The first time I quit cycling I was a sophomore in high school. I spent the late winter and spring riding a red and white polka dotted Pinerello in the mountains around my house, my kit consisted of black shorts, long white socks, black shoes, a bright red Specialized Sub Zero helmet and a jersey representing sponsors such as Taco Bell and No Fear. That’s right, NO FEAR. Lets make it clear that this was just a jersey and that I do indeed have fear, so if you feign a punch towards my face and I flinch I am not going to be violating any contractual obligations; past or present. I wouldn’t say that I am always scared, but I am definitely not a fan of getting punched in the face.
This jersey was not tastefully put together, the logos appeared to be arranged by a former brick mason, each sponsor stacked upon another; the bright colors were a collection of everything that had been on ski slopes and bathing suits at the inception of the nineties; think Zinca and Aspen Extreme. I am talking about hot red, hot yellow, hot purple, hot green. It was as if the jersey was designed to make you color blind by simply overloading your retinas with colors not seen in nature, it could have also been an attempt to tap into something lingering in the hypothalamus, a primordial message that says “hey do not mess around I am poisonous, this is natures sign language so read it” would have been great if I was competing in leprosy, but not so great as part of an attempt to legitimize hick town teenage road cycling. That spring I was the only one in my little mountain town pedaling a polka dotted bike through the streets and out to the hills, a striking antithesis to the Wrangler-wearing, Copenhagen ring in the pocket, huge belt buckle set that populates my home town.
I grew up in Bishop California, a very small town high up in the Eastern Sierra. For a curious young man the town is conveniently located five hours from any large city and by large city I mean a town of anything over 50,000 people. In addition the movers and shakers of the town had decided, or so the rumor goes, that the weather channel would be a better use of cable bandwidth then MTV, thus giving my fellow generation Y’ers and me the gift of being even more out of the loop than our isolated location had already determined. Example: the first time I heard Pavement was in 1998, all that being forced to listen to Puff Daddy and White Zombie could have been replaced by paramount slacker ennui.
Bishop is known for a couple of things; the Annual Mule Days celebration which brings people from Los Angeles to town dressed in their best brand new cowboy gear and turquoise accoutrement, quite the spectacle of tenderfoots in unbroken in boots and frilly western wear. Bishop is also the largest town in Inyo County, the county which had the dubious honor of having the highest teen pregnancy rate per capita in the US during the late nineties, which I see as a bit of a mixed blessing, as I missed out on being another statistic in the young fatherhood category and I chalk this up, at least partially, to the horrendous jersey and penchant for bicycles previously mentioned. What I am getting at is that Bishop is known for many things but bicycle riding is not one of them.
I understand that there are many places that are not known for their bicycle affinity, I am going to go out on a limb and say most places, and that this shouldn’t be the reason for quitting something you love. It shouldn’t be the reason but it was, you see the definition of Bishop does not include bicycling but it does include getting some, the statistics show this to be true, and like everyone in their teens I wanted to get some. I did what I thought I should do, drop the spandex and the road bike, buy a beat up car, hustle here and there for a warm six pack, experience – passing out, vomiting, rejection, rejection, rejection, get beat up, and pine. Looking back I realize that that life wouldn’t be that much different had I stayed on the bicycle, it would just have been one more thing kicking my ass.
