My introduction to the cycling community came from my now roommate James approximately three years ago. Working in the meat department at the local Co-op, I would see him come into work every day with his helmet and messenger bag in tow viciously drinking water to hydrate from the ride over. He was the epitome of a badass. From that moment, I became enamored with the idea bicycling and pedaling everywhere I went.
Picking up an old blue mountain bike GT that had once belonged to my brother, I started biking the twos mile it took to get to work and back. Being nervous of oblivious drivers and fast moving vehicles, I opted for the sidewalk rather than the road. Every day after that was a challenge to choose the bike over the car. But I facing my laziness head on, I pedaled through the pain, the sweat, and strain to reach my destination. Even with all my enthusiasm and drive, I wouldn’t have considered myself a cyclist.
In the fall of that year, I upgraded my wheels to a vintage 1980’s powder blue World Sport Schwinn road bike. Once belonged and seldom used by my step-sister, Emily, it had been stored in the barn out behind my house for years but was still in relatively good shape. I gave it to James to do some repairs and in no time it was restored to its former glory. The road bike was a significant upgrade from the mountain bike in both size and weight. My legs were no longer dead by the end of the day and hills became substantially easier. But even with a cool new set of wheels, I was nowhere close to being a cyclist.
Pedaling over the Krogers to pick up a soda, I quickly turn into the parking lot and then as I position myself to turn around the corner – I find myself being lifted off of my bicycle and rolling over on top of the hood of a car. It isn’t until I try to stand up after rolling off the car and landing on top my bicycle that I realize what had happened. The elderly woman who hit me and a concerned bystander help me to my feet and into the store to access the damage. The moment I walk in the managers swarm around me, asking if I need to call the police or an ambulance. After sitting down and drinking a glass of water, I tell them that I’ll be fine and there is no reason to get the police involved. The elderly woman gives me a hug and her information, telling me to call her if something comes up. I smile and say thanks.
The next day, I take my bicycle over to Scheller’s Bike Shop to have James check for any damage. He calls me into the back room to show me where the frame has been cracked by the down tube and tells that it has been totaled. I heart instantly hits the floor. Walking back home I pull out the information the woman gave me and call her up on my phone. Remembering her sweet and concerned treatment towards me after the accident, I meet a very different woman over the phone. I tell her I don’t have any injuries but that my bicycle has been totaled. I ask her if would consider helping me pay for a new frame since I can’t afford a new one myself. She strikes back at me saying the whole accident was my fault, I turned in front of her car, and I ran into her. I am dumbfounded thinking to myself, this isn’t the way it is supposed to go. Scrambling to pull myself together, I respond to her allegations by explaining to her that my frame was cracked from the side meaning she ran into to me just before I got the chance to turn. She refuses to see my side and hangs up the phone. Tears fill my eyes and I feel defeated.
Months later with no help from that bitch, I am back on saddle and this time its 1970’s red Caliente Schwinn frame I picked up from James with pink handle bar tape to match. It feels exhilarating to be back on the road but the accident has left a lasting impression. Every car on the road becomes a new threat and I can’t help but envision every possible worst case scenario. My undying love for cycling refuses to let one accident get in the way, so I propelled my way through the panic and it was at that moment, I became a cyclist. Understanding the risk of putting yourself in traffic, is understanding that you might fall, crash into something, or have something crash into you. Taking this mishap as a very important lesson, most drivers are not going to give me the respect I deserve and they certainly aren’t going to be looking for me on the road. If I was going to continue bike, I had to become a more defensive cyclist and one that always files a police report.
The next several months came and went without any problems. My self confidence riding with traffic was beginning to come back and the consistent panic attacks were fading. The fear of being hit by another car transformed me into a very law conscious and abiding rider. I figured my best solution against getting an accident or worse being blamed as the cause is to follow the traffic laws to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, this did not take care of all of my problems.
The night before Valentine’s Day I coast into my drive way and park my bicycle on the screened in back porch to my house and walk in. After closing down the meat department at work, I headed straight for the shower to wash off any possible odors. Thoughts of the next day begin to swim through my head. I had just started dating a boy from the kitchen, we made plans to participate in the Love Hurts Alleycat together and go out for dinner after.( For those unfamiliar with this activity, Alleycats are community events that promote bicycling and local businesses. A biker will pay a registration fee that goes towards charity and in exchange receive a spoke card with a logo on one side and a list of check points on the other. You ride to any or all check points, usually ending at a bar for prizes and drinks.) Hardly able to maintain my excitement, I spent the rest of the night restlessly day dreaming about us racing all over down town before sitting down to a nice romantic dinner. It was going to be the best Valentine’s Day yet, I just knew it.
