Buddy, Can Ya Spare Five Bucks?

So here’s the deal: I seldom use this forum to get up on a soapbox, preferring to speak softly and carry my big stick for real life, face-to-face encounters with students. And regardless of how big a sarcastic smart ass I might seem to be, I actually do believe that individuals can make a difference. I think that in our hearts we see the importance of doing the right thing.

Truthfully, I seldom participate in charity rides – and when I do, it’s mostly because it sounds like a fun outing. (I mean, after all what prepubescent, yet aging, dude wouldn’t want to ride something called the Tour de Brew or the Tour de Stooges?) And while I’m being honest, I might as well admit that I was originally coerced into participating in a little ride last year called the Tour de Cure, an event set up to help in the fight against Diabetes.

It’s not that I have anything against Diabetics, which would be oddly self-defeating since I am, myself, a Diabetic. It’s just that there seems to be a never-ending stream of co-workers and students and people I’ve never, ever met except through cold calls and emails, who are all asking for donations and support for their cause. And quite frankly, I hate asking my friends and colleagues for money.

I’m embarrassed to do so. And so I promised myself – and by extension, also promised my friends and colleagues – that I’d put the touch on them only once each year… and that I’d only ask for five bucks. Times being what they are – and by that I mean ridiculous unemployment statistics, the continued economic stagnation, etc. – it’s really tough to ask for even that much. But I am doing so.

Diabetes, for some of us (and I count myself in this group), is a stupid disease. It’s stupid because, for many of us, it’s preventable. At one point in my career, I succumbed to the concept that “success” meant long hours, thriving on stress, eating crap on the fly, and essentially becoming an inert carbon mass. Stupid. And I paid the price for that when my doctor, Mitzi, let me know I had Diabetes.

“This is very serious, Mark,” she told me. “People die.”

And thank goodness Mitzi scared the living hell out of me, while also helping me to become educated about my disease, my condition, my potential outcomes, and my options. The only thing I knew about Diabetes at the time of my diagnosis was that the black dude in the movie ConAir had it, that missing his insulin shots put him into a great deal of perspiration and pain, and that he only had hours (cue the dramatic background music) until he would die a painful death without those shots. Holy shit! Really? This is what I had to look forward to???

Well, actually no. That representation of Diabetes, like most movie representations, is pretty much pure tripe. But my blood sugar readings really were dangerously high and I was put on a daily dose of insulin. I spent about three months of my life completely alarmed – shell shocked. I didn’t want to die. Then I moped around alternately feeling sorry for myself, and then kicking myself for having brought this damn thing on by poor lifestyle choices. But eventually, I came around to the conclusion that I’d never allowed any other circumstance to beat me, so why this?

Through rigid exercise and diet, I managed to get off of insulin entirely within twelve months (something my doctor told me just never happens.) I bought myself a skull ring to remind me that life is short, and that we only get this one shot at it. It also reminds me when I get whiney about regular, sweat-provoking exercise, that the alternative might very well be a quick and abrupt end to my whining. And also, because a skull ring is just totally bad ass, don’t you agree?

I’m very fortunate that I’m able to successfully manage my Diabetes in this manner.

But – and there is always a “but,” isn’t there? – not everyone is as fortunate as I have been. Diabetes is a disease in which the body does not produce or properly use insulin, a hormone needed to convert food into energy. There are over 26 million Americans living with diabetes – and the number is growing. If current trends continue, one out of three children will face a future with diabetes. That is just scary as hell.

By making a donation on my behalf, you will be helping the American Diabetes Association change the future of diabetes by providing community-based education programs, protect the rights of people with diabetes and fund critical research for a cure. And all I’m asking for is five bucks.

If you can support this cause, please visit my personal Tour de Cure page.

And thanks.

Click here to visit my personal page.

 

30 Days of Biking: Why?

I’m a little torn. On the one hand I think it’s great that we formally recognize the fun and adventure of cycling by encouraging people to get out on two wheels for thirty consecutive days. On the other, I’m a bit sad that we have to explicitly say such a thing in the first place.

One curiosity I’ve noted of late is the crop of blog and magazine articles providing the detailed reasoning and rationale for cycling. I’ve even found myself pounding out such missives. I wonder why that is. I wonder why we need a reason to do something enjoyable. I don’t require a reason to laugh when a thing is funny, nor do I rationalize reading a good book, or savoring an excellent wine. Isn’t it odd that we find ourselves justifying to others why we ride?

“Oh, do you race?”

No, actually I have never had much interest in being a racer.

“Yeah, I hear bicycling is really great exercise.”

Yes, I suppose it is. At one time that aspect was pretty important to me. I don’t think about it much any more though.

“You must do a lot of charity rides, huh?”

No, not particularly.

“Those club group club rides look like a lot of fun.”

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on one.

“Well then you must be one of those touring or rando guys, right?”

I don’t ride permanents or brevets. I just ride.

People find cycling to be one of those activities that must somehow be categorized, that you (or they), as a rider, must be classified in some way. I suppose if I really must pigeonhole my reasons for riding, it would come down to the experience and the stories. The experience is enjoyable, otherwise I simply wouldn’t bother. And I’ve come to understand that if a thing doesn’t have a story, then there is little to hold my interest – and thus, little chance I will continue to engage.

