In the 1980's, I bought a Centurion 10-speed which I rode all over the place. It was black and red and yellow and was bad-ass in a totally classic and classy way. It had dropped handle bars that I retaped yellow, and I had a little mechanical odometer on it that I loved to watch accumulate the miles.
I named it Healing Light because it got me through a period of time after a car accident. I loved that bike and the healthiest I ever felt in my life was when I would ride it from my apartment in Silverlake, up over Griffith Park Boulevard, down Los Feliz, enter Griffith Park from the south, and then pedal from the train and pony rides on Los Feliz, over to Travel Town, and back again.
Glorious.
I'd ride with my Walkman tucked in my backpack and ear plugs in my ears, marveling at the technology, listening to a cassette tape either of Quicksilver Messenger Service (Happy Trails) or the latest Grateful Dead (Touch of Grey). Heading towards Burbank I'd be riding into the setting sun during the summer, the yellow gold blinding me so I'd ride head down, getting the angst out, pumping as hard as I could past the zoo, the picnic tables, the train shop. After turning around at Travel Town, (and flipping the cassette over!),I picked up speed on the downhill grade, all warmed up, angst out, sun to my back. I'd take the series of hills at full tilt, shooting up them with accumulated momentum, and then picking up more on the down.
By the time I got home, I was sweaty, exercised, exhilarated. My cells thrummed with absolute health and harmony. The endorphin high was magnificent, and my body took to it with great gulps of appreciation.
Those were good years on the bike. I did a 50 mile fun ride at one point, which it almost was (fun). Actually it was, and I've always been glad I did it. Then there were kids and soon I was the one teaching them to ride, and not doing so much myself.
The first Healing Light was stolen from my garage about 8 years ago. I went and purchased, without much enthusiasm, a bike that was better suited to my advanced years. It had straight handle bars and hybrid wheels. It was a sedate gray. I could sit upright and be more, you know, middle aged and female. The handlebars were never quite screwed on tightly enough. It performed with all the grace and alacrity of a tractor.
I may have ridden it five times since I bought it. In today's vernacular, it was a solid "meh" bike. Just...meh. I spent good money for it, I appreciated it as a transportational modality. And I just never rode it that much.
When I was diagnosed, Spencer (full on hipster with a green and black fixie) said that what I need in my life is a new bike. I'd never, seriously never, considered that before. I had never, actually, noticed that I didn't ride the old bike that much. I thought my issue was with bikes and age and deterioration in general, not that I possibly just didn't like my bike enough to ride it. The day I told him, after my MRI, we went up to a bike store on Fair Oaks. Filled with bikes and gear and accessories made of the most highly engineered materials, in all shapes and colors, and all with price tags that represented (literally) the price of a college education in the late 1970s.
I was captivated. After I stopped hyperventilating about the first price tag I turned around, our sales guy (about 12 years old) led us back to the way back corner, where the, you know, more affordable bikes were kept, i.e., those in the low, not mid, four figures. He pointed one out to me and, yes, there it was. The bolt of lightning. The Moment.
It's a Specialized Dolce Elite Compact EQ. Black and red. I rode a model that they had in stock that was my size around the block. It was like flying. It was like flying a stealth bomber as opposed to Kitty Hawk. It was like sailing a racing boat rather than paddling a dingy with my hands. It was magnificent.
I shopped around. I took my time, a little bit. But I knew this one was The One.
Picked it up yesterday, fully equipped with front and back lights, new center pull brakes, and a new lock. Red wrapped dropped bars. Totally bad-ass in a classic and classy way. I put on my new helmet, my new gloves (thank you, Roger), rolled up my right pants leg, and took off to the office.
Glorious.
Riding home yesterday evening, I took the back roads I used to ride on when I was growing up here in high school. Past the big stately grounds of the San Marino mansions, past the lovely enclave of Lacy Park, up Old Mill Road (appreciating the gearing ratios immensely), down Mission, and up to my house. Pedaling into the setting sun, bathed in healing light, feeling so incredibly good in my body and my soul.
Pure joy.
I can't wait to get this other stuff behind me.
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