Waking up the next morning, I was happy to see the sun shining and the weather getting warmer. I began my morning regime by brushing my teeth, changing my outfit three or four times, and trying to figure out a cute hair-do that could with stand a helmet. Doing a last once over in the mirror, I can see my date ride down the street over to my house. Soon after I hear a knock on my door quickly grabbing my helmet and purse, I dash down the stairs to meet him. He greets me with a hug and a smooch before asking me if I’m ready to go. Smiling so hard my mouth hurts, I tell him, “I can’t wait.” Stepping outside of my house, my eyes glance around for my red and pink road bike but it’s not there. In my confusion, I frantically go back inside my house, shut the door, open it again, and walk back outside. It still isn’t there. Noticing the distress, my date ask me if something is wrong, I yell back “I can’t find my fucking bike!” By this time I am running circles around my house, checking and rechecking every inch, but it’s no use. My mind races, “How could this be happening? - I’d left my bike unlocked on my back porch for months now without any problems - Why now? - Why today of all days”
My date walked over and put his arm around my shoulder to comfort me. I struggled to hold back my emotions and play it cool but I couldn’t help thinking the whole day was ruined, completely unsalvageable. Inching closer to me, he tells me, I am so sorry about your bike but don’t let it get you down. I still want to spend the day with you and take you to the race. I hope you do too. Now, let’s think, do we know anyone who would let us borrow their bike?”
It was at that moment I knew this boy was a keeper. He was right; I shouldn’t let this ruin my day. There was still time, there was still a chance. Furiously knocking on my neighbor’s door, we make it to the race if we hurry. When he answers the door my words come out in a big muddled mess, all I can manage to spit out is “My bike is gone, can I borrow yours?” Slightly confused he agrees points over to the closed shed by his car, and says it’s in there. Fumbling around in the dark shed, I grab hold of what I believe to be his bicycle and bring it out into the light. The frame is a little too big for my size but I’ll work, it has to work. I look at my date and say, “Okay, I think I’m finally ready, how about you?”
Soon after the incident, I begin to have dreams of me walking around town without any initial destination when I see the asshole riding my bike in the distance. Running at full speed, I catch up just in time for him to slow down for the light, and tackle him to the ground. He struggles to get away, I try to catch a glimpse of his face but it’s just a blur. I punch him continuously while yelling, “You stole my bike”. He manages to free one his arms loose and goes to swing at my nose when I wake up in my bed. I would have variations of this dream for months after the fact. I did eventually recover the bike six months later, but that’s another story.
Frustrated with walking and the way my transition to cycling was going, I began to see that I needed to learn the mechanics of it all, otherwise I would go broke. Late on Saturday evening, I drunkenly vented my recent anguish towards biking to some stranger at a party. Seemingly interested in my story, he asked if I had heard of a place called Wildcat Wheels. I told him no, but that I wanted to hear more.
Less than a week later I find myself standing in front of the shop, hoping they would have the answers I needed. Strolling in and looking around, I meet a tall guy wearing an apron with the shop logo on the cover who introduces himself to me Scott. Asking what brought me into the shop; rehashing all my difficulties from the past couple of months, I tell him, I want to build my next bike. Before going any further, Scott outlines the practices and regulations of how the shop works; I can receive used parts in exchange for volunteer hours, from there one of the mechanics will help me assemble everything together, and I will ride out of here on a new working bicycle, free of charge. My jaw dropped, it all sounded too good to be true but it was. Jumping in feet first, I followed Scott into the shop to start working on bicycles.
I couldn’t tell you the difference between a wrench from an allen wrench nor a fourth hand from a third hand but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was I had found a place that would help me get back on the saddle riding again and for an extremely reduced cost. I was prepared to come in, take the time, and learn all about the different nuances of my new favorite machine. It took three months to build up enough volunteer hours to earn all the components necessary for a new road bike. In the mean time, I had been scoping out an aquamarine 1980’s World Sport Schwinn frame on eBay. Despite my previous history with the brand, I was too enthralled by color, style, and price of vintage Schwinns to give them up.
When it came time to put all the pieces together, I was relieved to have someone who knew what they were doing next to me. I was still confusing front derailleurs with rear derailleurs and had no idea how to set the limiting screws for them. Nonetheless, Pete, one of the mechanics guided me through each and every step of the process. He even didn’t mind repeating steps I didn’t understand or answering my constant list of questions on everything imaginable. Learning how all the parts operated and worked fluidly together, I began to truly appreciate bicycles on a deeper level. Building my own bicycle from the frame up, made me feel as though I had come full circle as a cyclist. I had experienced the end and the beginning.
Even after my bike was complete and operational, I kept coming back to learn more. Besides, the shop had a fun and energetic atmosphere. I had become friends with most of the men working there and felt comfortable moving around to different projects. Towards the end of the spring semester, the shop manager, Drew approached me about being an intern for the fall. Having just been laid off from my job at the meat department, I couldn’t have been happier to hear the news. Without any hesitation, I said, “Yes, of course!”
Here I am two years after my internship and still working at Wildcat Wheels. I can honestly say that I completely love and enjoy my job. The knowledge and experience gained from this job is priceless. Looking at to the beginning of this journey, I have learned many valuable lessons in police reports, trust, locks, theft, and most importantly self confidence. Every time I zip down the road, lock my bike, or help someone repair theirs, I have to first believe I can do it. Certainly I have more trials and errors to face being a biker but once you believe you can do something, the rest is merely going through with it. And I am more than positive that I can do anything I set my mind to.
