Toby has been scheming and plotting all summer, trying to figure out how to get himself a new bicycle. He has a mountain bike, but he really, really wants a sleek, speedy road bike. His big idea of the moment is to become a pro cyclist. We know, from hard experience, that his big-idea-of-the-moment might be something completely different tomorrow, so we were hesitant to jump right into this hot new passion right at the start. You never know whether the flame will burn slow and steady, or whether it will blaze bright, then sputter out.
So, between selling an old bike, working, and an advance from the Bank of Dad (to be worked off doing some tech projects for Lee–perfect fit), he finally got his new bike last week.
What did he want to do on said bike?
Hammer up steep hills. Specifically, he wanted to go ride up all the mean, nasty, quad-burning hills he’s listened to me whine about for most of his life. Those of you who know me in real life know that on and off over the last ten years or so (specifically, since Lee’s heart attack), I’ve done some triathlons (including one Ironman), as well as some mildly insane ultra-distance cycling. Some of my cycling adventures (not all, but some) are chronicled here, on my old (now defunct) blog.
So he knows that there are a few hills around here that inhabit a mythological place in my head. And in his 16 year-old, testosterone-addled mind, that means one thing: he needs to go show me how it’s done. Yesterday afternoon, I drove him and his bike (because, of course, it was too far to actually ride the bike to the hill) out into the country, and I pulled off on the side of the road and waited.
I watched as he pedaled away from me. He’s 7 or 8 inches taller than I am, with an Adam’s apple, hairy legs, and wide shoulders, but . . . that was my baby on that bicycle. A car whizzed past, and I clutched my steering wheel, forcing myself to sit still, and not run screaming after him to get back in the car, right that instant. He kept pedaling, going slower and slower, grinding up the hill. I leap-frogged past him, and pulled over further down the road, so I could keep an eye on him.
I watched as he disappeared around a curve, and thought about all the days I’ve spent cycling on these roads, all by myself. I know I never felt quite as vulnerable as he looks. I’ve always known cycling was a relatively dangerous hobby (that’s part of the reason I gave up the crazy long-distance stuff), but it wasn’t until I saw my child, alone, unprotected, wobbling a little as a car blew by, that I realized just how scary it really is.
He did fine–he made it up the hill, then turned around and went back down. When I picked him up at the bottom, he was euphoric, having gotten up to 40 mph on the descent. Yes, 40.
Honestly? This makes that driver’s license feel safe . . .