Crankology
In the ’70s, I found freedom on a road bike
It’s the height of summer, and as I lie idly in my hammock, my hat tipped forward to keep the sun out of my eyes while I try not to spill my cranberry and soda on my linen shirt, I think back to the carefree summers of my childhood. And carefree they were. For one thing, back then I didn’t give a crap about my linen shirt (or my matching linen shorts). All I cared about was riding my bike, as far and as fast as possible.
As a 10-year-old, I was inspired by a teenager named Billy Lorenz. He lived a few houses up from me on the other side of my street. He was quite a bit older than me. I didn’t know him very well, but he had a beautiful Colnago race bike that was the envy of all the neighbourhood kids. This was back in the 1970s, when steel was the height of cycling frame technology and bike helmets were nowhere to be seen. I’d watch Billy leave his house, swing a leg over his bike and pedal away, gone in a flash. He always wore a cycling cap and team kit, so he must have been on his way to meet a local racing squad or join a weekday crit. I lusted after that bike and the freedom and speed it represented.
Despite my best efforts of persuasion, my parents didn’t spring for a lugged Colnago, though that’s not to say that I was hard done by. I had a lot of great bikes as a kid, but the greatest – and the source of my fondest childhood summer memories – was my first real road bike. It was a beauty. It was a metallic burgundy Nishiki 10-speed with gold decals and Suntour derailleurs. Most distinctively, in place of bar tape, it had thick, squishy black foam covering the drop handlebars. My friends all agreed this was clearly the mark of a quality steed. The foam was decidedly nonaerodynamic, but it was super comfy, it looked fantastic and it was stylistically a perfect match for my 1970s clothing (linen or otherwise).
Non-aero as it was, this bike was fast (or at least it seemed fast by my standards). And I rode it hard. The day we bought it, I convinced my dad to let me ride it home from the bike shop, a distance of about 10 km. I hammered so hard that when I got home I was shaking from the exertion. My mom, who probably wouldn’t have let me ride it all the way home through downtown Toronto in the first place, said, “I think that’s a sign you’ve overdone it! You should go more slowly the next time.” Bless her
non-cyclist heart. I don’t blame her for thinking this. But even as a 10-year-old, I knew that if you don’t leave it all on the road, you haven’t gone hard enough.
My parents were smart, frugal people, which meant they made sure the bike was a bit too big for me when I got it – and this meant that it lasted me a few years. Remember, this was back in the days when a frame was deemed to fit you properly if you could stand flat-footed astride it without the top tube endangering your block and tackle, as they say in England. If you could see any seatpost, that meant the frame was too small. The result was that I got lots of mileage out of that bike, both figuratively and literally.
I rode it to school every day. I rode it back and forth several times a week past the house of a girl I had a huge crush on, hoping she’d emerge just as I rolled by. I suspect she did emerge, once she was certain I was gone and wasn’t likely to return for another 48 hours.
And I took it on epic rides. The most epic was across Toronto to Scarborough, a knapsack on my back containing a change of clothes, a map, some snacks and a bunch of comic books. My destination was my friend’s house, where I would spend the night before riding home the next day.
If memory serves, I was 12-years-old. My destination must have been about 40 km from my house, which seems crazy to me now. I’m certain I wouldn’t let my own kids do this trip at 12 years of age, but I’m grateful that my parents gave me the freedom to do it. I remember arriving at my friend’s house somewhat amazed that I’d actually made it that far. My water bottle was empty, the snacks had all been eaten, I was completely spent, and I felt euphoric. It’s a feeling I’ve been chasing ever since. I’ve known since I was 12 just how to find it: alone, on a bike, in the height of summer, furiously pedalling toward a far-off destination.