Posts Tagged 'Bicycles'

Like falling off a log

Looking like vehicles that may have been designed with Batman in mind, our two dark gray electric-assisted bikes are nestled in our garage.

Unlike the spaciousness of Bruce Wayne’s bat cave, the garage is barely wide enough for our two cars. I am blessed with the starboard side of the garage that forces me to exit into the teeny space between the cars. My aging ligaments complain as I unscrew myself from the driver’s seat while avoiding a serious mishap that might require a series of follow-up visits to my chiropractor.

The two bat-bikes are lined up smack against the wall on the passenger side of my car, the same wall on which multiple menacing storage cabinets are hung. Negotiating the passageway between my car and the overhanging cabinetry invites a bloodletting injury to the top of my bald head.

The challenge presented by the bikes started in the MOB bike shop parking lot. I had just witnessed Jackie falling off her demo bike, and my brain decided to emulate the event with a four-star performance of my own, complete with scraped knee and severely damaged self-esteem. It was not a good omen.

Unfazed by the mishap, we forged ahead with the purchase of two bikes. The first, Jackie’s, was acquired from the Ojai Bike Store. Robert, the owner for some thirty-five years, was well informed and apparently willing to spend his thirty-sixth year exclusively in our company. Every inch of his store is covered with bikes, including some that are surely owned by deceased bikers who had grown weary waiting for repairs. The store, needing even greater challenges, also sells and services skateboards.

Before we met Robert, we had visited the MOB Shop for a demo that required disinfecting our hands, taking our temperatures, and completing a scary waiver of liability. These precautions proved particularly ineffective as both Jackie and I took headers off the bikes before leaving the parking lot. Sensing a possible lawsuit, the owner strongly urged me to give serious thought to my age and the foolishness that I was about to embark upon. To which I gave little heed as I remounted the bike while hiding my fears beneath a fragile facade of supreme confidence.

Robert embraced none of these precautions at the Ojai Bike Store. He merely turned on the bike batteries, adjusted the height of our seats, loaned us a couple of helmets, and waived farewell as we rode up Canada Street, scaring myself and the local motorists who somehow sensed the need to avoid us at all costs.

Electric assisted bikes are all the rage; perhaps too few riders have yet been maimed by them to cool their attractiveness. Consequently, the demand for these beasts exceeds the supply; like the Dutch tulip bulb craze in the 1600’s, this too shall reverse itself in due time.

Robert had a bike that met Jackie’s specifications…small, cute and comfy. We bought it, and like the birth of a couple’s first child, gave little thought to what comes next. My turn was less productive; Robert searched manufacturer databases to find one for me but came up empty. He offered a somewhat iffy chance that one would arrive in October. Unpersuaded by this modicum of hope and anxious to get the show on the road, Jackie took matters into her own hands.

Using the full capabilities of her iPhone 11, she called every bike store in the northern hemisphere and located the perfect bike in Costa Mesa, a mere two-hour jaunt from Ojai. The distance and the logistics of shlepping the bike home was too much for me. But not for Jackie.

Overcoming the salesman’s initial reluctance, she convinced the store to ship the bike to its Santa Monica sister location. Then she called the Santa Monica store and convinced them to bring it to Ojai free of charge, and that’s why it is now sitting in our aforementioned garage.

You’ve probably heard the old canard that once you learn how to ride a bike you never forget. While the basics of biking may be etched in one’s brain, nuances are another thing. While I may be able to mount a bike after 45 years of sloth and move 100 feet in a straight line, making a U-turn is another matter. There just doesn’t seem to be enough turning room; perhaps the streets are narrower than they were when I was a kid. Or the bikes are bigger. In either case, I cannot complete the U-turn before slamming into my neighbor’s parked Mercedes; I must get off the bike, back it up, straighten my trajectory and remount the beast. A sorry sight indeed. And if that wasn’t enough, this morning I watched two bike riding eight-year-olds perform feats that would have shamed the Flying Wallendas

But I’m learning. On Saturday we biked to Boccali’s pizza joint. It was a beautiful day, and caught up in the majesty of it, we had a glass of wine and gobbled up some delicious bruschetta. An hour later we got back on our bikes and rode down Highway 150 where I decided to make a right turn onto Carne Road. It must have been one of those narrower than I remember it roads. Failing to negotiate the turn and believing that riding into the ditch would be a bad move, I pancaked the bike and ended up kissing the road with my elbow. To assuage my feelings of incompetence, Jackie said it was the wine.

Realizing that my once-learned, never-forgotten skills would be a work in process, she bought a pocket-sized first-aid kit the next day. Something to look forward to.

