Hills and Kennedys

For those who know me well, I am all about the bike. I ride whenever I can. I commute by bike. I follow blogs about bikes. I watch every bike race that’s televised. I go to bike races. So, how come I can’t remember my first bike? I have been looking through family albums, hoping to catch a glimpse of this primordial steed, with no success.

I vaguely recall that it was red. It had training wheels, one speed and a coaster brake. I remember learning to ride it on our sloping driveway, which was a bit tricky. I would try to balance so that I wasn’t using the training wheels, but turning that way on a hill was impossible.

I also remember the day my father took the training wheels off. We went down to Strawberry Point School, which had an enormous blacktop that was perfect for not running into anything. Riding without training wheels was surprisingly easy. I rode confidently back and forth, completely unaware of my father, who probably was biting his nails as I wobbled and weaved my way along.

I decided it was time to see what this baby could do. I got up a good head of speed and took off down the length of blacktop like a top fuel dragster. The feeling of raw power was intoxicating. At least, I assume that’s what it was, having never been intoxicated up to that point in my life. Then I fell. Hard.

I’m sure it had something to do with high-speed titanium frame shimmy, misaligned carbon forks or defective high-performance tires. Or, I suppose, there is a remote possibility that it could have been due to Operator Error. Anyway, I crashed pretty spectacularly. But my father picked me up, applied tourniquets and splints, and I was soon on my way again. Fortunately, I had my helmet on… No, wait. We didn’t wear helmets back then. I wonder why? I suppose it seemed unfair at the time to thwart natural selection with sissy safety equipment such as crash helmets for bikes and seat belts in cars.

My bike became my lifeline. In good weather, it was how I got to school. It’s how I went to the store. It’s how I went to my friends’ houses. But not without effort. Unfortunately, Strawberry is as hilly as Rome, so getting anywhere inevitably involved riding up some pretty steep hills. Recently, I measured the first ramp of South Knoll Road where it rises up from Belvedere Drive, and it came out as a 25% grade, which puts in on a par with some of the toughest climbs in the French Alps or the Italian Dolomites. Of course, we didn’t usually go straight up the hill. We weaved back and forth like drunken sailors, which was very effective, until you encountered a car. When that happened, you hoped to be at either end of a switchback, or else you had to put a foot down and walk.

The only time I ever saw a professional cyclist do that was the first year the pros raced in the now-defunct San Francisco Grand Prix. Not having reconnoitered very well, many of the teams had brought a full complement of riders, including domestiques, climbers and sprinters. The heavily-muscled sprinters were completely unprepared for the more than 28% grade of Fillmore Street between Vallejo and Broadway. After the first lap, they fell hopelessly behind. Some tried weaving up the hill, while others caught their breath while doing doughnuts on the flat intersections between ramps as the crowd cheered them on. After lap two, most of them abandoned and could be seen watching the race from sidewalk cafes in North Beach.

Back to South Knoll Road. There was a short flat section after the first hill, then you tackled the second, slightly easier grade before cresting at the Rawls’ house. Finally, you descended a short hill past the Hicks and Baronis before arriving at number 38, hopefully avoiding any cars making their way around the hairpin bend near our house.

Making it to the top was always a huge relief. I would be out of breath and sweating. I must have also been light-headed. Otherwise, how to explain my decision one afternoon to ride down the hill with my eyes closed? I don’t think I even envisioned making it to the bottom, whereupon I would triumphantly open my eyes and wave to the cheering crowd. I just wanted to see what would happen.

I do have a college degree, so there is ample evidence that I have some measurable brain activity. Just not on that particular day. I made it surprisingly far down the hill before I became one with the asphalt. Again, with no helmet, but also with no injuries beyond skinned elbows and knees. As the cartoon character Calvin says to Hobbes after another failed attempt to avoid schoolwork, “Ah, live and don’t learn, that’s us!”

After that equally failed experiment, the lure of high-speed bike crashes faded quickly, but fortunately not the appeal of bikes.

In the interest of thwarting the cruel machinations of natural selection, I have always tried to pass on sage advice to my daughter, bearer of my genetic blueprint. Thus far, she has learned:

1. Wear your seatbelt. Always.
2. Don’t date Kennedys. (They have an astonishingly bad track record.)
3. Don’t shoot at cops. (It simply draws more police to the scene.)
4. Use a coaster if you’re going to drink beer when Daddy’s not home.
5. No smoking cigars in the house.

I suppose I should add:
6. Don’t ride down steep hills on your bike with your eyes closed, unless your goal is simply to see what amazing thing will happen and you don’t mind suffering the consequences of crashing, either with or without your helmet.

I think that about covers it.