Sidelong Cycling

by John Whiteley, President 1995-1996

May 2000

Stop and think for a minute -- how many friends from your childhood can still be counted as your friends? Friends, in this case, can be defined very loosely. Do you still need more than one hand to count the number of old friends who are even aware of your existence?

Think back to, say, graduation from high school. (Okay, for some of the younger members of the Club, think back to your grammar school graduation.) Did you write something in the yearbook such as "Friends, forever?" How long did forever last? Did it even last to the five-year reunion?

Yr. Obd’t. Svt. counts himself as being guiltier than most in this regard. It all started during the college years. My school was structured around one year of practical education as part of the four-year curriculum. Becoming a world traveler was not only a dream; it was a desired outcome of my education. How my outlook had changed by the time the five-year high school reunion rolled around! There were the football heroes of only a few years ago, the guys who always dated the prettiest cheerleaders, talking about what a great job they had, humping cinder block for a construction company. How could I relate my experiences of dusty streets in African towns along the Limpopo River, exotic tastes and customs in smoky, lantern-lit alleyways in Japan, and visual overload of the bustling harbor district of Hong Kong? It was Jack London meets Joe Sixpack and there was little common ground. (And, no, not much had changed by the time the 20-year reunion reared its graying head, except all my classmates had aged so much. How could they have become so old?)

During a recent conversation with an old friend from my days in New York, he remarked, "John, your life hasn’t been nearly as linear as mine has been!" And, you know something? It’s true, and my life has been so much richer for it. What’s so great is how much bicycling has added to that richness.

My wanderlust led me to the island of Puerto Rico twenty-some years ago, and it was my love for that island, and its people and culture, that led me to escort a tour of the island for a group of club members last year. My love of bicycling has brought me into contact with so many interesting people, not only in the Chattanooga area but wherever my wheels have carried me, people who would have never interacted with my life had I not been riding on that open form of communication, the bicycle. (Try it yourself: load your steel mule with a set of panniers and head off in a new direction, and see if people aren’t more likely to wave, to smile as you pass, and to talk with you when you stop.) But of most value to me are the friendships bicycling has brought into my life.

What other sport can you think of where you can join a group, knowing not one of the other participants, and within the first few miles you feel so welcome? It has happened to me in Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands, in Missouri and Illinois, in Florida and Georgia, not to mention Tennessee. My first Club ride, the Ooltewah-Georgetown Road ride, is still a vivid memory. Feeling slightly ridiculous in my first pair of Lycra shorts (and, considering how out of shape this poor old body was at the time, probably looking pretty ridiculous, too) my wheels wobbled me down the road behind a group of much more experienced cyclists. Wobbled me down the road, that is, until my steed threw a chain. Things were looking pretty grim (Will this be the end of my bicycle? Is a thrown chain terminal?) until helping hands from fellow club members put everything aright and the ride continued. And not a single snicker about the Lycra.

Years have passed, and my cycling skills have grown. I can fix a thrown chain now, thank you. But time will almost certainly see me asking for a little bit of help from my friends. You see, my girlfriend surprised me last week with a new addition to our relationship. It’s red, says Schwinn on the side, and has two of everything. including seats, handlebars, and pedals. Yes, we have joined the tandem set, but there will undoubtedly be a learning curve, and we will be asking, nay, begging for some help as we learn to ride together. And where will we find that help? From our friends, of course, our friends in the Chattanooga Bicycle Club. Friends like John Oakey and others, friends who have years of tandem experience and who are willing to share their knowledge. And as Donna and Yr. Obd’t. Svt. pedal blissfully down the byways of East Tennessee, we’ll remember Bogie’s closing words in Casablanca: "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

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