“Are you a real cyclist?”
The bicycle mechanic in the bike shop sarcastically wonders as he straightens his omnipotent crooked glasses.
“Real cyclist, No, what’s that,” I wondered aloud.
Originally from Canada, I attended high school in the Connecticut without laundromats, “ah, suburbia, ah, Connecticut, what a nice place to leave”, I chuckle to myself.
I eventually travelled to Alaska for a 4 month administrative job with the school district. I found wilderness heaven. I stayed for 9 years. There are about a dozen folks in all of Alaska determined to bring the cyclist culture to the far north. They cycle about 2 miles (3km) to work or school from June until November, sometimes in thirty below freezing temperatures dressed in full winter regalia like soldiers heading for the cold war.
Every year at the end of a short cold summer, the weather chases them inside until the roads thaw in the spring, generally about 8 months later. I myself never joined this hearty frozen bunch. Instead, I was content obsessing over my dog eared Adventure Cycling Handbook, and daydreaming myself to sleep every night in my warm bed.
“How much training do you have? You are not a real cyclist are you?” The bicycle mechanic shifts his north face clad thick thighs.
“Training? I grinned, I won first prize in a running race once, I was…the only girl entered, nice trophy.”
I had exactly zero km/miles of cycling experience and exactly zero amount of time invested in getting fit enough to cycle to Ireland. In my excitement to break free from my Alaskan isolation, I had merrily somersaulted over this fitness step in my planning. However, I am reasonably sure that reading doesn’t qualify as physical training.
“Can I see your gear….”, the bicycle mechanic says as his rounded belly tilts over his north face belt loops.
At a meager 5 foot 1 and ¾ weighing in at a buck and change, I have never been considered the biggest kid in the class, although I have always considered myself huge compared to an Asian. Have many people around the world, including Asians not been pedaling up mountains on one speed bicycles wearing nothing but flip flops since the beginning of time, I thought to myself.
“What sleeping bag brand is that? Is that the newest Merril jacket? Technically speaking, is that what you are cycling in?
My eyes peer up from my favorite, suddenly, silly sandals. Wearing my only pair of thin summer pants, I beam proudly over my brand new sport socks. I look around at the spandex clad superhero store patrons. I sure do wish I had known in advance that only these real cyclist people could purchase new bicycles at this shop in Bridgewater, Sommerset, England, I think to myself.
Lay open for professional examination by my itchy feet, my heavy as a bowling ball bicycle bags are stuffed full of a journal, tool bag, a camera, some clothes, a tent and a sleeping bag. I might not know anything about spandex clad superheroes or their technical kryptonite, but I do know that I can at least try. After all, I had been tiring myself out with excuses, my lingering favorite being do women really do these things alone.
“Do you have a map, a garmin, where is your GPS?” The bicycle mechanic adjusts his crooked omnipotent glasses and navigates the conversation on ward.
So, out the bicycle shop door I go riding without a map on my magic bicycle.....
.jpg)