I’ve tried to explain my predilection for finding and sharing “the story” to others in the past, and have done so inadequately. I know that when I engage in conversation of any kind, I seldom do so with simple “yes” and “no” responses. It’s much more interesting to me when there is an interesting anecdote to accompany a dialogue – because otherwise, isn’t the conversation just simple reporting of facts? How interesting is that?

Here’s an example: Last weekend, I rode back up to Smithville Lake. I left the house on a whim, headed north with no real destination in mind, and wound up riding some of the path that hugs one side of the shoreline. After a few hours I wound up circling back and heading home.

That, purely and simply communicates the salient facts of my Saturday morning and afternoon. But it’s the small moments that are most memorable: the smells of blossoming flowers, the brutality of the wind coming off the lake, the sudden panic at discovering my frame pump had gotten left at home. Small moments that are worth sharing – for instance, I had to laugh when I rode back out up to the lake this past Saturday morning. As I left the trail to head back home, I crossed a parking area at the trail head. A group of four were getting out of a pickup truck laden with four old bikes stacked up like cord wood. Donning helmets and sitting astride their bikes, they prepared to head out into the wilderness (well, as wild as a paved path can be, I suppose.) Suddenly, one of the women let out a banshee-like wail that stilled the bird song filling the air. For a moment I wondered if she had somehow hurt herself – she sounded as though a body part had been pierced, her agony was so palpable. Everyone in the parking lot looked her way as she cried out, “OMIGAAAAAAWWWWWWD!!!! I left all my cigarettes at home!!!”

Do I really need a reason for riding my bike every day?

Nope. Not as long as I get to experience moments like these. It’s the small things, see.

30 Days of Biking: Day 21

It was a blustery day for a ride. Especially heading mostly uphill, as I seemed to be doing, when I turned into the wind coming off the lake. Even more especially, considering I’d chosen to ride the 1971 Raleigh International that I recently converted to a three-speed internally geared hub configuration. (And, perhaps, even more so still, considering that I’ve installed nice, wide – but bullet proof, very slow, and very heavy – 700 x 38 tires.) I’ve got my vintage Carradice Bag hung from the saddle to carry the necessaries, although I do take a moment to dispose of some villainous looking peanut butter crackers apparently leftover from last summer.

Heading north from home was a slam dunk. With a tail wind at my back I literally found myself flying up and down the hills. It’s tough to express the pure exhilaration I feel when the ride seems so effortless. My legs and feet are light and every bump in the road is non-existent as I either dodge or glide over holes left behind by Old Man Winter.

Reality sets in as I turn down a blacktop road pointing west toward the lake. The side winds are crushing and I know the price I’ll pay on the return trip will be high. Even now I’m starting to feel it in my legs. Please let me assure you that if you are in search of  a cycling workout that will test your resolve and mangle your leg muscles, look no further: I have it for you. Simply ride up and down hills on a three-speed bicycle. It is just the ticket.

I’ve chosen my chain ring and rear sprocket based upon the gear inches I use most frequently on my Boulder. For the majority of riding this works out well. There is, however, a pretty good jump between the “normal” gear and the .75 low gear that takes some getting used to. I’ve also discovered that if I stand to climb in the low gear, I’m getting a little tire rub on the fenders. This means I’ll either have to find a way to add a bit more space between tire and fender, change the tires to a slightly smaller diameter… or simply not stand to climb.

That’s ok. I seldom stand for most of the year. After two wintry months spent mostly on a trainer I’m still getting my hill legs back. Once they are, I won’t worry about standing.

Coming upon the lake, I look for and find the entrance to a system of paths that follow much of the southern lakeshore line. The parking lot at the trail head is filled with cars on this nice day but I don’t worry much about running into people. Most folks will hike a mile or two and then with a “Whew! What a workout!” will turn around and head back to their SUVs, there to drive off and reward their efforts with a bag from McDonalds. The majority of the path is lonesome and belongs to me, the loons and geese, a heron or two – and the first big ass snake I’ve seen this year. It’s perhaps six and a half feet in length and as big around as my wrist. (Maybe even my forearm, now that I glance down at my pathetic limbs for a comparison.) A momentary glance and I know it is a water moccasin; it’s head is up but – disdainfully – never even bothers to glance my way. Stretched nearly all the way across the path, it also shows no sign of giving way, and I circumvent things by way of the grass. I have no desire to disturb Mr Cottonmouth.

At some point I grow hungry. I stop and lean the Raleigh against a large tree at the end of a cove. In Ireland I learned to carry a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and smoked salmon. (Oddly enough, in Scotland I carried Guinness. I’m sure my Irish forebears grimace and shake their head at my ignorance and lack of thirsty priorities when I was in the homeland.) Here in Missouri, I’ll have to make do with a bottle of water and a spinach and chicken sandwich.

Which is ok, really. And it sure beats peanut butter crackers.