This morning I decided to hone my skills. I carefully squeezed into the narrow space between my car and the garage wall and approached the sleeping bike with mounting apprehension. Avoiding the menacing overhead cabinets, I grasped the handlebars like a rodeo cowboy and slowly moved it backwards toward the safety of the open driveway. In my zeal to prove myself, I forgot about the bike pedals and banged one of them into my left shin. Bleeding like a hemophiliac, I decided that my bike day was over.

After all, I don’t want to rush my skills development and have nothing to do tomorrow.

I Looked Both Ways Today

I looked both ways today. Twice.

Marion Weil died last Friday in a tragic bicycle accident. Although an investigation is proceeding, it seems that a motorist ran into Marion while she was with her much-used Como electric bike on Cuyama Road in Ojai.

The motorist apparently was headed west on Cuyama around 7pm; a time when the sunset is beautiful but also deadly for pedestrians and bicycles who are confronted by a glare-impaired driver headed directly into the sun with a two-ton metal behemoth. “I never saw her. The sun blinded me. I couldn’t avoid her.”

That evening, shortly after the accident, Jackie received a call from a friend. I was busy in the kitchen when her phone rang. I eavesdropped. “Hi, always good hearing from you. What’s up?” The casual banter ended abruptly and was replaced with, “No, I don’t believe it. Oh my god.”

The conversation went on for a minute or two and I became more intrigued by it. It was obviously something more serious than a jilted woman, the inability to get a hair appointment, or the latest on the faculty infighting at Cal State.

I became more anxious as I tried to guess what was going on. Jackie completed the call, turned to me and said, “Marion Weil was hit by a car. She’s dead.”

A nanosecond passed and I thought, “That’s not right. It’s a mistake.”

Marion had been in our back yard about a month ago. At first refusing our cheap wine, she relented and had her fill. Clever and quirky without wine, she added humor and cuteness when she’d had a couple. At 78 she was analytical, remembered everything, and made physical fitness one of her mantras. She most assuredly planned to live to the biblical age of six score years.

In the midst of the pandemic, here was a perfectly clad Marion, without a sense of time, enjoying herself while regaling us with her upcoming adventures. Never shy, she revealed herself freely, and simultaneously questioned us unmercifully. I thought she’d never leave, yet we felt that something was missing when she finally walked out the gate.

Marion’s whereabouts were generally unpredictable. We often drove by the structure that housed her and her tenant, the Livingston Visiting Nurse Association. We looked for her unpretentious car as an indication of her Ojai presence. We often joked that when Marion became incapacitated by old age, a doubtful event, she only needed to walk the 50 steps between her digs and the VNA to jump into Hospice.

It doesn’t matter how many days pass; it seems like she is still with us. I expect to see her car in front of the VNA when I drive down Matilija Street. Or receive a text from her suggesting that we gather again in our backyard to meet a new friend. Or announcing that she’s off to Orange County to visit her favorite niece, and that she would be gone for an extended time. Maybe until fall. Maybe beyond. She’d promise to keep us in the loop, of course.

In addition to bequeathing a legacy of community involvement and support, Marion has left me with something else. Call it being careful. Call it a warning. Call it a wakeup.

I look both ways, twice, when crossing the street. Even that seems too little. I listen for the sounds of oncoming traffic and then realize that electric cars are stealthy. I look into the shadows cast by the giant oaks, fearing that a block of steel, painted black, is waiting for me. Playing no favorites, I also search for the oncoming bicycle which, while less lethal, could end my Shelf Road hiking escapades.

Not wishing to further irritate a driver who may be just off an argument with the spouse, I wait until traffic has cleared before stepping into the street. Pedestrian right-of-way means little to a preoccupied, irritable driver. Once in the street, I scurry across to reduce my chances of becoming one with the machine.

But there is a further urgency. Besieged by the latest Covid-19 affliction statistics, ballyhooed vaccine development, and moving target social engagement rules, Marion had little time to devote to the possibility of death on a bicycle.

Yet here we are. A reminder that we plan, and god laughs. Just when you think it’s safe to come in from the cold, a glacier falls on your face. Or as Forest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

I think I’ll get a new bike.

A Bike Story

My first bicycle was a Schwinn. Black and white with shiny fenders, it gleamed in the sunshine as it stood waiting for me in the alley behind my folks’ second floor porch in Chicago’s Albany park, a mecca for transplanted Russians and other Jews.

I walked around the bike that my father had brought home the prior evening and had placed out of harm’s way in one of the darkened basement sheds allocated to tenants. I had whined for weeks about wanting a bike, so its appearance on my birthday was not a shock.

