Good Old Bikes Never Die

I was purchased twenty-seven years ago from a renowned bike shop at Lakeshore and Mississauga Road. My name is Raleigh. I am a bicycle of repute. A vast number of kilometers are recorded on my invisible odometer. It’s similar to those billboard signs you see, displaying the number of McDonald’s customers served. Gosh, I was never taken there until very recently.

The memories embedded in this odometer recall some special moments.

At first, it was the half-hour early morning rides where we’d follow the trail down the Humber River. Up to five or six of us bikes would meet in the near empty parking lot at James Gardens. From there we spun, in single file, along a winding tarmac pathway that took us through a patch of reeds,  where the pace picked up as the riders legs stretched. The reeds quickly turned to maple trees; in the fall a carpet of orange-red leaves adorned the trail. After this grove, the path dipped and suddenly a “drr drr drr drr drr” sounded from the rattled boards on the bridge as we crossed over the Humber River.

On the other side, the trail opened up to a vista of parkland. Open space followed the river down to the Old Mill. Often there were random hazards; folks walking hand in hand engrossed in the moment, dogs running loose in the park or someone on a bike with their head down, furiously pedaling up the rise, you were coming down. One morning, the bike in front of me had to break so hard, to avoid a Retriever, that it tossed the occupant over the handlebars. She landed on her feet. During one vicious storm, trees had blown over the trail forcing a detour.

Dotted along the path were playgrounds, a boy scout camp, river rock sculptures and an occasional fisherman out to catch the jumping salmon. One time, there were two fox cubs in their tanned reddish coats playing chase on a woodpile. We stopped, awe-struck.

The stone bridge with its hump would lead us back over the river to the foot of the hill. Climbing up that hill past the Old Mill was arduous. My gears crashed down as the standing riders willed the pedals over and over making us bikes sway from side to side like drunken sailors. After that I could feel the ease of homebound legs working my pedals.

On several occasions I was loaded into the back of the van and taken off to someplace. One particularly hot day in July of 2002, I was taken to London, Ontario to compete in a triathlon. The rider and I were both novices and exhilarated by the ride.

“I’ve found my sport!” came the response of the enthused rider on the way home. Sadly this was the only time I tried a triathlon as I was replaced in later years by bikes made from special material and designed for speed.

St. Catharine’s was so different. At five o’clock on most mornings I was taken to Henley Island and the Martindale Pond, home to the Royal Henley Regatta. It was here that I had that awful crash. The perforated steel plate of the bridge was designed to grip the crossing cars tread. That slick morning, and with the momentum from descending the hill leading down to the water, I slid on the grate, throwing my rider across the bridge. I was pretty bent after that and was wheeled to the boathouse by one very sore rider.

Oh, and there was that brief stay in Ottawa too, riding from a rented apartment to the University along the Rideau Canal.

The thrill of riding on a swept Don Valley Parkway was unsurpassed where hearts stroked the pedals of desire. I did it many times, always amazed at the gathering of so many bikes in this charity event. Serious pelotons would demand right-of-way, yelling: “Coming through!” and riders scattered to the right side of the road. Tandems for two, and kids being pulled in carts with red flags flying, while others peddled box-carts making it feel like a picnic outing.

One year when I was in need of repair I was ridden by an unprepared rider. Somehow she made a wrong turn and finding herself lost in the loops of Pottery Road she asked a volunteer: “Do you know the way back?”

“No,” came the reply. “I’m from Vancouver.”

Unintentionally she took me over the seventy-five kilometer section of the Heart and Stroke Ride for Heart course in a very tired time. That was not a picnic.

Then for a while I sat on the deck at home weathering the comings and goings of passing pedestrians, and bikes flying by with their riders intent on reaching their destination. In the streets of Toronto I coasted down Shaw Avenue and was left chained outside a coffee shop for the day. I witnessed very different comings and goings. Those dogs sniffing me up and down was the worst thing. Some days I was so tired I slipped to the pavement and lay there like those homeless folks you see, until it was time to make that uphill ride home.

Once again new bikes put me on standby. I was locked to the deck. Rain and snow added to my atrophy. In rusting chains, I was held captive to the whims of my keepers. “What to do with her?” was the question I overheard. In my state I could not compete with the six other bikes in the household.

In the warmth of a summer day a bet sealed my fate. I was leaned against the tree in the front garden on the condition that if I was still there at five o’clock, I would remain at home.

A young professional lady in high heels carrying a laden backpack and computer case stopped and looked at me. I heard her mutter to herself “Lordy! My feet are tired.”

The tears of a life left behind became the joy of a recycled Raleigh.

I spent needed time in the repair shop. Expert handling gave me a coat of paint, new chains and gears. It was the break I so desperately needed. I continued my journey going downtown every day. The morning ride took me past a McDonald’s where my new rider bought a coffee and muffin to go.

Months later a commuter bike drew next to me at the light.

“I had a bike just like that,” said the other rider. “It was the best bike I’ve ever had.”

“Really,” came the reply. “Luckily I picked this one up off the street.”

#bicycles #rideforheart #raleigh #humberfiver #nature #bikes #jamesgardens