I was biking in Brookville, the wealthy hamlet next to Jericho, Long Island, sometime after midnight in the summer of ‘77 when the sound of my ten-speed bike apparently ticked off a very protective Rottweiler, and he shot out from his property chasing me full throttle. It was pitch black as I pedaled as fast as I could, trying to see the yellow line on the road to guide me and not crash, petrified that the growling dog would knock me off my bike. I felt the lactate fatigue build, and just when I thought this would not end well, the beast ran out of gas and dropped back. I kept pedaling hard, straining for air, until I reached Route 106/107, and only when I was back on Merry Lane, coasting down the hill toward my street, did my heart rate lower. I returned home unnoticed, leaning my bike on the brick side of the house, stealthily entering through the kitchen door (stopping to get a drink and a snack), before tiptoeing on the hardwood floor, down in the hall, to my bedroom. My parents did not stir despite the lateness of the hour, as their room door was closed to keep the cool air from the air conditioning unit in, and the attic hall fan filled the house with its billowy, howling, sound. Christy, my white and brown spotted setter mix, quietly wagged her greeting from the shadows and followed me as I collapsed on the bed in relief.
I never tire of this view.
I rode a lot at night when it was hot, and I could not sleep. My parents were blissfully unaware of my nightly escapades and my siblings, if they knew, said nothing. Sometimes, I would ride out of my development and make a left onto Broadway and venture toward Hicksville, but the bright lights and late night traffic merging on and off the Long Island Expressway made navigation at times, perilous. Cars did not expect to see someone on a bike at 2am. I had no lights or reflective gear. East Birchwood, where I lived, was often noisy. High school students in their cars would drive right up to a house and beep the horn for their friends to come out, and the sound of tractor-trailers on the LIE was a constant.
I preferred the solitude of Brookville, in the opposite direction, where there were no streetlights, and the professionally landscaped million dollar homes were spaced far apart as if in the country. There were even a few horse farms. On these off the grid streets I was less likely to catch the notice of a patrolling police car who might wonder what a teenager was doing out so late. I could pedal lightly, and create my own small breeze. Brookville was quiet, serene, and dark. Very very dark.
It was hot that summer, and I was restless. I was scared cycling alone, especially with the 44-Caliber Killer on the loose, but even Son of Sam’s threat to come to Long Island next did not keep me home. I had a new bike and I could not leave it alone. I had been riding my banana seat bike since third grade, and the seat was up as high as it could go, but I had long outgrown it. My Mom told me that it was on me to earn the resources to buy another. I saved babysitting and paper route money for over a year before I had enough. My dad and I went to the Great Eastern Department store and with my $108 (he may have kicked in some), I selected a candy blue, no name brand, boy’s ten-speed (rejecting the notion of settling for a girl’s bike). It was too tall for me, never fitting quite right, but I convinced my dad this was the one I wanted (because of how it looked) and proudly handed the hard earned sum to the cashier.
Although I rode during the day, mostly to go to a friend’s home or to the Milleridge Inn because I loved the historic beauty of the place, it was at night that the bike and I became one. Our destination was merely to ride until I did not feel like riding anymore. I had no sense of time or pace or mileage. There were no bike helmets, odometers, or clip ons in my teenage world. I am not even sure I figured out all of the gears. Doubtful.
That summer I felt like I could out ride anything and out ride nothing. It was the summer where I felt most in-between childhood and grown-up, and filled with the anxiety of immaturity, not sure, where I fit in. If I were to take a time machine back to my fourteen-year-old self, I would have assured me that I had everything needed to create a kick ass life, and to stay away from Fast Food! Seriously. Forget the processed stuff. My 50+ body will thank you someday. Although, I would make a side trip to Flakowitz for one more Rabbi blessed chocolate custard donut.
Scenes from biking on the Lower Trail, Spruce Creek, PA
Training for the 56-mile bike section in the Augusta Half-Ironman means lots of time in the saddle. When I ride now, the wind on my face, and sun on my body remind me of those long ago salty aired days, biking on Long Island. I test myself to see if I can go “no hands” like I used to (not so much). When I gear up and aero to go fast down the hills, I find myself relaxing, becoming one with my bike as I hit top speed, exhilarated. I am braking less on the corners, and crash fears are replaced with anticipation for the technical. Last week, on my Hybrid, I leaned back in a stand and rode up and over a small tree that had fallen across the gravel bike path with confidence. “I wouldn’t try that on your road bike,“ my husband said smiling.
I have not felt an inclination to ride in the middle of the night when the air is stale with the heat and humidity. For one, we have central air, and I already know of at least one Border Collie at a nearby farm that can catch me at my top speed. Almost everyone in the country has a dog. However, if there ever comes a time when my muscle weary TRI-trained body does not fall immediately asleep, I might.
