Like thousands of Americans, I bought a new bicycle this year. Unlike the vast majority of them, mine was a mountain bike.
To me, the decision to postpone my venture into road cycling for another season simply made sense, derived as much from convenience as personal taste. I’ve always been a baggy shorts and T-shirt kind of guy. And since my initial introduction to single-track in the mountains of West Virginia more than 15 years ago, I haven’t missed the hooked handlebars of my old Schwinn 10-speed for a second. Not even in July.
July, as every cyclist in America is well aware, is Tour de France month, serving as start and finish of the 23-day epic that propelled Lance Armstrong and a cadre of spandex- clad adversaries to global stardom in the past seven years.
Sure, the Tour has been held annually since 1903 – interrupted only by a couple of world wars – but it wasn’t until Armstrong started notching his victory streak in 1999 that many of us Yanks started taking notice.
I can lay claim to a relatively early introduction to the Tour, having stumbled almost accidentally into Paris with my brother on the third week of July in 1987. A year after American Greg LeMond won his first of three Tours by the narrowest margin in history (his body full of lead from a hunting accident kept him out of the Tour in 1987), we stood on the finish line of the Champs-Elysees in plaid shorts and cycling caps with a case of warm Heineken and cheered Ireland’s Stephen Roche to victory.
That neither of us had heard of Roche or had any genuine knowledge of cycle racing didn’t seem to matter after the appropriate allotment of brews. Come to think of it, it doesn’t seem to matter much now, either.
You see, I’m never going to be one of those bandwagon roadies clinging to Lance’s back wheel like some poseur in the peloton. While I enjoy the cat-and-mouse tactics of the Tour as much as anyone, I don’t do “cycling.” I ride a bike, pure and simple, and I’m still waiting to hear anyone refer to it as “mountain cycling.”
As I said, to me, it’s a simple decision. For all the talk of how well paved the Vail Valley is, Eagle County – where I live – remains more than 80 percent national forest and includes a vast network of dirt trails. So I lean on this comparison: When you go for a hike, do you walk down the street or do you go for a walk in the woods?
Personally, I prefer the woods. When I go road biking, I like to have a 900cc engine underneath me, just to remain competitive.
The Tour, of course, has opened America’s eyes to the possibilities of street cycling, and I’ve got as much respect for the participants as anyone. The competitive drive they exhibit is without peer, their suffering monumental, dedication nonpareil. As P.J. O’Rourke once noted, mankind has invested more than 4 million years of evolution in the attempt to avoid physical exertion, and this group of backward-thinking atavists suddenly has people pumping their legs, gritting their teeth and searing their lungs as though they are being chased by the bogeyman himself.
There never will be a mountain bike race like the Tour de France, but the fact remains, that isn’t why I ride. Nor, for that matter, is it the reason why the new-school freeriders coat themselves in body armor to drop off 20-foot stunts onto dirt and rocks, or why BMX riders spend years in the halfpipe perfecting dangerous intricate tricks, or even why you see so many cruisers in Crested Butte rolling down Elk Street to the coffee shop.
Some ride for the technical challenges, the focus of the moment, or the meditative cadence of a long uphill grind. Some are in it for the fitness, peaking on race day while others merely coast. Some ride because, unlike life, biking isn’t complicated. Some find hope, seeking solace in the famous quote from H.G. Wells: “Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race.”
No matter how long they’ve been dedicated or merely doing it, people ride bikes for a variety of reasons. But for most of us, it’s simply because we can.
When it comes down to it, I’ll probably always be a mountain biker, and never really much of one at that. But you never know. After all, life always moves in cycles.
Staff writer Scott Willoughbycan be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
