Cyclists are a tough breed. I was one. Like all of the Fallen, I sought redemption.
“I am going for a bike ride.” An hour later, my wife returned and stated, “ What happened on your ride?” “I was exhausted after pumping up the tires, so I took a break.”
An hour passed, and by that time I had rolled out and made it half a block from the house. The chain was rubbing. It’s a start, Anne said, without conviction. Anglicans care so much for the weak.
One summer between years at university, I worked for Gerry van Klink at Eisenberg’s Tire and Sport, now Grounded Coffee Company and Friendly Stranger on Bay.
In those days, it might have been called The Bike Shop, but through the haze of years, I might be wrong. I was an avid cyclist, riding back and forth to M.S.S. No one rode a bike in those days unless you were a nerd or weird. Both applied.
Gerry was the fastest wheel-lacer and builder north of Toronto and he taught me the art. Not something you can just pick up.
That skill provided employment in the bike trade and money for essential university expenses such as pub money and other important stuff.
Bike shops have come and gone with regularity in Midland with few being able to survive our winters.
However, our system of trails is first rate and it winds around the shoreline and leads all the way to Penetang in one direction or Coldwater, if you are really ambitious. I was, at one time.
Fitness is a term we bandy about. I was fit…in 1991. It is 2022. Now I look at spandex clad cyclists, “Iron Folk,” Triathletes, and all those Cults of the Wheel and quietly give thanks it’s all behind me now.
René Hackstetter, April 7, 2022.
.jpeg;w=120;h=80;mode=crop)