WEBBTIDE 2001-2002 @ SHORELINE COMMUNITY COLLEGE

Volume 37 No.12 Apr. 01 - Apr. 11, 2002 [ ARCHIVE ] [ HELP ] [ FEEDBACK ]
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Scars and Handlebars: Why riding a bicycle is cool

.
      The Olympic games and Tour de France not only made heroes of cyclists like Lance Armstrong, whose courageous battle with cancer and comeback to win the 2001 Tour de France is a saga of bravery unto itself, but opened the doors for innovators and engineers, catapulting cycle-making into an art.
      Back in the fall of 1981 Ronald Reagan is president. I am 10 years old. Wearing my lucky yellow Team Colicovision three quarter t-shirt, my best friend David and I have hiked up the bleachers behind Granger High School with "dirt bikes". The flame-orange Huffy begging for the ride down what must now be 1000 stairs to the football field.
      This is going to be, oh so bad. Neither looks at the other. Each contemplates the inevitable death that awaits us. A crisp Utah breeze stirs the air. "You should go first," David nods. This was my idea so I cannot back out now. I straddle the flame-orange Huffy and roll forward. Leaning into the abyss, I let go of the hand brake.
      I open my eyes and look up at the pristine autumn sky. Yes, I definitely shattered all of my ribs and ruptured every internal organ. I try to breathe. Fail. Then try again. Wobbly, I stand up in tattered "Tuff Skins" and "Zips" I peer at the top of the bleachers. At that moment, an epiphany descends on me. I want to do this for the rest of my life.
      Cycling underwent a dramatic change since the Atari 2600 days. The cycles became highly engineered and specified. Steel frames gave way to chrome-moly and other polymer alloys. The brushed aluminum of the rims became graphite or an exotic alloy. 10-speeds have evolved into Mountain Bikes, Road and Sprint Bikes, Hybrids and the list goes on.
      While riding the flame-orange Huffy, I found myself on the side of the road standing over the bike. I glare at a wheel resembling a hard taco shell. Beneath the layers of mud and sweat, the internationally recognizable expression of resolute frustration sweeps across my face. My fists clench in anger. The expression inaudibly declares, "I can't believe I have to spend $50.00 on a pair of decent wheels!" Being the early 1980's, $50 was a ridiculous sum for any parent to pay for bike equipment.
      Luckily, Utah has four seasons. A resourceful young cyclist can mow lawns in the summer and spring, rake leaves in fall or shovel snow in winter. All in pursuit of the holy-grail of wheels, ultralite aluminum hubs with steel spokes.
      The spoke is both the cherished treasure and loathsome toil of the bike enthusiast. From first hand experience, days pass while twisting these little devils to bring a rim into alignment. Spokes attach the hub to the rim and are alternately placed bringing tension to the left or right side of the rim. A properly aligned rim rolls without variance to the left or right. However, nature abhors a vacuum, so a properly aligned rim does not exist outside of a bike shop.
      From the time the savvy guru behind the work bench demonstrates the alignment with his calipers, to the point the bike nestles safely on the car rack, the wheels will shift out of true. Attribute this to the death-defying test ride through the parking lot, if you must. I suspect further research is necessary.
Spring, 1998
      The lucky yellow "Team Colicovision" three quarter t-shirt became a rag washing the car. The flame-orange Huffy fell victim to cousins and a niece, cannibalizing it for parts.
      The Reagan Presidential Library is complete. Bill Clinton is President. Crisp Utah breezes gave way to Arizona monsoons.
      With more capital at my disposal and a quirky penchant for gadgets, I became the proud owner of a "Mongoose IBOC Zero-G hybrid." Mongoose Cycles took the elongated, chrome-moly frame (naturally) of a road bike and coupled the fuller off-road wheels and narrower handling of a mountain bike, added front fork suspension and a couple of titanium components. I find this a very spiffy bike indeed.
      On the cusp of my wedding, I have forgone the traditional bachelor party in lieu of an adventure harboring the opportunity for painful and humiliating death. I have set out with one of my groomsmen, Nick, to the wilds of Moab, Utah: The Mecca of mountain biking.
      The bike trails wander about a moonscape of sandstone and sagebrush. During the drive out, in Flagstaff, AZ, Nick and I find snow, rain in the Arizona Badlands, a sandstorm outside of Mexican Hat, UT, and we eat breakfast, twice. Once in Moab, we set camp and nourish ourselves on two steaks over the fire and an immeasurable number of "beverages."
      I awake at 7:30 a.m. and my initial thought is, "Why is it so dark at 7:30?" I roll over in my sleeping bag, bumping the side of the tent with my right arm. A sheet of snow slides down hitting the ground with a "thud." This is going to be, oh so bad. Over fried eggs and bacon, we decide to ride snow or no snow.
      I flip over the "Goose's" handlebars. I gash my legs on jagged rocks. I dent my helmet (and possibly the skull it contained). I nearly ride the Goose off a cliff. I endure oxygen deprivation, mild dehydration, elemental exposure, yet I relish every minute of the experience. Overlooking a lush canyon from a vantage point in the high sandstone desert, I recall an epiphany once descended on me. I want to do this for the rest of my life.
      Brent Baccala describes his trials and triumphs in his essay "Bicycling across America". In his attempt, Brent had his share of hardships, but he was determined to surmount them by means of his own will and effort. A stolen bike in Virginia sends him back to New York. Two months later, he starts his trek over. Out of food, money, and water in Arizona, Brent pushes on as far as he can. Ultimately, the elements overcome him and he arranges bus fare to California where he returns home. Brent may not have reached his goal on this endeavor but cycling is not about the destination.
      Cycling is about the journey. My experiences have not been that extreme. Nevertheless, I can relate to the message. My attraction to cycling lies in the determination to exert my will into physical movement. The question "Can I do this?" draws me in. Occasionally, the answer is "No." My goal is to keep trying.

