As I cycle the streets of Denver in preparation for my first tour, I am casually reminded of my favorite architectural feature — the front porch.
Front porches come in all shapes and sizes, and nearly every house that I wobble past has one to behold. They also beat the pants off any Global Positioning System.
Brown-and-burnt-orange-plaid sofa, AstroTurf, a Moroccan ashtray and the rattle of aluminum cans that are nearly empty? DU neighborhood.
Adirondack chairs, Chesapeake table, Mexican blanket and the sway of Maui paper lanterns? Washington Park.
The front end of a ’69 Mustang, the back end of an unleashed pit bull and the delivering end of a derisive cheer? Wrong turn.
What might be most telling about these front porches: I rarely see anybody on them. Part of it might be explained by my riding hours, which are mostly during traditional working hours. Part of it might be explained by the seduction of Xbox, online poker and TiVo. But part of it is just plum sad; friendly waves and chats about how “we need the moisture” with the neighbors seem to be, from my bicycle seat, on the wane.
I first fell for front porches while in school at Athens, Ga. — home to the University of Georgia, a renowned music scene and myriad porches. The antebellum homes in the historic districts had the best porches, some stretching around both corners of the house. They had rocking chairs. They were spacious. They were inviting. And whether morning, noon or night, I could stroll by some of those homes on the way back from town — oh, to own a bike then — and take in the thick accents in the thick air and, of course, wave.
I happen to think that my front porch is the bee’s knees. From it, I see the tumble of the Ultimate Frisbee player as he upends the orange cone. I feel the rumble of the marching band as it takes the field at halftime on autumn Saturdays. And I hear the bumble of the construction crew, which would blanch even the censors at HBO, as it raises the roof (both literally and figuratively) of a duplex across the street.
The daily procession of test riders from the neighborhood bike shop has quickly become my favorite front-porch sensation. Prior to signing on for a weeklong bike tour, I would notice this cross section in motion from time to time. I would rarely heed, however.
I have come to notice that, like front porches, they come in all shapes and sizes. The bikes, too. And as these test riders get a feel for their bikes — be it a mountain, performance or cruiser model — there is something they all share in common: a smile.
I once supposed golf was the only sport for a lifetime.
The old cliché tells us that it’s not easy to forget how to ride a bike. Yet it says nothing about simply forgetting to ride.
I had forgotten the joy of maneuvering the bike around a bend at a speed just a little beyond the comfort zone. I had forgotten the satisfaction of literally getting your hands dirty by inflating a tire or refastening a chain. And I had forgotten to appreciate the passion of an expert cyclist, tinkering with his bike and talking shop with his buddies, wanting to know, ““
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Whether it’s best to train for Ride the Rockies on a neglected Nishiki roughly two years removed from a banana seat with a corner-kick flag, wearing a nervous look, I know not. What I do know is that the sight of my front porch following a breathless afternoon on said bike is a mint-julep-delicious sight.
DenverPost.com sports producer Bryan Boyle is training for the — his first bike ride of any kind beyond the occasional wee-hour visit to a convenience market. His series runs each Tuesday on DenverPost.com until the late-June event, where he will file daily reports along the route from Grand Junction to Breckenridge.
To share any RTR-related experiences, fears, advice or yarns, send an e-mail to Bryan at bboyle@denverpost.com.
