and teach me the value of hard work. Right.
The stairs to our basement consist of two landings that require me to heave my bike up four steps at a time, then turn it at a 90 degree angle while simultaneously heaving it up the next set of stairs. The corners are too tight for large objects, and the landings are prettied up with shelves and flower arrangements making it all a little too clunky for me and Olivia. I grunted, twisted, and was generally surprised at my lack of athletic prowess. I managed to find a sweet spot along the seat post that would let me lift the bike with relative ease, but a combination of several awkward angles--the walls, my positioning, the bike itself--cramped me up and more than once, I stood on the verge of panic, imagining a painful and prolonged death-by-beautiful- bike. Rather quickly, my virtuous exercise turned into a frustrating and awkward endeavor.
Still--still I might have put up with it. I wanted to ride my bike and if tumbling up basement steps with a knot of pent up aggression was what it took, then I was willing. One morning though, I noticed a twinge in my lower back. It burned right at the base of my spine and sparked all day, reminding me that I was doing it all wrong. All that twisting and turning, that erratic lifting, that reckless bending at the waist instead of the knee--it smirked at me with a callous warning: Stop it. Stop, or we'll serve you with a slipped disc and two weeks of immobility.
And still--I would have done it. I would have adjusted my lifting method, done warm-up stretches, practiced even. I would have soldiered on. Anything to make sure I was out there in the streets, pedaling in glory. But, when you keep a bike in a basement, lifting it up and down a set of stairs may be cumbersome, but it isn't the real problem.
Montreal, QC
If it's in the basement, it's out of sight. And give it long enough, it'll soon be out of mind. Really, having Olivia in the basement was depressing. Unless I made the rare trip downstairs to do laundry or collect a few onions, I didn't see her. She stood sulking in the shadows alongside boxes of old records and an old bird cage, those glorious sun rippled dreams of coasting along parkways dimming into the dust-webbed realm of failed hopes. I realized very quickly that if you're looking to incorporate more cycling into your daily life, the best way to set yourself up for failure is to put your bike in a place that is physically inconvenient and visually out of reach.
Olivia, contemplating a ride into the waning light.
So, I brought her up. I brought her where I could see her everyday, baskets ready and flowered up, front wheel cocked to the side, whispering, "A ride, shall we?" If I need to go to the store, there she is. If I'm pondering an evening ride, ah, Olivia. If I've been lazy, there she is prodding guilt into my gut. It's simple, if I see my bicycle, I ride my bicycle. And that is the point of it all, isn't it?
And so, after an evening ride through winding trails, I come home and park her where she belongs. There she is in our front hall, kick stand in place, leaning gently into the stairs, so careful not to dent the walls, or smear tire tracks into the paint. She is all lady-like charm.
Griffith Park, LA
Now, when the sun glints off the front window in that dewy hue, I can just pick up and go--straight out the door and into the world. Perfection.
Images (respectively): Peter Heillman, other images are mine.
Every spring for the past four years, I've longed for a bicycle. Not a mountain bike, a hybrid, or a road bike, but a bicycle. A beautiful, swan-like machine that would glide through lonely bike paths, and over rolling green hills in effortless grace. There I would be, wicker baskets and picnic blanket in tow, sitting upright, a fragrant breeze on my upturned face. In my fantasy, I parked under my favourite tree at Erindale Park, spread my blanket over thick, sweet grass, laid back and read Anne of Green Gables. I'd have an egg-salad sandwich and lemonade, too. And so, in the mists of early morning I'd pass my time in leisure, completely satiated on the loveliness of life. I'd feel my obsession to find the perfect bicycle prickle to life as soon as I was neck high in final papers, several days behind in research, deadlines pounding at my door. It was a breezy escape into some other place where everything was not only fine, it was a drink of complete serenity and contentment.
My parents bought me a mountain bike from Canadian Tire when I was 12 and I rode it to school with packs of other cycling kids, chain combination locks wound tight around our seat posts. I never graduated to a newer bicycle as an adult--I began taking the bus, and eventually just drove. As difficult as it is to believe, it never occurred to me that there could be an alternative. Cycling was a recreational activity done on the weekends by nuclear families adorned with knee pads and helmets. It was an intense sporting event, muscle-y men and women in spandex, bent in aero-dynamic perfection over svelte road bikes. It was the economic and environmentally responsible choice my friends and colleagues in Toronto made for city travel. It's not that I didn't think it was for me--I simply didn't think of it at all.
