One Man's Ascent is another's Descent

They say when you learn to ride a bicycle you never forget.  While technically this is true, there are times when I truly wish it was not.

I like to think of myself as a 44 year old man in reasonably good condition.  I mean I have pudge but it isn't excessive.  I am energetic and I like to take long walks.  Wait, that almost sounds like a personal add on Match.com.   I most certainly am not an Adonis but in truth I never was.  Ahh  Adoinis... that symbol of all that it is to be a man.  Sheltered by Aphrodite as a young man he represents virility and strength.  Beauty and grace.  He also has a nice pecker that in the case of the Roman version pictured was not hacked off by Pope Pius IX when he set about removing all depictions of the male member in the Vatican and covering them with a fig leaf.. 

Over Christmas my father and son convinced me to go on a mountain bike ride with them.  Columbia, SC is blessed with a beautiful mountain bike trail park and it seemed like a good idea.  Nice trail ride, fresh air.  Who knows, I might even see a deer or two.  Well more likely, they might have a chance to see me.  As the planning progressed two of my son's friends were added into the equation.  I still figured it couldn't be that bad, at least my overly energetic son would have a couple pals to sprint off with while the old folks brought up the rear.  My father has an electrical spinal implant, nearly robotic shoulders and degenerative disc disease.   I figured he would be about on par with me.  I suppose in retrospect I shouldn't have underestimated the man's love of cycling.  After all, how many Americans actually watch the Tour de France from start to finish on television?  We are talking about 20+ days and likely 60+ hours of television.

I should have taken my initial moments on the bicycle as a kind of omen.  I peddled slowly down a dirt road trying to secure my left foot in a toe clip when out of no where my son shot up alongside me his tires skidding on the gravel.  Alarmed I turned my head and in shocked surprise, lost my balance and fell crashing into him both of us splayed out and crushed under our bikes.

The day started off easy enough yet even on the simple trail I found myself trailing behind the pack.  I figured it was an initial bout of enthusiasm and like the tortoise and the hair I would continue in a steady and methodical way.  My first lesson in the cruel reality of this strategy occurred when I finally caught up to the group. They had all stopped to have a drink, catch their breaths and wait for old man Bauer pulling up the rear. 

I happily reached them ready for my breather, drink and trail stories only to witness them all breath a sigh of relief.  I had finally arrived and their only response was to set off again at a break neck pace.  The stated goal was to reach a trail rated extremely difficult called the Spider Wench, Witch or maybe it was Spider Woman.  I was sure they would tire before that point and if I could just keep some semblance of parity I could survive the experience.

Hills became more difficult and tree roots seemed to web across the trail with evil and increasing regularity.  My breathing was becoming more and more labored and I started to feel the burn in my thighs.  My father had a determination that bordered on sadism, as he maintained a position in front of three kids 1/8 his age.  At some point during the torturous climb up mount misery three young men shot past us and vanished up the trail. 

A short time later out of breath and feeling the taste of my spleen in my mouth I reached the previous speedsters.  As I approached one called out "Good job, keep it up!" I wanted to puke on him.

Two others stood next to an upside down bicycle trying to make some kind of complex trail side repair.  I asked them if they wanted me to call Triple A for them. The laughed and said, "Not yet."  They might take my dignity but they would never take my sense of humor.

A short while later I approached the three kids all sitting on a log. Their bikes were scattered haphazardly around the called over to me to join them.  Barely able to speak I let my bike fall to the ground and limped over to them.

"I think my father has been planing this since I was six."  I said, breathing heavily.  "Help me."

My father was no where in sight.  How could this be.  My father looked like the famous golfer Byron Nelson on a bicycle.  I had the Lance Armstrong Live Strong jersey.  Okay it was a cheap knock off I bought in the Philippines but still, I looked the part.   Eventually he returned barely breathing heavily.  He looked at our bikes strewn all over the ground and tried to offer encouragement.  "Spider Killer is just a bit up the path."

I knew what he was doing.  He was trying his best to minimize the pain and encourage me to push on.  At fourteen I would have bought it, at 44 I resisted.   Spider Bitch was not going to claim my dignity.  Tucking my tail between my legs I told them I would be at the cars waiting for them.  Moments later I had traversed what had taken me a seeming eternity to ride up in five minutes and was back at my car.


I sat for awhile before mounting my bike once again and riding an old man's trail.  It was a lovely jaunt through some wooded areas eventually leading me back to the point of my departure.  Awhile later the peloton emerged exhausted.  My father seemed hardly winded.

Lately I have considered looking for a senior riding club.  Maybe some fellows in their 80's need a team member.  If they do, I just might know a candidate.