Out of the basement those cyclist came
all ready to ride and hair on their legs
they pumped up the tyres and cleaned off the dust
they oiled the chain and shined up the rust
the pedals were spun to make that they work
then tested the shifting so it won’t jerk
they made sure the spandex was cleaned as before
then smertzed the important parts so no big sores
with the clothing winter tight they were ready to ride
if only the cold winds would turn warm with the tide
the excitement of a ride was heard in the cleats on the floor
one more potty stop then it’s out the door
the ride the corner was filled full of wonder, again i know why i ride
alas i should have rode more in my basement, it will hurt my pride
but then with the wind in my face, my heart rate high i know in my heart why i ride!
A Christmas present, delayed
Having a sister is like having a best friend you can’t get rid of. You know whatever you do, they’ll still be there.
I was ten the summer my dad helped me buy my first ten-speed bicycle from Father Allen. I put up $60 of my grass cutting and snow shovelling money, and my dad put up the other half. I would pay him back in instalments over the next six months. Although it was the kind of bike you’d expect a priest to have (dull silver, slightly worn, no baseball cards in the spokes), it was my ticket to the adult world.
I spent that summer and autumn riding as if to put Greg LeMond to shame. My sister Liz, a prisoner of her five-speed and banana seat, never had a chance to keep up. We’d always been stuck with hand-me-downs from our older brothers and sisters, a few of whom had notoriously bad taste in bikes. Now, however, I was able to ride to every corner of town, sometimes even as far as the beach. In those heady days before one acquires a driver’s license, a good bike is a magic carpet.
Just before the Christmas deadline to pay my dad back, we were hit with several snowstorms. This allowed me to shovel enough driveways to pay off my debt. I was now officially a bike owner; it was a feeling unlike any other.
It’s important to note that while my mom and dad were fantastic parents, they couldn’t be trusted with the awesome responsibility of buying appropriate Christmas presents. They were too quick to pass off gloves, sneakers, and shirts as “presents.” And while we might say a prayer over the Baby Jesus in the manger on our way to church, He seemed too busy at this time of year to leave presents under the tree. We outsourced our requests for the really good presents to Santa.
For her family of seven kids, my mom developed a system in which she decorated the outside of seven large boxes with different types of wallpaper. We each had our own box that contained six or so presents, and we’d close our eyes and reach in to grab one when it was our turn. This cut down on hours of wrapping and satisfied my dad’s Naval sense of order.
The downside was we opened one present at a time so everyone could “appreciate” each other’s gifts. Neither Liz nor I “appreciated” this system because we went last. After the obligatory “oohs” and “aahs,” each of us held up our present for family review, a process that averaged about five minutes or so. This meant Liz and I had to wait about forty-five minutes between each present, so patience was in short supply—when one of us pulled out a belt or package of underwear, we seethed the entire time.
My dad, a master showman, liked to keep a few of Santa’s better presents for the end. On that fateful Christmas morning, he gave me a used portable record player. I was ecstatic—I was finally untethered from the “family stereo” that all of us fought over.
Alas, my elation was short-lived after my dad called my sister to the kitchen. “We have one more gift for you,” he said as he opened the door that led to the garage. There, on the steps, stood a brand new ten-speed Schwinn. I didn’t hear her screams of joy—all I could hear was the sputtering engine of the lawnmower, the endless scraping of the metal snow shovel on concrete. I’d endured far too many hours of indentured servitude for my used bike; that Santa could give Liz this sparkling machine less than a week later was a sign that he was losing his touch. Could Mrs. Claus be putting something in his food?
I slumped onto the floor. My ten-speed chariot had turned into a pumpkin in the time it took my sister to hop on the gleaming leather seat.
“Let’s go for a ride, Rob!” she sang, my dad holding the bike upright as she put her feet on the pedals.
“Too snowy to ride,” I muttered, pushing the record player farther away from me. The symbolism seemed lost on my dad.
I seethed for the rest of the day, then the rest of the week. My dad was not someone to whom we complained about presents (not if we ever wanted to see another, anyway). Santa always seemed to lose interest after Christmas, rarely accepting returns or trade-ins. That left the Baby Jesus, but He wasn’t answering my prayers—I could tell because Liz’s bike had yet to crumble into a pile of rust flakes.
After a few weeks of watching me pout, my dad finally pulled me aside. “Everything okay?”
“It’s not fair,” I whined. “I worked so hard for my bike, and it’s not even new. Then Liz gets a brand new bike as soon as I make the final payment. She didn’t have to do anything for it.”
My dad smiled. “She didn’t have to do anything for it because it’s not really for her,” he said, and then left the room.
What did that mean? I didn’t want her bike—it had the girly bar that sloped down to the ground and a flowery white basket on the handlebars. I could turn it in for a new set of action figures, I figured, but she’d been on it every day since Christmas—no way they’d let me take it back now. I eventually got over it, chalking it up to elf error (the naughty and nice list can be cumbersome).
By spring Liz and I were riding all over town together now that she could keep up. Sure, I’d lose her on the steep slopes, but I always let her catch up when we went downhill. Initially, the youngest children in a large family form a bond out of necessity—older siblings can be taxing, and there are only so many locked doors one can hide behind. Sometimes, you need someone else in the foxhole with you.