And still, there I was each spring with this urge to get a bike and ride it.
At first, I thought it was just nostalgia--that frowned upon desire to have things from a time and place you view as better than your own. Or even worse, the urgency to buy objects as antidotes to problems you harbour within. I can readily confess that there was definitely an element of both. But then my search became more detail-orientated--I wasn't just looking at bikes that looked pretty, I was looking at bikes that would fit in with my lifestyle. I wanted a very specific kind of bike--something that I could hop on and go without worrying up hiking up pant legs to avoid chain grease, or pinning up skirts so they didn't get caught in spokes and send me flying over handlebars. I wanted a bicycle I could be friendly with instead of something I would acknowledge from time to time.
Of course, the bicycle has definite nostalgic appeal. Those old, classic bicycles have this magnetic aesthetic and emotional appeal that makes cycling seem like something more than just a ride through a park on the weekend. Riding from point A to B, is more than just a quick flit across town--it's an experience, an opportunity to absorb your surroundings and become part of the landscape. I think it makes you feel more alive.
And so I researched incessantly. I clicked on image after image of loop-frame bicycle dreams, three-speed English uprights, and old Dutch bicycles that had everything I could dream of, but were financially out of reach. Every bicycle that happened to have everything I desired was between $500 and $1500. This included a well-built steel frame, an upright riding posture, a full chain case, skirt guard, and that hard to pinpoint element--true love.
Of course, I quickly learned that even $500 is relatively cheap in the bicycle world. If I was looking to purchase for more than weekend recreation, I learned I'd be spending significant wallet weight on a machine that was meant to last. And because quality and longevity were important to me, I didn't want to cheap out and buy an upright beach cruiser that would leave me cursing its creak and wobble in a month. At the same time, I wasn't committing to being a dedicated bicycle commuter--cycling 20km to my workplace was not yet feasible for me (go ahead, judge me), though in bouts of euphoric bicycle madness I often convinced myself that yes, yes!!! I could bike that far, no problem!
What I wanted was an optimistic bicycle, a bicycle that offered opportunities and kept my options open.
"You just want to go for a leisurely ride? Sure." "Oh, you want to start commuting? No problem." "You'd like to sport around a little? Pretend you're racing? Okay." "You just want to look nice? Alright. If you must."
Because as a big, fat, anything-bicycle-related noob, I needed something entry level that would still fulfill my needs and desires, but not crush any future dreams. I know there is no such thing as an "everything-bicycle." Every vehicle has its purpose, but I was determined to find a bicycle that wasn't too specific in its field of expertise. After all, I wasn't looking to train for the BMX games or any games for that matter, I only knew that I missed that urgency to hop on a bike and go. And go I would.
I decided that this was my year. I still couldn't afford a $1000 bike, but I was going to figure out a way to get what I needed. After some strenuous research on bike forums and a plethora of information from the very lovely Velouria on Lovely Bicycle, I decided that an English 3-speed made before the 1990s would be my ideal bike. With a few adjustments, it would fulfill all my bicycle dreams. After a couple of months of searching Craigslist and Kijiji, I contacted my local bike shop, Cyclepath Mississauga - The Bike Store, and to my delight they told me they had two used "old school" bikes in stock.
A week later I walked up the sidewalk to the store and it was love at first sight. A quick ride around the parking lot, the addition of a rear rack, a seat adjustment to accommodate my unimpressive height, and a nice tune up later, she was mine.
Without further ado, I introduce to you, Olivia.
She's a 1973 CCM Elan. Canadian made, before the manufacturing of CCM's was outsourced to Taiwan. Forest green for that vintage charm; she's heavy and durable, with not a spot of rust on her!
A nice low, step-through frame to make hopping on and off easier (as well as aesthetic pleasure). The all-important chain-guard--not a full chain-case--but it will suffice just fine and nothing horrible has happened to my clothing as a result.
The addition of a front basket and flowers. (Basket stolen from my mother's beloved stair-top flower arrangement and cloth flowers clipped from her other arrangements around the house).
The addition of a rear basket (confiscated from the magazines in my room) tied down with jute. Inside, I have a picnic blanket for the essential impromptu picnic and my father's old cowboy belt to bind stuff together when I'm out and about.
So Olivia and I are just getting to know one another, but I think we're off to a very good start. There are a few other adjustments I'd like to make to make her truly mine--and so, DIY projects are already in the making! Stay tuned.
