New Perspectives: A Senior Moment – “CALL OF THE OPEN ROAD”

That red C.C.M. bike I eulogized last week was my longest two-wheeled love affair—over 50 years— but certainly not my first cycling relationship.

Way back in the 1950s, as I was about to begin high school, I decided to replace my first bike, a broken-down, rusty, two-wheeler, with a classy upgrade. After much deliberation and counting my accumulated wealth from a part-time job, I bought a metallic brown, British Raleigh 3-speed Clubman. Admittedly, the upgrade took some getting used to. For the first days, I instinctively turned my pedals backward to stop, forgetting that I now possessed hand brakes. That resulted in a few near-catastrophes. Once I learned to rely on those handbrakes, I still faced challenges. Being left-handed, I would instinctively squeeze the handlebar-mounted caliper on the left side, which immediately braked the front wheel, not the rear one. The sudden stop threatened to hurl me over my handlebars.

With a sleek Raleigh frame being somewhat smaller than my clunky childhood bike, I now found it much harder to give girls a ride on my cross bar, a common practice then and now among teen boys. Over time, I lost my chain guard and too frequently caught my pant cuff in the oily chain. For some reason, that calamity typically happened just as I was racing past those aforementioned young ladies. As I frantically dismounted and awkwardly pulled at the firmly-stuck material, I was met with loud laughter, not the adulation I sought.

My other missing part was the rear fender. (Now I am wondering: did this Raleigh model ever have fenders?) On most days, I managed just fine without that shiny piece of metal covering my wheels. On rainy days over dirt roads, it was a different story. I regularly ended up coming home with a soggy brown stipe up my spine where the rear wheel had tossed up a steady, narrow stream of mud.

Although almost seven decades ago, three teenaged cycling episodes remain firmly stored in my memory bank:

—For three summers I rode the Raleigh every week day from my home in Downsview, Ontario to near Maple, where I worked as a farm hand. While I didn’t realize it at the time, the ten-mile journey there and back was building leg strength and cardio endurance, essential factors to become a good long-distance track athlete. In retrospect, I can thank my faithful British bike for gaining me admission to an American university, where I traded peddling for running. In a sense, the Raleigh paid for my undergrad education.

—One morning, during that first summer as a farm hand, I parked my bike at Crang Plaza early on my way to work. I had been ordered by my father to “get a haircut.” This was a decade before the Beatles and my long, straggly locks were deemed messy, not trendy. Naturally, I was wearing my work clothes: tattered jeans, tee-shirt and boots. It just so happened that I had been shovelling pig manure most of that week. I innocently sat in the barber’s chair, casually admiring his skillful clipping. Except that he abruptly stopped his task to hastily open the shop door and every window. A would-be customer arrived whistling, only to spin on his heels in mid-song and quickly retreat. The barber finished my haircut in record time, and ushered me out the door, without even asking for payment. It is said that a skunk can’t smell his own scent!

—On Friday, October 15, 1954, I jumped on my Raleigh to ride home late afternoon from Bathurst heights Collegiate in North York. Coming along Lawrence Avenue, I felt unusually heavy rain stinging my face and suddenly-powerful winds threatening to push my bike off the road. I imagined what Roy Rogers would say to Trigger with a reassuring pat on his neck: “Come on, old boy, we can do this.” But Roy never tried to navigate the wild remnants of Hurricane Hazel as I was foolishly attempting to do. To my surprised relief, my dad’s red plumbing truck eventually appeared through the storm and rescued me—and Raleigh.

Post-graduate studies back in Toronto, followed by work, then family life required me to replace my Raleigh for a Volkswagen Beatle—until 1971 when we moved to Peterborough, where a new bike once again became my practical means of transport.

Which brings me back to the ethical dilemma raised last week: what to do with my ever-reliable C.C.M. companion who served me faithfully for over fifty years? A helpful friend suggested retiring the bike to its rightful place as a flower-decorated lawn ornament. Another advised me “to mount it over the fireplace.” I initially was puzzled. At my advanced age, how could she expect me to clamber up on top of the pine fireplace mantle and mount up on my bike? And even if I managed that acrobatic feat, where would I ride, stuck four feet above the ground, without injuring myself in some inevitable fall? Once I calmed down, I realized she meant to mount the bike (ie affix it) to the wall above the fireplace. I am considering these options although I am leaning toward just burying C.C.M. In the backyard with an appropriate headstone.

Meanwhile, I now sit on my porch and watch a steady stream of summer cyclists, many of them self-labelled MAMIL (middle-aged men in lycra) racing by. As I once did, they are finding liberating freedom. answering the call of the open road.