Hey, That's My Bike

This is sort of what I look like this evening, minus the gray suit:

That's right.  I'm the proud new owner of a 2006 Trek 7000 hybrid bicycle.  It's been a long time coming.

You see, I have never had what might be described as a stable relationship with les velos, at least not during the last ten years.  I once pedaled around blissfully on my first Trek hybrid bike, the blue and purple Multitrack I got for my 13th birthday, until it was snatched from my possession by the local riff-raff in Bolton Hill when I was a freshman at Maryland Institute, College of Art.  I was diligent about keeping it locked up on the bike rack outside of the laundry room, lulled into the false sense of security that those tall blue fenceposts of The Commons provided.  Reality check #1: chain locks are easily clipped.  When I was again presented by my father (from whom I inherited my enthusiasm for cycling) with a royal blue Trek mountain bike, I stepped it up and invested in a Kryptonite U-lock.  The mountain bike only took me into my junior year of college, but I logged countless miles on its rugged wheels during the summer of 2001, when I'd often take off on 50-mile tours of Frederick and the neighboring counties, and along the C&O Canal tow path on the banks of the Potomac River.  One day, however, I was met with reality check #2: local riff-raff will take bike parts to the pawn shop in west Baltimore and leave the skeleton frame and U-lock dangling from the sign post outside of the dorms where it was locked.  An acquaintance of mine, Sergio Barrale (kind of a tool.  sorry.) approached me, a concerned expression on his face.  Is your bike locked up on the sidewalk outside The Commons?  Already I didn't like where this was going, as I knew this guy wasn't just making conversation.  I pushed past and ran down the steps to the carcass, picked clean by the neighborhood hooligans.  A black and white snapshot exists somewhere of me cradling in my arms the cold remains, eerie in their seat and wheellessness (courtesy of Samantha Lane Busfield Fiddy, forever at the ready with a Canon Rebel 35 mm in times of crisis).   This had been the bike that had first seen the yet-to-be-made-an-official-Olympic-sport, "tag-teaming", a sport of such extremes that, after that year, I felt ready to take on any physical challenge.  I was in a perpetual state of training, as one friend noted.  Tag-teaming is a misnomer, really, as there is no tagging, and, while the participants function as a team, only one member is doing the gruntwork.  This is not to demean the role of dead weight, however.  Sam did a brilliant job, and was my much-loved backseat rider as long as I had a bike while we were in school.

Shortly thereafter, I abandoned the idea high-end wheels, realizing that the mean streets of Baltimore were no place for the upper echelons of bicycles, and found at a yard sale an old red, white, and blue number with an excessively padded seat.  It was a fixer-upper, and I'd had some experience in bike maintenance in the few years since being in college.  The quality, if I recall, wasn't up to my standards, however, and the bike was quickly passed on to a classmate, Julia Molnar.  To usher in my senior year, I found an aptly-named olive green Schwinn Collegiate at the Salvation Army.  I think I may've ridden this bike for a week or so before its disappearance set the tone for The Worst Three Consecutive Days of My Life (1. stolen bike; 2. broken-into '87 Honda Civic and pilfered Canon Rebel 35 mm camera; 3. new kitten falling from the busted-out back window of the Civic onto Route 70 on my way home).  Let's just say that one just wasn't in the cards.

For my birthday the following year, my 22nd, my dad, refusing to give up the ghost, gave me a Schwinn Sidewinder mountain bike, a nod to my favorite R.E.M. song, "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite".  While I was living in the questionable (but now totally gentrified, I'm sure) Reservoir Hill neighborhood, I'd taken to keeping in the the laundry room across the hall from my apartment.  Other tenants of the secure building kept their bikes there, so I saw it as an invitation and a display of communal trust.  I posted up signs in the lobby, hoping for the anonymous return of my Sidewinder, but it never resurfaced.  I still blame the seedy-looking boyfriend of the strung-out-looking bag that lived on the second floor, but I'll never really know.  

Right before I moved to Nashville in the summer of '06, I found on craigslist a vintage burgundy beach cruiser, complete with front basket.  This bike served me well while I was there, shuttling me to and from work at the neighborhood natural market, The Turnip Truck.  When I left, I left the bike with my old housemate, Emily.  I hope that it's still there in that wonderful city; it was a sweet little bike.  

Back in Baltimore, I got a $25 vintage white racing bike.  It was rickety, had bad tires, but it was a great city commuter bike; I worked 1.3 miles downhill from my apartment, so I could pretty much coast all the way to the jewelry store, arrive to work windblown but not sweaty.  Perfect.  This bike came with me to Maine, and sat under my outdoor steps, virtually unused on the inhospitable rural Maine roads.  Two summers ago, though, complicated circumstances involving my car requiring retrieval from a gas station parking lot 38 miles south, the White Wonder performed and retired all in the same trip.  The tires had been shot long ago, and were no match for US Route 1, all pot holes and frost heaves.  I struggled against the bike - even on the downhills - and finally deposited it on the side of the road in East Machias, four miles from my car, for some student to find and adopt.  

So it had been nearly two years for me sans cycle.  In anticipation of our urban relocation, Rob and I had planned to get ourselves bikes, and I found just what I was looking for on craigslist two nights ago: a barely-used Trek.  Olive and I drove 80 minutes roundtrip to retrieve it, and my father lovingly gave it a little tune-up when he got home, filling the tires with air, removing the little bit of rust, and oiling the gears.  It runs like a dream, and I am, once again, a very happy rider.