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My first and former husband recently went to a
bike camp in Georgia. I need to confess, I'm not
a cyclist. I'm glad he found his legs; I haven't
misplaced mine yet. I'm probably one of the seven
people in Boulder, Colorado who doesn't have a yellow
rubber band on my wrist or ankle. Folks here in
Boulder are pretty geared up about cycling and Lance
and lifestyle and fitness. I saw a seven month old
baby at Whole Foods last week with three LIVESTRONG
bands around his neck. The mom wasn't even defensive
when I asked if the child could breathe and swallow.
She said he was on some sort of toddler carrot and
beet juice fast and that they added a yellow band
every third month. National Geographic should get
their cameras ready. This is rare. Most babies in
Boulder just use the yellow rings frozen for teething.
Spoke and I have been divorced for fifteen years
and I've spent most of them in therapy trying to
heal. Reading about his cycling adventure brought
the kind of closure I've been seeking. (We in Boulder
tend to seek, if we're not healing, running or cycling.)
Spoke loved the bike camp! Probably many adventure
trip clients fit his profile...successful, type
A, workaholic, athletic, good looking and bored
to tears relaxing with a good book on the coast
of Maui. To punish Martha Stewart...put her in a
small, gray prison cell for six months. To punish
me...put me on a bike in a freezing rain storm and
send me to the top of a small mountain. Rapid cycling
is what my best friend does when she forgets her
lithium. No thanks. Spoke needs to ride; I need
to journal.
I graciously share the road with the cyclists in
Boulder. One reason is I don't want to injure or
kill someone. Another reason is that they frighten
me. Those lean men and women on the racing bikes
look so driven, so intense, so angry. Even without
their pointed helmets, when they are gathered together
socially at the local coffee shop or brewery...their
eyes are still racing, they talk a little too fast
and a little too loud. It's as if the endorphins
are having the reverse effect or evaporate once
their skinny black shoes hit the ground. I don't
know, maybe it's just projection or feeling left
out of the elite club. Or sports in general?
I have the polar opposite (but equally strong)
reaction to baseball. Those guys really need to
speed things up. By the bottom of the first inning
it's like sitting in a cast iron skillet after the
bacon has been fried and consumed. The grease starts
to coagulate and cloud up. Baseball fans and players
need more than a double espresso or Red Bull. Cocaine
might do more for this genotype than steroids. You
can see, sports brings out the worst in me. My controlling,
critical, judgmental self. I want to ship all of
you off to the Canyon Ranch for meditation and poetry
workshops.
I do have fond memories of my first bike. It was
pink and had training wheels until I was eleven.
There was a white wicker basket for my skate key
and water guns on the handle bars and a deck of
playing cards clothspinned to the spokes. And, my
favorite feature, a kick stand! I grew up in Texas
and loved riding on the sidewalk around my block.
It was best if a few sprinklers were set to water
the pavement as well as the grass. "Look Ma
No Hands" was my favorite position. It felt
magical to turn corners without touching the handle
bars. I could pop wheelies as high as the toughest
of the neighborhood boys. Riding on the handle bars
of Rick Johnson's bike was another thrill. A bad
boy at an early age, my mother forbid me to play
with him. The same taboo reappeared when I wanted
to ride on the paper boy's motorcycle in junior
high.
I have fond memories of my first love, too. Spoke
didn't ride a motor cycle when we met. He was fifteen
years old, therefore too young for a driver's license.
He rode a metallic blue 10 Speed Schwinn, which
he painted himself. The distance from his house
to mine was about seven miles. Not a long ride,
but impressive in a blizzard with three feet of
snow on the ground. He would arrive after his shift
at Angelo's Pizzeria...under the pretense of us
doing our homework together. I have a vivid memory
of how his face felt after the frigid ride. His
cold nose. The smell and taste of frosty salty perspiration
around the edges of our first kiss at the front
door. The distinct difference in the cold firmness
of his lips and the seductive warmth just inside.
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