Wednesday, January 24, 2018 // The Statement
6B
King of the Road
W
e hadn’t made it to the
first
stop
sign
before
my mom made me do
something not fun.
“Stop! Go back and put your helmet
on.”
Fine. I went back into the garage,
got my helmet –– which was just a
normal bike helmet, and not even one
of the cool skater helmets –– and put
it on.
Now
blissfully
free
from
interruptions,
my
family
and
I
continued on our bike ride, and
got about twice as far before I was
interrupted by an protruding tree
branch. I flipped completely over my
handlebars and landed squarely on my
now-helmeted head.
For that I say, “Thanks, Mom.”
Fast forward 10 years and, because
I am ungrateful swine, I never wear
my helmet –– for which I say, “Sorry,
Mom! (And dad).”
Since coming to college, biking
has turned from something I did
occasionally on weekends with my
family or as part of clandestine
midnight outings into how I get
anywhere and everywhere. And the
recklessness has not been tempered;
the wipeouts have only become more
frequent.
Some of them are attributable
purely to my own stupidity. One night,
when I got hungry at 2 a.m., as one
tends to get, I made the logical choice
of going to Jimmy John’s: a relatively
healthy, very appetizing and very
open restaurant! Being 2 a.m., the
roads were completely clear, making
it a perfect time to figure out just
how fast I could get my bike to turn.
Slaloming between potholes, feeling
perfectly confident, I quickly found
out –– and in a swift, sweeping motion
was on the pavement with little birds
flying in circles around my head.
Luckily, the roads were completely
clear.
Other times are less pure stupidity
and more stupid obstinacy. It was the
first day of the winter semester last
year, but I’d be damned if I let the
weather force me to waste 17 minutes
of my valuable time walking to class
instead of biking. The road conditions
weren’t ideal for my thin, traction-
less tires, but they were good enough.
Biking cut the 17-minute stretch
between my house and the MLB to
five, so needless to say, I was feeling
rather good about myself as I rolled
up to my 10 a.m. Spanish class.
Just one more curb to go.
The curb ramp, however, had just
a little too much snow packed on it,
and my self-satisfaction turned into
shame, disgust and annoyance at the
dozens of students who had decided
to walk to their 10 a.m. classes at the
MLB and were now concerned if I,
now on the ground instead of on my
bike, was OK.
“Haha, I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Stop looking at me!
And then –– and then, there are the
rare times which are a combination
of stupidity, obstinacy and neglect.
After subjecting my bike to years of
highly regular use, it has begun to
deteriorate; tape peels off, screws
come loose, that sort of thing, nothing
that can’t be fixed at a bicycle repair
shop. In September, though, the
seat began wobbling, which is never
something you want, and sometimes
the wobbling got quite vicious. I found
a reliable, albeit temporary, solution
in just twisting the screw underneath
the seat tight, either with my hands
or with an Allen wrench. It would
only take a few hours or days and
the seat would start wobbling again.
A temporary solution was more than
good enough for me, though.
One night, I was coming home
from a long and unproductive three
hours at the library, the studious
student that I am. The seat was barely
wobbling, and so I felt it was safe to
ride with no hands (a talent I hadn’t
developed until coming to college) as
I was approaching my house.
Just one more curb to go.
This
curb
ramped
up
at
a
particularly steep angle. I had always
used some caution when biking over
it in the past, and would stand up on
the pedals, butt hovering above the
seat, both hands on the handlebars.
Maybe this time, though, I should do
it sitting down, no hands. To prove
wrong all who had doubted me.
Though you’ve probably guessed by
now, what happened next was actually
a little more exciting than a standard
wipeout. The bearings holding the
seat in place, as I found out a couple
of weeks later at the bike repair shop,
had rusted out quite a bit. And so,
when I took that curb all seat and no
hands, I put a lot of pressure on those
poor little bearings. Eschewing any
regard for my well-being, the seat
detached itself from the rest of the
bike and flew backward, taking me
with it. Already having gone several
weeks failing to repair the seat, I went
a couple more completely missing
one, forced to ride standing up, both
hands on the handlebars at all times.
A fitting punishment.
And, because symmetry is life’s idea
of humor, this year Mother Nature
made it so all the New Year’s snow
had melted and refrozen over every
sidewalk on campus for the winter
semester’s first Monday. One year had
passed since my most shameful fall.
The flashbacks I got from going up
curbs had subsided almost completely.
Mother Nature thought she could cow
me into submission. It was time to let
old things die.
At least that time I wasn’t in front
of the MLB. I got up and back on my
bike before anyone was within talking
distance.
All of this is to say, I guess, that I
will never learn my lesson! I will keep
biking to class every day, and I will
not go any slower, haters. And I won’t
wipe out ever again.
Maybe it’s okay that I don’t wear
a helmet, since I’m so hardheaded
about biking already. And maybe this
isn’t the case, but part of what biking
is to me is my imagination that every
other biker is just as hardheaded. I do
feel superior to you, in case you were
wondering, walkers. My bike goes 10
times faster than you, and is greener
and more mobile than a car or moped.
I could be compensating. Again,
maybe it’s just my flawed perception,
but bikers –– especially those who
bike through the winter –– are kind of
a class of social outcasts. Like walking
is just normal, and biking is “extra.”
Let me know if you know what I’m
talking about, reader.
All of that, whether it’s going
on in my head or not, just adds to
the camaraderie I feel with other
bikers –– especially those who bike
through the winter. And so I hope my
children, when I have them, want me
to teach them to ride a bike, and that
biking again becomes something I do
occasionally on weekends with my
family. Don’t worry –– I’ll make them
wear helmets.
BY ANDREW HIYAMA, DAILY NEWS EDITOR
Courtesy of Andrew Hiyama
Andrew riding his bike in 1999.