『Cycling through life's transitions』のカバーアート

Cycling through life's transitions

Cycling through life's transitions

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 One sometimes hears comments like “swimming is a sport you can pursue no matter your age.” Or it might be golf, bowling, or even pétanque. For me it’s cycling: pedalling here and there for more than 60 years.I remember my first bicycle, the one with training wheels that I rode slowly over the uneven turf of our back yard in Massachusetts. It was red, and the training wheels didn’t help me achieve balance until my father took me out onto the seldom busy street, held his hand on my back as he ran alongside, and then finally let go. Off I went, a bird leaving the nest the first time. What I also remember, from later outings on that bike, was pedalling as hard as I could and loving how it felt.And so it was as I grew up. First, envying my brother his big Columbia bicycle with its coaster brake and “belly balloon tires,” as he called them. When he wasn’t around I’d struggle onto it and ride out into the street, slamming on the brake in the sand at the side of the road for the excitement of the skid (and the occasional skinned elbows arising therefrom). Then, one Christmas, three brand-new Phillips bikes awaited my sister, brother and me—genuine English three-speed bikes with heavy steel frames, and a generator with lights front and back. I loved that bike, and kept it for the next 43 years—even though, in full adulthood, I had received from my wife the gift of a beautiful new bike to replace it.Those bicycles led us to places we’d not have seen otherwise—they let us see more and be so much closer to the passing world-scape than through the window of an automobile. On hot summer days they let us hear the sound of insects and birds, feel the heat of the sun and the cooling breeze that a bicycle always assures. On seaside roads and paths one could smell the sea, the dried seaweed and the marsh grass with no chance of a pesky green-headed fly alighting to deliver its vicious sting. Then, years later, in the hilly high desert, pedalling to the highest points in that dry heat to quietly cast an eye across the endless landscape, the dry stony land with magnificent saguaros, ocotillos, scented acacia and the yelp of the coyote.When moving to Dublin we left our automobiles behind but the bicycles followed—taking up new duties as we foreswore car ownership thereafter. Our trusty steeds, as we called them, were now outfitted with baskets and panniers, and accompanied us on shopping excursions, into Dublin city with its narrow streets (and close encounters with menacing Dublin buses). But also to more joyful destinations where better food could be found. Down the long hill where we lived in Glenageary to Dún Laoghaire’s People’s Park on Sundays for the lively weekend market; along the coast, through Sandycove and past “Joyce’s Tower,” then to Dalkey and back to Glasthule with its fine shops for fish and veg. Those bikes took us on holidays, too, relieved of burdensome cargo, leading us down narrow country roads and Irish greenways built on long-gone rail lines, through scented farmland and past rugged coastlines—an Ireland that can only be seen that way.As the end of our working days approached the hills became steeper and longer and our steeds struggled beneath us, sometimes simply accompanying us as we walked the last 15 meters to the driveway entrance. Mounting and dismounting became self-conscious and sometimes difficult. I delayed some years before saying good-bye to my faithful mount, but one day I made the move—a handsome Dutch electric bike took its place. But the transition was not easy! The adaptation from leaning forward toward the handlebars and fully extending my legs to the upright posture my new Gazelle demanded took some time, some re-balancing, and an unpleasant fall. But in the end I sit higher, more safely and can see more than before. And this husky steed easily carried most of a week’s groceries up that Irish hill with ease.Retiring to France, our bikes retired with us—to an extent. With all that one needs within five minutes walking at least they were relieved of their duty as durable porters. Well, yes, there is the occasional trip to the Marché de la Libération, the Marché aux Fleurs, or to shops we like near Nice Port. But mostly they relax and take us on seaside balades and arbitrary urban rides, often along the many pistes cyclables (cycle paths) developed by the city of Nice in recent years.If asked, what does a bicycle mean to you, some might say fitness and health, climate responsibility, or simply transportation. I’d not contest any of those things. But many would say it means a sense of freedom—that sense of freedom I felt the first time I balanced my little bike free of its training wheels. A freedom to move silently along a roadway or path, feeling the movement of the air, hearing the calls of birds, detecting the changing scents of the seasons. Riding the bike frees us of daily cares and worries, shifts our minds to a new place ...
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