.

by Ty Garfield

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Scars and Handlebars: Why riding a bicycle is cool
.	The Olympic games and Tour de France not only made heroes of cyclists like Lance Armstrong, whose courageous battle with cancer and comeback to win the 2001 Tour de France is a saga of bravery unto itself, but opened the doors for innovators and engineers, catapulting cycle-making into an art. Back in the fall of 1981 Ronald Reagan is president. I am 10 years old. Wearing my lucky yellow Team Colicovision three quarter t-shirt, my best friend David and I have hiked up the bleachers behind Granger High School with "dirt bikes". The flame-orange Huffy begging for the ride down what must now be 1000 stairs to the football field. This is going to be, oh so bad. Neither looks at the other. Each contemplates the inevitable death that awaits us. A crisp Utah breeze stirs the air. "You should go first," David nods. This was my idea so I cannot back out now. I straddle the flame-orange Huffy and roll forward. Leaning into the abyss, I let go of the hand brake. I open my eyes and look up at the pristine autumn sky. Yes, I definitely shattered all of my ribs and ruptured every internal organ. I try to breathe. Fail. Then try again. Wobbly, I stand up in tattered "Tuff Skins" and "Zips" I peer at the top of the bleachers. At that moment, an epiphany descends on me. I want to do this for the rest of my life. Cycling underwent a dramatic change since the Atari 2600 days. The cycles became highly engineered and specified. Steel frames gave way to chrome-moly and other polymer alloys. The brushed aluminum of the rims became graphite or an exotic alloy. 10-speeds have evolved into Mountain Bikes, Road and Sprint Bikes, Hybrids and the list goes on. While riding the flame-orange Huffy, I found myself on the side of the road standing over the bike. I glare at a wheel resembling a hard taco shell. Beneath the layers of mud and sweat, the internationally recognizable expression of resolute frustration sweeps across my face. My fists clench in anger. The expression inaudibly declares, "I can't believe I have to spend $50.00 on a pair of decent wheels!" Being the early 1980's, $50 was a ridiculous sum for any parent to pay for bike equipment. Luckily, Utah has four seasons. A resourceful young cyclist can mow lawns in the summer and spring, rake leaves in fall or shovel snow in winter. All in pursuit of the holy-grail of wheels, ultralite aluminum hubs with steel spokes. The spoke is both the cherished treasure and loathsome toil of the bike enthusiast. From first hand experience, days pass while twisting these little devils to bring a rim into alignment. Spokes attach the hub to the rim and are alternately placed bringing tension to the left or right side of the rim. A properly aligned rim rolls without variance to the left or right. However, nature abhors a vacuum, so a properly aligned rim does not exist outside of a bike shop. From the time the savvy guru behind the work bench demonstrates the alignment with his calipers, to the point the bike nestles safely on the car rack, the wheels will shift out of true. Attribute this to the death-defying test ride through the parking lot, if you must. I suspect further research is necessary. Spring, 1998 The lucky yellow "Team Colicovision" three quarter t-shirt became a rag washing the car. The flame-orange Huffy fell victim to cousins and a niece, cannibalizing it for parts. The Reagan Presidential Library is complete. Bill Clinton is President. Crisp Utah breezes gave way to Arizona monsoons. With more capital at my disposal and a quirky penchant for gadgets, I became the proud owner of a "Mongoose IBOC Zero-G hybrid." Mongoose Cycles took the elongated, chrome-moly frame (naturally) of a road bike and coupled the fuller off-road wheels and narrower handling of a mountain bike, added front fork suspension and a couple of titanium components. I find this a very spiffy bike indeed. On the cusp of my wedding, I have forgone the traditional bachelor party in lieu of an adventure harboring the opportunity for painful and humiliating death. I have set out with one of my groomsmen, Nick, to the wilds of Moab, Utah: The Mecca of mountain biking. The bike trails wander about a moonscape of sandstone and sagebrush. During the drive out, in Flagstaff, AZ, Nick and I find snow, rain in the Arizona Badlands, a sandstorm outside of Mexican Hat, UT, and we eat breakfast, twice. Once in Moab, we set camp and nourish ourselves on two steaks over the fire and an immeasurable number of "beverages." I awake at 7:30 a.m. and my initial thought is, "Why is it so dark at 7:30?" I roll over in my sleeping bag, bumping the side of the tent with my right arm. A sheet of snow slides down hitting the ground with a "thud." This is going to be, oh so bad. Over fried eggs and bacon, we decide to ride snow or no snow. I flip over the "Goose's" handlebars. I gash my legs on jagged rocks. I dent my helmet (and possibly the skull it contained). I nearly ride the Goose off a cliff. I endure oxygen deprivation, mild dehydration, elemental exposure, yet I relish every minute of the experience. Overlooking a lush canyon from a vantage point in the high sandstone desert, I recall an epiphany once descended on me. I want to do this for the rest of my life. Brent Baccala describes his trials and triumphs in his essay "Bicycling across America". In his attempt, Brent had his share of hardships, but he was determined to surmount them by means of his own will and effort. A stolen bike in Virginia sends him back to New York. Two months later, he starts his trek over. Out of food, money, and water in Arizona, Brent pushes on as far as he can. Ultimately, the elements overcome him and he arranges bus fare to California where he returns home. Brent may not have reached his goal on this endeavor but cycling is not about the destination. Cycling is about the journey. My experiences have not been that extreme. Nevertheless, I can relate to the message. My attraction to cycling lies in the determination to exert my will into physical movement. The question "Can I do this?" draws me in. Occasionally, the answer is "No." My goal is to keep trying.	.
by Ty Garfield