The Cyclocross Bike

The Pumpkinvine Trail was expanding.

For those who don't know it, and I'll write a proper love letter to the Pumpkinvine another time because it deserves one, it's a rails-to-trails project that follows an old train route from Goshen to Middlebury and back. 26.3 miles. Some called it a highway for the Amish, and that's not wrong. It's one of the best pieces of riding infrastructure in Indiana and I put somewhere north of 4,000 miles on it over the years.

But at that time they were still expanding, and a lot of the newer sections were gravel and cinder rather than paved. The Cannondale crit frame was not built for that. I was getting pinch flats constantly, the narrow tires and the trail surface fighting each other every ride.

I needed wider tires. I needed a different bike.

Family Bicycle

Family Bicycle in Elkhart was owned by a couple who both rode to work every day. Rain or shine. The kind of people who don't own a car the way other people don't own a horse, not as a statement, just as a fact of their lives.

The owner, Mark I think, reminded me of Yehuda Moon. If you know the comic strip, you know exactly what I mean. If you don't, go find it. A bike commuter philosopher who just rides, quietly and without drama, through whatever the world throws at him. That was Mark.

I found the cyclocross bike there. A Cannondale, black, with tires wide enough to handle gravel without complaint. Around $900, which at the time felt like a significant sum.

The Gym Rationalization

My girlfriend at the time, now my wife, though she has a strong aversion to being called my "current wife" so let's just say my wife, went to the gym regularly. A hundred dollars a month for the membership.

When I hesitated over the bike she looked at me and said: this is your gym. This is all you need to keep yourself healthy.

She was right. In that context $900 was nothing. I bought the bike.

4,662 Miles

I just looked it up. That's the exact number.

The cyclocross bike had more rolling resistance than the crit frame, that's just physics with wider tires on pavement, but it felt more sure-footed on the mixed surfaces and the punctures stopped happening. That was worth everything.

I rode 200-300 miles a week. I was eating strictly vegan at the time, and yes, I know the joke. How can you tell if someone is vegan? They will tell you. I told everyone. I was insufferable about it and I was in the best shape of my life and I stand by both of those things.

I rode my first metric century on that bike. Then my first imperial century. Both of them in my 50s. Both of them on Indiana roads and trails I knew by heart.

My wife had a work friend whose husband was a cyclist too. The four of us did a lot of touring together for a few summers, weekend rides, longer routes, the kind of riding that is less about performance and more about moving through the world together at the right speed to actually see it.

He took his own life a few years ago.

It brought that chapter to a halt in a way that's hard to explain. Some rides end because you get tired. Some end because life changes around you. And some end because the world is suddenly missing someone who was part of why the riding felt the way it did.

The Kid Going to Phoenix

Eventually I sold the cyclocross bike. A young guy, college age, full of energy and purpose, was planning to ride from Chicago to Phoenix for Parkinson's disease research with three friends.

He seemed like a good kid. The kind of good that's uncomplicated and genuine.

I kept throwing things in. A bottle cage. A pump. The rack I had originally intended to keep, but it was specific to the bike, designed for it, and he was going to need it. The panniers too.

I try to be the seller I want to encounter as a buyer. You know when you've found one of those sellers. I hope he felt that way about me.

4,662 miles. One kid riding to Phoenix. Both in their own way felt like the right ending for that bike.