At eleven, I was not yet aware of my parents limited financial resources. Surrounded by family, friends, and other neighborhood denizens, I was primarily exposed to people living in similar circumstances. In retrospect, I’m sure that the bike took a healthy bite out of father’s paycheck.

SchwinnThe Cadillac of bikes, its company was established 1895 by Ignaz Schwinn, a German immigrant, and his meat packer partner Adolph Arnold. It survived the Great Depression and continued producing bikes in the U.S. under various corporate guises until it finally succumbed to the allure of Chinese productivity. The Paramount, Stingray, and Schwinn-Twinn came and went. Advertising kept Schwinn in the public eye; the company was an early sponsor of TV’s Captain Kangaroo.

I walked around the sturdily built bike with fat balloon tires and its lever-actuated bell mounted on the handlebar. In 1950, this bike would have been called snazzy, flashy, and sleek. I daydreamed about where it would take me while I built up my confidence. Finally, I lifted my left leg over the horizontal bar that announced the bicycle’s gender as a “boy’s bike.”

Swinging the kickstand up from the asphalt, I brought the left side pedal to its full vertical position and placed my foot on top of it. I pushed the pedal forward. The bike moved a few feet. I tried to hop up onto the thickly cushioned seat. And then I fell over.

The bike shivered as it came to rest on its left side, the front wheel spinning slowly for what seemed an eternity. Then it stopped and all was silent. I had scraped my knee but, in comparison to the shame I felt, it was no big deal. The bike had escaped relatively unscathed except for a scratch on the chrome plated handlebar near the bell. It was a reminder that stayed with me each time I mounted the Schwinn that took me through my college years.

I bought a ten-speed racing bike when our kids were safely in school. For not much reason other than it seemed like the thing to do. Like all bikes of its genre, it was fitted with a seat that produced pain at the same level as the Spanish Inquisition’s torture rack. The seat was a combination of metal tubing covered with some animal skin. That’s it. No padding. No springs. Not a good combination for a guy with a skinny ass and a low tolerance for pain.racing bike seat

When I began riding the bike with the Torquemada designed seat, I complained to whoever would listen. Some people commiserated while others said, “Keep at it. You’ll get used to it.” And I thought, “Why should I?”

My bike riding consisted largely of shifting gears that never seemed to do what I wanted, and repositioning my ass trying to share my discomfort equally with the various pressure points in my butt and my tailbone.  And so, unlike my dear Schwinn, the ten-speed ended up in our Northridge garage, gathering dust and losing air in the tires until they were flat. I finally sold it to someone with a highly cushioned ass, for a whole lot less than I paid for it. Good riddance.

Twenty years passed in Northridge while I avoided a further encounter with a bike. The next move to our Ojai home high up on the hill put an end to any thought of mounting one. The terrain was much too steep; merely walking up Sulphur Mountain Road required the skill of a gazelle and the lungs of a blue whale. People with bikes who tried it were known to stop mid-way, cry unconsolably, and admit defeat.

I moved to town almost a year ago. To a house without steps, on a flat lot, in a flat neighborhood and with a flat one-mile walk to the Ojai Post Office. Surrounded by scores of bikers, Jackie and I talked about being part of that in-crowd. We were particularly attracted to electric assisted E-bikes. Not a fully operational motor scooter, the E-bike merely compliments one’s own pedal power with an array of assisted options. Given my age, I felt no shame with the idea of sharing the load with a lithium ion battery.como ebike

A week ago, we called the MOB bike shop and found that they would be happy to have us try the E-bike that afternoon at 2. Choosing to ignore the current 99-degree temperature, we jumped at the offer. Arriving at the shop, I casually informed Jackie that my car thermometer was recording the first triple digits of the summer. Consistent with her penchant for following through with commitments, she said, “It’s an electric bike. We’ll go slow. Only for ten minutes. Don’t be a pussy. You’ll be fine.”

Tim took our temperature to rule out Covid-19; I was mildly disappointed when I passed the test. Handing us over to young Melanie, we signed the usual waivers relieving the shop of any liability including the crime of wantonly exposing octogenarians to bodily harm. She gave us general instructions that I immediately forgot, fitted us with fashionable helmets, and adjusted our seat heights to a position based on information only known to her.

Jackie was the first to fall from the bike not ten feet from the shop’s front door. Light as a feather, she landed unscathed. I figured I could do better. Mounting the bike, I depressed the left pedal. Moving forward I brushed against Jackie, lost my balance, and fell stage-right while the bike attempted a quick escape by falling stage-left. I scraped the same knee that was a victim in the Schwinn incident seventy years ago, including my embarrassment.