As we grew, Liz and I became true friends. We biked down to swim at the local pool, then put in seven miles to take the free town tennis lessons together. We planned secret parties when my parents went on trips and played a game of “Who can leave less gas in the tank” when we finally got our drivers’ licenses. I relied on her to put names to faces when we were at parties, and she treated my best friends as her personal dating service. We ended up at the same college, and even graduated the same year.
Still, I wasn’t smart enough to figure out what my dad meant until years later. That brand new bike was not a gift for Liz—it was a gift for me. He’d given me the gift of my sister’s company, the ability to stay together rather than drift apart in the face of my ability to travel. He gave me my best friend.
It’s a gift I’ve treasured every day since.
—Robert F. Walsh
The 2020 MIT ride schedule has been posted. Thanks to RN for the help in getting this done.
As in years past the real schedule is determined at the water tower Saturday morning just before the ride. Different factors determine the breakfast stop; factors like wind direction, weather concerns, how many riders, who needs to be where at what time and who needs what counselling.
I scheduled the LAGSAR (LaBroquerie, Giroux, Ste Anne, Richer) rides each Wednesday. Course we could have called that ride other names like ‘ride til you puke’ or ‘faster is better’ or even ‘heart attack special’.
This post is later in the year than in years past simply because the weather has not cooperated (read fair weather rider) and Covid-19 concerns. Hopefully we will now have weather turned in the right direction and it looks brighter for the virus concerns as well.
We did have a ride April 25th as the first ride so it has been cold or internal rides since. The 3 Amigos who rode had a great outdoor breakfast. The picture has us all sitting at separate tables holding our breath so get the group pic, then sitting the required distance apart.
Short story, if there is such a thing. Called our web page host site IONOS to discuss reducing our cost of this site. The call centre is in the Philippines and the person i talked to, Alvin, is an avid cyclist. He understood our needs for a cycling site and was very helpful in sorting out my concerns. Course we had to talk about our cycling adventures. Alvin explained that he had a road bike but the busy highways along with not so good road conditions he seldom used his road bike. He was a pure mountain biker. When i explained how we always looked for hills in our flat country he said he dreamed of long flat quiet roads that went on forever. Funny how we look for riding in conditions that are not in our area. Thanks for your help Alvin.
As always feeling blessed to being able to ride my bike. Looking forward to the rides!
A number of years ago Yvonne was given a book about a region little known to North Americans, a rugged volcanic region in central France known as the Auvergne. 4.5 hours south of Paris (at a legal 130km/hr.), the 450 volcanoes of the region are believed to be the result of the collision of Europe and Africa. While unable to understand much of the French text in the book, I was intrigued by this landscape of black basalt rock, snow caped peaks, sheep pastures and tall forests. When friends invited us to visit them in the Pyrenees, the decision was made to include 4 days of riding in this region.
Within the Auvergne there is a 45 km by 5 km belt known as the Chaine des Puys; 85 volcanoes rising to a height of almost 1900 meters. Smack dab in the center of all these puys sits Le Mont-Doré, a spa and ski-town ideally located for launching forays into the surrounding countryside. After some searching we settled on a a Gite a few km away from Le Mont-Doré , booked our West Jet flights and rental car, and prepared for our trip.
While this region may not be as well known outside of France, we did see a good number of French riders. There are a number of excellent routes mapped out on the various websites such as mountnpass.com and freewheelingfrance.com. I imagine that with the efforts to promote the area and the development of e-bikes it might well become an international cycling destination. Like many other regions of France, the government does its part by posting road signs educating motorists to leave 1.5 meters space when passing riders and other signs giving road grades and distances. Climbs are generally friendly with typical grades on the long climbs typically varying between 5 and 7%. The steepest climb, which we didn’t do, corkscrews up the Puy de Dome at an average of 12%. Excellent pavement, great sight lines due to an abundance of hay fields and pasture land, and low traffic allow for fast and reasonably safe descending. The rugged appearance of the region is matched by weather that can change quickly. Even at the end of May there was snow on the higher peaks and temperatures were cooler than I would have expected. Having said that, we had excellent weather with no wind and temperatures in the mid teens to low twenties.
The puys give the region their unique character. There is a fair amount of distance between volcanoes so there is a nice balance of mid-length climbs and lower elevation rolling terrain. The area also has a number of lakes that add picturesque beauty. Le Mont-Doré is also the start of the Dordogne, which on its lower reaches attracts cyclists looking for a more leisurely pedaling experience.
The town of Le Mont-Doré was quiet in late May. It is a typical ski town in summer with a number of sport shops selling the usual hiking and climbing gear and cycling gear. There wasn’t a really good cycling shop, but the town of la Bourboule, less than 10 km away, has good shops.
If we had more time I would have gone to the Charade race track outside the city of Clermont Ferrand. The track is not far from Le Mont-Doré and would make a nice ride destination. It hosted formula one races up till the 70’s and is an old style track with little regard for safety as the roads are narrow and the corners insane. The track is closed but cyclists are allowed to ride on the circuit on certain days. Clermont Ferrand is also the home of Michelin, and the factory has a good museum which we also did not have the time to visit.
The area is known for its cheeses. This isn’t a wine growing area as the climate is too cool, but they do produce some very good beer. Throw in the usual excellent French breads and pastries and all is well on the culinary front.