Luke: The First Ride

To boys of a certain age growing up during a certain time, there was nothing better. It was THE present, the kind of thing that kept you believing in Santa for a few years longer than was probably healthy.

It was a Big Wheel. And it...was...awesome.

For those of you unfamiliar with a Big Wheel, it was a small plastic tricycle type thing with – rather unsurprisingly - a “big” plastic “wheel” in front and two smaller wheels in back. Streamers on the handlebars. A selection of lightning bolt stickers. They were boss.

Clearly.

(My parents tell me there was an earlier bike called a “Hot Seat” which apparently I also enjoyed a little bit)

And when you grew up in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, close to nothing except the church where your Dad was the pastor, it was something even better: A Big Wheel was a ticket to freedom.

I'd spend hours out there making laps of the church parking lot - a slight uphill on the west side, a long slow corner, and then a steeper downhill coming back that caused your little legs to pump like pistons (producing more horsepower than my first car, a 1986 Chevy Nova) and a corner that if you turned just right, you could powerslide through spraying gravel everywhere (or if you didn't turn just right, you'd end up with gravel sticking out of your knee. Which kind of sucked, but you also got a Popsicle and a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid, so it was hard to be too upset about it).

It was enough laps to wear through the front wheel, the hard plastic turning soft and finally just disappearing, turning the smooth ride - or as smooth as a 10 inch diameter wheel riding on a poorly paved parking lot can be - to a *thunkier* Flintstone-esque motion until my dad ended up MacGyvering the wheel with pieces of wood, a quick white flash as the wood reinforced section whipped by with each revolution.

It's fitting that one turn of a wheel is called a "revolution," isn't it?

It was for me at least. With each pedal stroke, my world got a little bit bigger. Expanding from the swing set in the backyard to the church parking lot to the driveway of the next house to my friend Justin's house, a whole mile away.

Over the years those pedal strokes have taken me through a blustery Irish winter day, tingling fingers warmed by a peat fireplace, Guinness, and thick accents in the local pub, to the oppressive heat of the Arizona desert wishing I had brought that other water bottle and hey are those buzzards over there and OMG why haven't I seen a trail sign in an hour??!?

I've been a course marshal at the World Mountain Bike Championships in New Zealand, my jaw dropping as the best riders in the world flew over basketball sized rocks that I was having trouble walking over, and I've fallen over pulling up to stoplights (Clip out! Clip out! Clip...ow!).

I've braved the honkingly chaotic rush hour traffic of Montreal, and stood on top of a mountain in New Zealand just before dawn, the world empty and silent except for my still labored breathing and the small circle of light from my headlamp as the day began to slowly reveal itself to no one but me.

I've raced daylight and thunderstorms; dogs and sheep; myself and others. I usually lose.

My bike has been my therapist, guiding me through breakups, hearing my secrets and watching my breakdowns - all without judging (much). It's seen the joy of a bike date (and gotten to nuzzle her bike's handlebars as we sipped coffee, which I think counts as second base for a bike) and the agony of a bloody finish line pileup. The proverbial blood, sweat, and tears.

We've grown apart the past few years, the bikes and I, as I've discovered the awesomeness of running, especially the peculiar brand of "fun" known as the marathon. So the bikes lean up against the wall, like they're stuck on the “Island of Misfit Toys,” the dusty victims of too many activities, not enough time. Training plans, work commitments, and relationships just kept replacing the joy of the little blond puffball power sliding the Big Wheel around the church parking lot just for the hell of it.

Which is why I'm psyched that Groucho Sports has given me this opportunity to explore...well, all of it. The love of the sport. The dedication (obsessiveness?) of seeking to be better. The connection to other people (bow chicka bow waaaah) and being part of something bigger.

And most importantly, remembering to have fun.

One revolution at a time.