Crankology

Remembrance of trails past

Sam was a more experienced cyclist than I was, and showed me a few tricks and techniques for getting over some of the more challenging obstacles on the trails. This process went on for several weeks, with my skills improving each time we went out. My goal was to get from one end of the trail to the other without putting a foot down. At the rate I was progressing, this might have been possible within about three years.

One day, as we rounded a turn in the forest, a curious figure sprung out from behind a shrub. He was on a pink women’s ccm frame at least two sizes too small for him. The bike was built up with a bizarre assortment of parts: a road derailleur on the back, an ancient front

The hard lessons of cycling twisted out of singletrack

Regular readers (all five of you) will know me as a road cyclist, but my first bike was a mountain bike. Well, that’s not completely accurate. My first bike was an infant’s penny farthing bought for me by my parents when I was a child in the U. K, or Merrie Olde Englande, as we preferred to call it. But the first bike I purchased for myself was a mountain bike. I bought it in my early 20s. I paid half in cash and the remainder on my credit card. I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of a lifelong habit of paying for my cycling hobby with borrowed funds.

The bike was a steel frame with a rigid fork and Shimano stx components. I had never been so excited about a purchase. I kept it in the kitchen, in spite of my girlfriend’s disapproval, until I pointed out that the only other place it could possibly go was the living room, and space was tight due to my electric guitars and amplifiers. She acquiesced.

I loved that bike. I rode it to work, to the bar on Friday nights, and on Saturdays and Sundays, I would ride 30 minutes from my apartment to the trailhead, where I would meet my friend Sam for a couple of hours of singletrack adventure. derailleur, mismatched tires, one of which was sewn together with fishing line (I’m not making this up) where the rubber had split, and on the front of his helmet was a homemade visor fashioned from the bottom of a two-litre pop bottle that had been melted, twisted into the appropriate shape and glued into place.

“Hello, Sam!” he said, smiling as he spoke to reveal a mouth somewhat shy of a full count of teeth.

“Oh, hello,” said Sam with a look of surprise on his face.

We were then introduced. It turns out that Emil, as we will call him, was in fact a skilled athlete who Sam knew from his participation in other sports. I never got the full story, but I think Emil was a former pole-vaulting champion from one of the Baltic states.

Whatever his provenance, Emil was the most impressive athlete I had ever seen. Despite being perched atop the worst of early 1980s cycling technology all wrapped up into a single package, Emil managed to storm along the trail as though he had a rocket strapped to his back.

He took a liking to me and I began meeting him at 6 a. m. to ride before work, three times a week. Each meeting was the same: there would be a brief greeting (English was his second language), a handshake, and then it was game on. After 30 minutes of furious riding, we would reach the end of the trail. Or rather, Emil would reach the end of the trail. I would emerge, wheezing and covered in mud and bruises, about five minutes later to find him surrounded by fellow cyclists, each more amazed than the last that someone on such a dog’s breakfast of a bicycle could have sailed past so effortlessly.

On one particular day, I decided that no matter what, I was not going to let him out of my sight. I would keep up with him even if it killed me. And I did keep up. I still don’t know how I did it, because not only did I lack his technical skills, I also lacked his fitness. But somehow I prevailed. I reached the end of the trail about 20 metres behind Emil. When I hit the open parkland at the end, I fell off my bike onto the grass. I started coughing. Both my hamstrings cramped up simultaneously. And then I threw up.

Emil came over, asked me if I was all right, grinned his half-toothy grin, and shook my hand.

As summer turned to fall, I stopped going to the trail, and I quickly lost track of Emil. I often wonder what became of him, what bike he’s riding now, and whether he’s moved on to a new set of challenges. I wouldn’t be surprised to turn on the TV and see him tightrope walking across a gorge somewhere on a piece of household string, or performing a Shostakovich violin concerto on the harmonica.

So wherever you are, Emil, here’s to you. You were my introduction to what it really means to be a cyclist: to suffer, to struggle against gravity and my own limitations, and to prevail – even if it means a bit of seasickness when it’s all over.