Canter Bridge

Having grown up and passed parts of five decades riding utilitarian bikes with the purpose of getting from point A to point B, today’s maiden voyage of my slightly used Specialized Allez Elite road bike was a new experience. Indianapolis’ railroad-line-to-paradise Monon Trail was glorious in the sunlight of a 75-degree, blue-skied springtime afternoon.

The Trail was covered by walkers, runners, bikers, and skaters, yet managed to be delightfully welcoming and uncongested. I have wanted to ride for several years, ever since cartilage damage to my right knee made celebrating 50 by running my second marathon seem unlikely. A decade ago, while living in England, I joined 33,000 other runners to complete the London Marathon. It was a memorable day on which—the words of a news presenter brought me to tears as I sipped tea to heal my traumatized body late that night had it thus—’33,000 ordinary people did an extraordinary thing’.

I may never run a remarkable distance again. Friends of the two-wheeling persuasion reassure me that this is not to be lamented, that there is life after burning soles at mile markers, that cycling is the right way to hone the body, discover a sporting clan, and see much of this country (and others) at a decent speed.

My brother in New Jersey—nobody in our family admits to being from New Jersey, though living there for now many years places him in a good position for hosting visiting relatives and keeping us informed of what young people at Princeton University are thinking these days—has lost considerable girth by pedaling long and hard. He swears by it. Two years ago, his bike shop going out of business, he phoned to say that his guy ‘Mike’ had a Specialized Allez with no more than thirty miles on it and needed to unload it at a steep discount if necessary. I sprang. The bike rested untouched in my parents’ home in Pennsylvania for months before I managed to bring it home to Indiana strapped to the back of my car as it sped through a snow storm.

Seemingly destined for dis-use, it came to rest on a brand new trainer in my basement office until this month. Quite without provocation, it seems my bike’s moment is upon us.

Yesterday I made my way to Bicycle Garage Indy to spend two hours marveling over Frank’s way with a bike and a pair of biking shoes. It was the day of my ‘fitting’ appointment. Frank, whom I only knew over the phone, brings to training a newbie to ride a properly finessed bicycle that measure of cantankerous know-how that characterizes the back-office expertise of most experts at enterprises that capture the attention of a minority of us. Frank no doubt has a family name, but it appears that it is not to be spoken.

He is simply ‘Frank’, rolling to and fro on the wheels of a desk chair on which he sits enthroned in a make-shift office full of nifty tools, cool bikes, great bike race photos, and scrawled notes of appreciation from individuals who have—it would appear—benefited hugely from having been properly fit.