“[The bicycle] is no longer a beast of steel… no, it is a friend… It is a faithful and powerful ally against one’s worst enemies. It is stronger than anxiety, stronger than sadness. It has all the power of hope.” --Maurice Leblanc, French novelist
The first ride of spring.
There’s no other ride quite like it on the rest of my cycling calendar. I cycle from mid-April to mid-October or so, six months on the bike and then six months off. Yes, I’ve got hardcore cycling friends who will pedal until the very first snowflake falls and then break out the bike in early March, leaning into a biting cold wind as they brave the elements. Not me.
Cycling, and my return to it each and every year: for me it marks the birth of spring and the promise of summer. Cycling is like my secular Easter in a way, both my bike and my body somehow resurrected on a hopeful April afternoon. The bike hangs where I placed it in the garage last fall, dangles from an oversized hook, as if it is in some mid-winter’s mechanical slumber, just waiting to be awoken. I gently take it down, dust off the cobwebs and pump up the tires, spin the wheels and listen as the “click, click, click” of the gears tell me that my machine is ready for another year.
My body? Well, we will see. But that old truism about never having to learn how to ride a bike more than once: each new year that inevitably is proven true. Though it’s been a half a year since I spun these pedals, almost as soon as I mount up and begin the journey my muscle memory kicks in. My cycling shoes clip on to the pedals after just a try or two. I feel the breeze on my face and go into my lowest gear as I approach the long steady climb of Ivy Lane, just around the corner from my driveway. Almost every time I go out on a ride, this familiar hill is both a great way to start and warm up and also a not-so-great way to start, my cranky thigh muscles burning and my huffing lungs puffing away.
“I think I can, I think I can!”
Finally, after several minutes of stubborn and determined work, I’m at the apex of the hill, and am about to experience one of the best gifts of cycling. If you go up a hill, you then get to go down a hill on the other side! HOOORAH! First ride, first downhill. Later, at ride’s end I will absolutely know that spring is here again. Warm summer nights aren’t far off, when the sun hangs around and I am out on a bike ride until early evening, with its soft light and the sound of peepers. I glide home aware of how good life is, especially when seen from two wheels at 12 miles per hour.
Not a cyclist? I bet you have some other spring alarm clock, some April event, which marks the beginning of the season for you. Your first ride, in a way, when it feels like life is about to be renewed and winter is finally put into the rear-view mirror. What is it?
First baseball game and first hot dog. First day in the garden, hands thrust into the cold ground, preparing mother earth for a new cycle of life. First real barbeque on the back yard grill. First sighting of a crocus pushing up from the soil. First trip to the garden center to haul away bags of musky smelling mulch. First time wearing dock shoes or sandals or flip flops. First ice cream cone, its sticky remains dribbling down your chin. First night sleeping with the heat off. First night snoozing away with the window open. First time mowing the lawn and hearing the familiar loud whine of the lawn mower.
One of the social and spiritual casualties of the past few years living in COVID times has been the loss of seasonal touchstones, things that mark our movement from one time of the year to another time of year and all timed by familiar activities. The year I sat alone at table on Easter and ate that ham solo? That did not feel like spring. The year there was no baseball, not for several months? That was not a real April, at least not for me. The year my Mom and I could not make a trip to our cherished Clam Shack restaurant on the beach? That was so weird to miss that ritual.
But this year, 2022, God willing for the time being: we can celebrate the arrival of spring with almost all of our cherished rituals and rites intact. Celebrate resurrection. Celebrate Passover. Celebrate Opening Day. Celebrate tucking that winter coat into the farthest recesses of the hall closet.
First ride. Nothing else like it. Thank you, spring. Thank you, God.
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