The shop owner, who had been watching this Marx Brothers routine, came closer to me than Covid-19 precautions allow and said, “You know, while the bike is valuable, the safety of our customers is our top priority.”

Translated, he meant, “Don’t you think you’re a little old for this? You’ll probably kill yourself. Be smart. Get your ass out of here before it’s too late.”

Rising to my full five-foot-eight and a half inches (I used to be five-ten), I thanked the owner for his concern, assured Jackie that I was in full control of my senses, and reclaimed the wayward bike.

We walked the bikes across Ojai Avenue, mounted them and rode with some trepidation to the bike path. We entered the path, dodged oncoming fearless bikers, and were successful at avoiding further mishaps.

We returned the bikes, once again walking them across the Avenue. I glanced at the owner and with some smugness said, “Thank you for your concerns but I’ve got everything under control.” Lying does not become me and I think he knew better; but, sensing a possible sale, he nodded his agreement.

My knee is nicely scabbed over. We’re going riding again tomorrow. Think I’ll wear long pants.

I never saw him

I never saw him.  It was like a flash in time.  The sound was unbelievable.   From afar.  A roar, then a scraping of metal.  Then silence.  Except for the thud as his body slammed into my windshield.  He sprawled on the ground, not breathing.  Blood everywhere. The mangled bike’s front wheel upside down and spinning as his life ebbed.  How could this be?

But for the luck of the draw, it could have happened exactly that way.

We had just finished our business at Rabobank.  Nothing complicated.  Nothing out of the ordinary that might distract me from the awesome responsibility of driving a ton of metal safely.

We strapped ourselves into our seats and I cautiously backed out of the parking space.  I tend to be more deliberate about that process than I ever have been.  Partially, it’s a reluctant concession to the ravages of aging.  An innate recognition that my reflexes are not as sharp as they were when our kids were young and I was sure I’d live forever.

When exploring  a parking lot I prepare myself for the worst.  Chances are that a car will be going much too fast through the lot, the driver on his cell phone staying connected, unwilling to give it a rest, assuming  an overblown self-importance that someone really needs to speak with him right now.

I managed to complete the backing maneuver without loss of life or property and proceeded to the exit, stopping and then positioning myself for a right turn, heading south onto Maricopa highway.   I looked once, twice, and made sure there was no one walking imperiously on the sidewalk while assuming they have a natural immunity to injury by car.  I then glanced left to be certain I would not interfere with an oncoming southbound vehicle.  Having assured myself that I would live another day, I began to exit the lot.

Hey!  Hey!!!!  he shouted.  Slamming on my brakes, I looked right to discover a bicycle rider who had been pedaling north in the southbound lane.  He was in his forties.  No helmet.  No fear.  Now stopped dead, almost, in his tracks.

Time came to a halt for what seemed like an eternity.  We slowly began breathing again.  We recognized what could have been.  He looked embarrassed.  “You’re on the wrong side of the road” I shouted with as much authority as I could muster while simultaneously recovering from an overabundance of adrenalin.  He looked even more embarrassed.  “You’re right, I’m sorry, really sorry” he offered by way of an apology.  And then he crossed in front of me and continued mindlessly pedaling down the highway…still on the wrong side of the road.  Not sorry enough I guess.

I rode a bike in the dark ages, when phones were always connected to the wall and when helmets were worn only by soldiers fighting in Korea.  As a kid, I can remember riding down the wrong side of the road, or on the sidewalk, and never ever halting for a stop sign.  After all, only cars needed to do that.  I survived in spite of my ignorance.

A while ago I was screamed at by a helmetless woman biker who chose to ignore her stop sign as I was entering  the intersection.  “Courtesy to bikers” she hollered as she slalomed, Olympic style, through the intersection and struggled with her now unstable bike in order to avoid becoming a statistic.

Two weeks ago Sweetie and I were seated on one of those cute wooden benches in front of Rains when two biking teenagers nearly severed our feet at the ankles as they careened along the sidewalk.  They used the Saturday horde of visiting pedestrians like a set of  pylons at a championship bike race.  I shouted “Hey, you guys don’t belong on the sidewalk.”  As they continued their dare-devil adventure down the sidewalk, I was treated to an ear shattering series of well-practiced phrases better suited to an X-rated feature film.

Yes, I know that the majority of bicycle riders are god-fearing, law-abiding citizens.  And my encounters with those on the opposite side of the coin are perhaps neither representative of the larger biking population nor even worth mentioning.

But it only takes a single exception to cause a whole world of sorrow.

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