THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 24, 1994 TAG: 9407210273
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Cover Story
SOURCE: BY MARGARET TALEV, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: MANTEO LENGTH: Medium: 63 lines
IT HAD BEEN about 10 years since I'd ridden a bicycle, so I was a little frightened when my editor suggested casually, ``Hey, Maggie, why don't you bike down that million-dollar trail in Manteo on Saturday and tell readers what it's like.''
Gulp. I wasn't sure I still knew how to do it. And it's a six-mile ride. But I need this job.
So I borrowed a bicycle from a friend - a rusty, royal-blue, three-speed Schwinn with one of those personalized license plates that you can get through the mail by sending in coupons from 20 boxes of your favorite cereal.
The tires were flat and rotted but the inner tubes were intact. A couple minutes with a bicycle pump, some 409 spray and paper towels, and I was just as proud and as I had been back in elementary school when I brought home my shiny new 10-speed and showed it off to all the neighbors.
I thought that 10-speed was pretty hot stuff until I started high school. In fifth grade if you didn't have a bike you weren't cool. But by tenth or eleventh grade, if you still used a bike rather than relying on friends who drove, you were a total loser.
It wasn't until two years into my schooling at the University of Maryland, where getting a parking space is near impossible and parking tickets are prohibitively expensive, that I longed for the 10-speed I had abandoned.
By that time, my mother had given my bicycle to some Russian immigrants who couldn't afford to purchase a new one for their son.
But now I had a bike again, and as I mounted the Schwinn, I was touched by the loan from my friend, as perhaps the Russian boy had been by my mother's gift to him.
I knew if I lived to see the end of the path, the trip would bring back buried memories. Already, many were surfacing: learning to ride, being chased by neighborhood boys on dirt bikes, hopping curbs, racing to the swimming pool.
Back then, my bicycle had meant power, liberation from parents, getting to the dentist, the mall or a friend's house by myself. For adults, biking is something different - getting exercise, preserving the environment, enjoying nature.
I was ready to ride again. Precariously, I wove up Queen Elizabeth Street toward the path, aiming to capture the spirit of Outer Banks bicyclists, young and old.
Minutes after my departure, I broke a sweat. The seat was bruising, and my legs strained pathetically as I swayed dangerously around the path's gentle curves: my comeuppance for years of brushing off the bike.
``Whoa,'' I found myself muttering as bicyclists approached from the opposite direction. Then, trying to smile and wave simultaneously, I'd lurch and then regain my stability.
Halfway through the journey, I found the long-lost rhythm, and began to enjoy myself. I'd speed up to catch a breeze, screeching to a halt to pull over startled riders for an interview.
I was slick with sweat and it felt great.
As I finished the trail and glided back down Queen Elizabeth Street two hours later, I felt like a million bucks. by CNB