30 Days of Biking: Day 20

It’s still pretty dark at the moment. As I lie here with my iPad, pondering what and how many layers I’ll need, I try to recall if I actually have any eggs in the refrigerator. I’d like to mix up batter for pancakes before heading out this morning.

The only sounds at the moment are the taps of my fingers on the touchpad and the blanket of bird noise welling up from the trees surrounding my house. It occurs to me that I’d planned to post a daily ride report during “30 Days of Biking,” but have failed to come close to doing so. I love this time in the morning, when my thoughts seem to be most clear. I organize my day: I’ll ride first, of course – perhaps west so I can pass my office and pick up the laptop cord I left there yesterday. I have a gift certificate for an LBS that needs to be used and I’m thinking about a pair of Conti GP4000 tires for the ’89 Paramount. Hmm. Maybe. I should get outside this afternoon to work on sketches, and I will if I can find the motivation. Or perhaps I should pack up the IGH International I’ve cobbled together and try it out on the KATY Trail, which I haven’t traversed in several months?

At this moment the day is full of promise. Yesterday I couldn’t wait to get finished with work to head out on the back roads. An hour and change after leaving the office I found myself eight miles from the city limits, spinning low gears all the way, for some reason spinning cranks like a hamster in an exercise wheel.

Time to get up.

30 Days of Biking: Day 13

Man, I love bicycle swap meets!
Who knows what treasures will get unearthed? Or what bargains? This morning, five bucks got me a Silca Imperio frame pump with Campy head, Zefal hp X4 – both in very good working and cosmetic condition – a pair of vintage bottle cages – a REG and something else, a decent Concor Supercorsa saddle, and a bike stand. A friend drove home with an early Trek in his size, outfitted in excellent condition Superbe Pro, Tange HS, and Campy hubs for $75. Not a bad thirty minute shopping spree!

——–

Right now, though, it’s time to be heading out the door on my freshly built International, now resplendent in IGH configuration. The past two days have been rainy and cold. As busy as I’ve been curating the current exhibition, my rides have been short and negligible. Today, it’s time to give this build a decent shakedown ride in the country.

30 Days of Biking: Day 9

A couple of changes to the International…voila! It’s a three speed now! 42 up front, with a 180 modified crank and campy pedals. 19 in the back on a standard .75/1.0/1.33. With 700 x 38 tires on these CR-18 rims, my gear inches in low and normal almost exactly match my preferred riding gears of my Boulder. Serendipity? Perhaps.

Not much of a ride today – only about nine miles or so, but I’m pleased with my project.

30 Days of Biking: Day 7

The sun was shining when I headed out early this morning, but drifted away quickly. Still, the hour is early and I’ve found a nice, even cadence; I really feel like “The Early Morning Cyclist” for the first time this year.  Despite the thunderstorms that will overtake us this evening and over the next few days, I am relieved: Donning a pair of ugly shorts and a loose fitting wool jersey, my world is a carefree existence for a few blissful hours.

It’s a Sunday morning, and my favorite time to ride while most of the rest of the world is in bed: Clueless to the wonders around me, they won’t be stirring for hours yet.

And that is fine by me.

As I steadily pedal toward the city limit I must cross a highway. Cars are few and I canter across, unabated, without missing a stroke, my cadence unchecked. There’s a small railroad bridge I must cross before accessing an outer road. There is all manner of detritus and clods – mounds, really! – of dirt cluttering the bike path, so I choose my line carefully and avoid as much as possible. I glance over the railing and into the distance, west down the train tracks. Far away still, I can hear – but not yet see – a train chugging along. If it’s like most I encounter in this spot, it will be very long, taking many minutes to lumber past, vibrating the bridge on which I now stand.

Across the bridge, the bike path runs adjacent to the road for perhaps a mile or so before it comes to the city limit and, thusly, comes to an end along with city services an sewer lines, I suppose. In any event, I prefer to ride the road, rolling up and down with the hills rather than taking the dedicated bike trail, paved as it is, and flat as a pancake. This road, to the city limit, is generally downhill and at the bottom is a four way stop. Passing through, one must by necessity begin from a standstill and begin an immediate climb up a steep hill for a few hundred yards. This is the starting point of a series of steepish rollers that generally move one downward in elevation, eventually winding up at the Missouri River. I won’t on this morning go all the way to the river, but will turn to the east eventually, and travel along the “old” highway. The “old” highway is a section of the original roadway, rough and still in use by the local farmers and a few cyclists. A newer segment of pavement bypasses the old ramshackle railroad depot, a few farmhouses, and a small private airstrip housing vintage tri-planes. The new highway veers out of the river bottoms entirely for several miles and I suppose this avoids the discombobulating chance for road closures due to flooding. But the old highway, despite this, is a much more serene route – not “pretty,” by any standard definition, but certainly attractive in a “left alone and forgotten” sort of way.

A few hours later, other riders have begun to discover the day’s wonders and I pass three or four couples as I’m returning home. I’m pleased to note that none of them are decked out in race gear and Lycra; in fact they are all pedaling along at a reasonable pace, enjoying their outing. We wave at one another and exchange a pleasant “good morning!” – spoken, not shouted, and we smile.