My First Crash, My New Bike and the Quest for the Perfect Seat

I started riding a bike “seriously” about seven years ago when I was looking for some activity that could get me more places than roller blading. If it could reduce my consumption of fossil fuels, so much the better. With two sisters who bike, I thought I’d try that. I bought a Trek 7200, a hybrid of a road bike and a mountain bike in the fall of 2003.

I LOVED that bike. She got me through a lot of stuff: the death of my cat Bandit (at 19), the decision to retire and/or try something new, the various other challenges of day-to-life. I also discovered that in many ways riding a bike is like figure skating and driving a certain kind of car along two-lane blacktop roads that twist and wind. They’re all about edges at speed in control.

Remembering how to bike took a little more that I thought. I kept finding myself gripping the handlebar and not being able to steer. The next spring I used the motivation of not having to drive my car through rush-hour traffic during two years of road construction on the only way to work. I've ridden to the library, the grocery store, for fun and to and from work for much of the year (late March thru early November) since. I liked the ride to work, if you can “like” a commute. Riding through a wooded park in the early morning light made the start to the work day a little easier.

I had to replace My Bike in August 2007 when I discovered that she had been stolen over night from the storage area by my carport. I got another Trek 7200 but one size larger, which turned out to be a mistake. (The bike had been stolen at the start of the Labor Day weekend and what promised to be most excellent biking weather after weeks of Michigan August HOT and I was too impatient to wait for the “right” size on special order.) It just never really fit. So I decided to get one that did as a birthday present for myself.

My new bike is a Trek 7.2 FX fitness bike. While I must confess ignorance as to exactly why it’s called that, it is smaller and lighter than my 7200. Jerry, the bike shop guy who adjusted my bike to fit me, says that going from a 7200 to a 7.2 FX is like going from a Buick to an MG (well, as a retired Ford engineer, he said “going from a Taurus to a Mustang”). Without front and seat shocks, it is a much rougher ride, but more nimble and quick. I have realized that I’m going to have to pay attention for a while until I get used to how she handles, especially on curves and when I stand up to sprint.

While Michigan’s weather hasn’t been too cooperative since I got her, the first few rides told me I had the wrong seat. I knew the original seat wouldn’t work. The bike shop recommended the Sonoma (an “awesome seat” according to many). Unfortunately, it was not-so-awesome for me. After only seven miles or so, I could feel every seam no matter what I wore (yes, I do wear bike liners – which are great). I went back to my local bike shop and ended up trying four different seats (including the original one). After some out of the box thinking, Jerry decided to try a mountain bike seat, with a narrow seat.

The new seat’s a keeper. (Jerry: You ROCK!). I’ve put in several 15 miles rides, including downtown to the farmer’s Market and several for-fun rides through my favorite neighborhoods around town. Now, if a dry spring would show up, I'm all set.

Ah, yes, the crash. The crash and the new bike have nothing to do with each other. I’ve been lucky for a number of years, averaging about 1200-1300 miles a year on the bike (last year I rode a little more than 1500). I’ve done the usual stupid bike tricks: fallen over sideways when I came to a stop and couldn’t get my foot down in time, bumped into curbs at low speed (the things you don’t count as crashes). When I first got the bike, I rode into a “house for sale” sign on a lawn extension because I was gripping the handle bar so tightly I couldn’t steer. At the beginning I wasn't not so sure riding a bike is something you always remember.

The big crash (which resulted in minimal blood spilled and I was able to ride away from) happened four weeks ago. The rain had finally stopped and I wanted to get to the library. Off I went and on the way, while I rounded a curve, I caught my right peddle on the curb and came to a complete stop very suddenly. I ended up with a nice abrasion on my right knee (about 2 x 3 inches) but everything seemed to work OK.

I went home immediately (riding – the bike seemed fine too) and washed my knee twice with soap and water. I lathered a large bandage with lots of Target brand Neosporin and took it easy for a few days. Various black and blue marks showed up over the next few days. I also discovered that I most likely also hit the bike’s fork and steering wheel with my sternum when the bike stopped. I’d heard that cracked sternums hurt like the dickens (from CPR or open heart surgery) and they are right. My knee is mostly healed, just one little patch of skin with a scab. The sternum hurt through last but feels much better now.

So I consider myself lucky. It could have been so much worse. No broken bones, no messed up bike, no cars involved, and close enough to home to make it on my bike.

Things My Mother Taught Me

I’ve been trying to decide what to write here about my Mom and Mother’s Day. It’s been more than 40 years since I could give her a hug and a kiss on this special day. One part of me wanted to write to her, thank her for what she taught me, the lessons she lived during her life, how that gave me a framework for my life.

The other part wanted to tell something of her story, from her birth until her death, almost part of the “Margarets Initiative,” as I’ve come to call the genealogical journey I’ve started on. I started out this way but soon realized I need to learn a little more so I can weave the story a little more concretely. (One example is to take the backing off a painted photograph I have of my grandmother, my mother, and my Aunt Sarah taken in 1923 or 1924. I think the name of the studio is printed on the photograph - if I remember correctly.)

So instead, I’m going to write about some key things she said along the way that still help me get along in life through its various ups and downs. Something of a legacy and a way to keep her close even though she’s been gone for more than two thirds of my life.

The first: "You can do anything you want to do, so long as you are Ready, Willing, and Able to accept the consequences of your actions." Each of the three words was spoken separately, with a pause, to emphasis their importance. I have to admit I’ve used this one a lot and hopefully I’ve been able to live up to the promise of Ready, Willing, and Able. She never tried to skimp my dreams and backed up her words with actions, like when she got the School Board to let me take drafting in 8^th grade (when “only boys” were allowed to take the class).

I remember one comment clearly. I was in my early teens (13 or 14 maybe??) and I’d been reading a slew of Cherry Ames books (the series starts with our heroine as a student nurse and follows her through various adventures including a stint as an Army Nurse), one about nurses serving during World War II in the Pacific theater, and other similar stories. I told her “I want to be a nurse when I grow up” (more focused on all the adventures than anything else). She “humphed/laughed” and said that no way would I be able to be a nurse, I’d have to be a doctor! Mothers can certainly be sharp-eyed about their offspring and even then I was pretty assertive about doing things My way.

“Always be a Gentleman” is another tenet that’s played a strong role in my life. By that she meant to be kind to others, give a hand without being asked, hold the door for someone, say “thank you” and generally behave like a gentleman would.

She taught me about art and being creative. Some of my favorite memories are of trips to the Detroit Institute of Arts with a dear friend, Patsy, to see one exhibit or another (waiting in a long line to see works by Van Gogh). I cherish going to the DIA as I feel so close to her there. Each time, I slowly walk the Renaissance hall that over looks Kresge Court and take the small circular staircase down. After the war, she would go there to sketch for art classes, working to fulfill her dream of being a fashion illustrator.

Her death, from metastatic ovarian cancer, also taught me much. Not just about how to live despite a body in such distress but also how to die (and how NOT to die).

I do miss her in ways, but she always seems to be with me in spirit. She would be 91 this year, maybe, maybe not still with us here – who can say? I keep her close regardless.

My mom was born in Glasgow, Scotland and sailed with her mother and sister to Canada, before joining her father in Detroit, Michigan in November 1925. She never made it to New York and the fashion world, but she never really put down her paintbrush and sketch pencil. Once her five surviving kids were in school she explored oil painting, charcoal, then acrylics. With Patsy, she was active in the League of Women voters in the early and mid- sixties and got me to help out printing the newsletter for the group and the Farmington Artist’s Guild.