THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 30, 1994 TAG: 9410270204
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 08 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Ronald L. Speer
LENGTH: Medium: 70 lines
The last time I rode a bicycle was in 1971 in Iowa, when I was trying to lose weight. A friend loaned me a fancy 10-speed and insisted I would quickly master the machine despite its height and complicated controls.
I had never owned a bike. I rode a horse to school as a lad, and had been on a bike only occasionally. This one seemed six feet tall.
But my 7-year-old daughter said she'd show me the ropes on her bike, so off we went for a trip around the block, safely on sidewalks, I thought.
As we neared home a car pulled out of an alley in front of us. My daughter slammed her feet back on the pedals and screeched to a stop.
I slammed my feet back on the pedals and plowed into the right front fender. The bike stopped. I was thrown over the hood of the car, realizing too late that on fancy 10-speed bikes the brakes are in the handlebars, not the pedals.
I skidded onto the concrete on the other side of the car. My daughter pedaled frantically for home, shouting as she went, ``Daddy's been killed! Daddy's been killed!''
I wasn't even scratched. The driver of the car was scared to death.
I sent the bike back to the friend without a thank you.
And for 23 years I avoided two-wheel monsters, telling neighbors that I had better things to do than riding around on wheels and pretending I was some sort of a jock.
However, after we settled into a house a mile from downtown Manteo this fall, envy overcame my fear. Joanne would pop on her bike and ride downtown for coffee or shopping. Once she pedaled into town to buy a refrigerator (wisely, she let the company bring it home). It looked like fun.
At a ground-breaking ceremony, our legislative leader, Marc Basnight, extolled the virtues of bike riding, and the path that Marc built runs but two blocks from my home. Every day I spotted scores of little kids pedaling their way to school.
So I went out and bought a beat-up bike for $40 from a rental shop. It's a woman's model because I have never seen the point of the horizontal bar on a man's bike that seems to be waiting to attack an awkward male. My bike has but one speed, it's short, and it stops when you slam back on the pedals.
It was an ugly mottled gray and white. I spray painted it into an ugly green. And last Saturday I decided if a little kid could ride a bike, surely a grown man could, too.
I invited my wife to go for a ride downtown. And off we went, down a quiet street. My wife quickly pulled ahead. I concentrated not on speed, but on not hitting the occasional car that passed.
The more I rode, the better I felt, and I rolled confidently up to the downtown restaurant. I strode briskly indoors and casually said to the waitress, ``I rode my bike downtown.''
``Sit anywhere you like,' she responded.
A friend was in one of the booths with his daughter.
``Sure is nice out, when you're on a bike,'' I allowed. He nodded.
``Well,'' I told the cashier when we checked out, ``I guess I'll hop on the green grasshopper - that's what I call my bicycle, the green grasshopper - and pedal on home.''
``Have a nice day,'' she replied absently.
We rode home, Joanne 100 yards in the lead. A neighbor, working in his yard, shouted to her, ``throw the old guy behind you a line.''
I just don't understand people who don't appreciate us athletic types. But just to be on the safe side, you might want to allow plenty of room if you meet a man with a mustache and suspenders riding a little ugly green bike.
I'm not quite as confident as I might seem - and I keep squeezing the handlebars when I want to stop. by CNB