Worth the Risk?

To Rockport, MA

When I met Rob he didn’t own a bicycle. But when he realized how passionate I was about cycling he decided to buy one. Then I invited him to join me on a two-day ride through Rocky Mountain National Park, convinced him to compete in a triathlon, and watched as he got side-swiped by a hit-and-run driver on a mountain road outside Boulder, Colorado. That last episode cost him a piece of collarbone.

Rob, in turn, witnessed my acrobatic flip when I hit a rock on a ride several years later. The concussion from the fall buried any memory of my takeoff and flight. But it would have been worse if a patch of poison ivy hadn’t cushioned my landing.

We've had our share of crises, both on and off the road. But we made it to our 33rd anniversary and decided to celebrate with an overnight ride to Rockport, Massachusetts. Starting from our house in Madbury, New Hampshire, I calculated the ride to be about 70 miles each way. We'd arrive in Rockport around 3 in the afternoon, giving us time to walk around and browse some of the shops and art galleries.

We were on the road by 7:30 a.m., the air fresh and shadows long. We soon stopped to take off our jackets as the day heated up.

After 15 miles on quiet country roads, we turned onto a major highway heading east towards the seacoast, cars passing by at high speeds, one after another, big trucks with a WHOOSH! of wind as I grabbed tight onto my handlebars to stay upright. I focused on sinking into a cruising speed of 17 miles an hour, thankful for the wide, smooth shoulder.

As we approached the coast, the heavy hot air became a cool gentle breeze and the stink of exhaust gave way to the pungent smell of salt water. We turned south on coastal Route 1A and took on a more relaxed pace. In spring, the seacoast belongs to the locals who, like us, are fortunate enough to escape for a summer preview in the middle of the week. Those old enough to be done with the working life and too young for school walk the beaches. Black dots in the surf that look like sea lions are surfers in wetsuits hanging out on their boards, thankful for any wave the calm sea offers. Businesses along the road are closed on a weekday, tourists only a trickle. We savored this part of the ride, with smooth roads and only the occasional car passing by at a moderate speed.

Condominiums and motels, one after another, signaled our arrival in Hampton Beach, the tourist mecca of the New Hampshire seashore. The long untarnished stretch of beach provides a stark contrast to the arcades, T-shirt shops and junk food stands on the opposite side of the road. In July we'll occasionally come to check out the sculptures during the annual sand sculpture contest but otherwise we stay away from the crowds and traffic that congregate here during the hot summer months.

Traffic was sparse. But it takes only one car to ruin a bicyclist’s day. A white sedan passed dangerously close beside me, slowed down, pulled over, drove back into my lane, slowed again. I stayed back, too nervous to pass. When it finally pulled over and stopped, I rode up and knocked on the window. Two older women were inside. The driver rolled down her window and I said, “You passed me way too close back there.”

She apologized and said they were lost. I tried to give directions. But getting back on my bike I just hoped they got the message to drive more carefully. If I’d landed in the hospital or funeral home after they hit me, they wouldn’t care if they were lost. And I’d care even less.

From Hampton Beach we rode over the bridge to Seabrook. Three years ago, during a Granite State Wheelmen century ride, a young woman, driving without a license and high on drugs, sped over the bridge into the opposite lane. She plowed into four cyclists riding single file, killing two and severely injuring the others.

On the other side of the bridge I looked for the makeshift memorials for the two women who died. There they were, in a sand dune by the side of the road, pictures and plastic flowers sitting in the sand dune by the side of the road.

The tragedy brought into focus for every serious bicyclist in this part of New England how dangerous our sport is. I wrote a feature article commemorating the first anniversary of that ride for a local paper. Several of the riders I interviewed, some of them witnesses to the crash, said it would be several months before they would get back on their bikes. Yet, not a single person considered hanging up their bicycle for good. I’m sure it’s different for each of us, but whatever it is about cycling that grabs your soul, it owns you forever.

The two riders who survived are both riding again.

[Here’s the article. http://www.fosters.com/article/20140914/GJNEWS_01/140919609]

I'd love to hear from other cyclists. What is it about bicycling that keeps us riding, even when we hear of yet another rider killed on the road?