Tour d'Emory
Years from now, when my grandchildren ask me to recount the story about the time I competed in the first Tour d’Emory, I will say, “The air smelled like honey.” I may even get on a bike and lead them down the same country roads so they can strive to reach not the Arc de Triomphe but the closest thing Emory has to it, Emory Gates.
To be fair, I will disclose that I was the only person to participate in this forty-minute race. After all, I was looking to achieve something halfway to personal best, not the international stardom for which professional athletes like Lance Armstrong train. My simple goal after getting on a racing bike for the first time in almost twenty years was to survive a loop of about four miles.
I did it, and I have my son to thank. Last month, you see, Guy went down the basement and emerged with my old Peugeot, a lean racing bike I had abandoned for a mountain bike and baby carrier some years ago. Since Guy is almost 15, he has outgrown several bicycles along with the baby carrier. Why not fix the Peugeot? I said I would, as long as he (a) kept to his mountain bike for rougher cycling adventures and (b) let me use the Peugeot too.
I bought this green bike in 1979 in a shop in Savannah, where I spent the summer working and riding through the old streets when I had the time. While I had grown from one tricycle or bike to another since the age of four, the Peugeot was the best bike so far. It was sublime. When I left Savannah, I knew I had found a bike that I could love.
How can I count the ways I remember my Peugeot? I can’t. I can mention fall afternoons on maze-like roads where I rode past cornfields and peach orchards until I had to smile. I remember getting off work at the Athens Observer and cycling home late at night when the fall air smelled of tea olive.
Until I moved here and bought my first car, the Peugeot was both thrilling and practical. Would it still be? Despite its years in isolation while I opted for the convenience of clunky cars and mountain bikes, the old Peugeot was in pretty good shape, needing only a tune-up and new chain. Guy wanted a padded seat, so I sprang for that as well, keeping the vintage seat imprinted with “Made in France.” Sentimental, I’m trying to figure out what would be better: hood ornament for the Sentra or paperweight?
When I left home on the last day of the Tour de France for my own petite Tour d’Emory, I set out on a long stretch of road being resurfaced. I could have waited a week to avoid loose gravel, I guess, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to get out and go. Go I did—past chicory and Queen Anne’s Lace, past cows and purple thistle, past dogs in pens that barked encouragement as they admired my freedom when I whizzed onto blacktop at last.
Okay, I did stop five times to catch my breath. Some of the hills around here are awesome. I could have shifted gears, I know, only I was so rusty I was afraid I’d do something wrong and the chain would fall off, writhing like a snake at my feet. Would I remember how to put it back on? You know what they say about riding a bike? At least I’ll never forget that.
Felicia Mitchell. First published in Washington County News (Abingdon, VA), 27 July 2005, p. A4. WCN is a publication of Media General Operations. Copyright 2005.
To be fair, I will disclose that I was the only person to participate in this forty-minute race. After all, I was looking to achieve something halfway to personal best, not the international stardom for which professional athletes like Lance Armstrong train. My simple goal after getting on a racing bike for the first time in almost twenty years was to survive a loop of about four miles.
I did it, and I have my son to thank. Last month, you see, Guy went down the basement and emerged with my old Peugeot, a lean racing bike I had abandoned for a mountain bike and baby carrier some years ago. Since Guy is almost 15, he has outgrown several bicycles along with the baby carrier. Why not fix the Peugeot? I said I would, as long as he (a) kept to his mountain bike for rougher cycling adventures and (b) let me use the Peugeot too.
I bought this green bike in 1979 in a shop in Savannah, where I spent the summer working and riding through the old streets when I had the time. While I had grown from one tricycle or bike to another since the age of four, the Peugeot was the best bike so far. It was sublime. When I left Savannah, I knew I had found a bike that I could love.
How can I count the ways I remember my Peugeot? I can’t. I can mention fall afternoons on maze-like roads where I rode past cornfields and peach orchards until I had to smile. I remember getting off work at the Athens Observer and cycling home late at night when the fall air smelled of tea olive.
Until I moved here and bought my first car, the Peugeot was both thrilling and practical. Would it still be? Despite its years in isolation while I opted for the convenience of clunky cars and mountain bikes, the old Peugeot was in pretty good shape, needing only a tune-up and new chain. Guy wanted a padded seat, so I sprang for that as well, keeping the vintage seat imprinted with “Made in France.” Sentimental, I’m trying to figure out what would be better: hood ornament for the Sentra or paperweight?
When I left home on the last day of the Tour de France for my own petite Tour d’Emory, I set out on a long stretch of road being resurfaced. I could have waited a week to avoid loose gravel, I guess, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to get out and go. Go I did—past chicory and Queen Anne’s Lace, past cows and purple thistle, past dogs in pens that barked encouragement as they admired my freedom when I whizzed onto blacktop at last.
Okay, I did stop five times to catch my breath. Some of the hills around here are awesome. I could have shifted gears, I know, only I was so rusty I was afraid I’d do something wrong and the chain would fall off, writhing like a snake at my feet. Would I remember how to put it back on? You know what they say about riding a bike? At least I’ll never forget that.
Felicia Mitchell. First published in Washington County News (Abingdon, VA), 27 July 2005, p. A4. WCN is a publication of Media General Operations. Copyright 2005.
posted by Felicia Mitchell | 8:15 PM
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