FORT KENT, Maine — There are a few things I know to be irrefutable truths: Toast will always land jam-side down on a clean floor, the coyote will never catch the roadrunner and it is impossible to be melancholy while on a bicycle.
This latter fact was pedaled home to me this week after the purchase of a shiny new Trek mountain bike.
For as long as I can remember, bikes have represented more than just a simple two-wheeled, self-powered way to get from point A to point B.
It started in the summer of 1974, when my friend’s older brother, Tony Manion, took the time to teach his annoying little sister’s equally annoying friend how to stay upright on a bike.
And what a bike it was: solid green, very used, at least two sizes too big for me, steel frame, massive rubber tires, coaster brake and — as my mother was fond of saying of its single speed gearing — as many speeds as I could pedal.
Allowance money and extra cash picked up doing chores funded the $10 purchase price, and for about a week it lived leaned up against a stone barbecue oven behind our cabin waiting for the day Tony would have time to give cycling lessons.
Tony, the bike and I spent the better part of a day on a quiet stretch of paved, gradually sloping road as I tried to figure out how on earth a person could pedal, balance and get enough speed to remain upright.
The teaching format was pretty basic. Walk the bike to the top of the gentle slope, Tony would hold it as I clambered on and got my feet on the pedals and then we’d take off, him reminding me to actually pedal as he ran behind and held me upright by gripping the back of the seat.
The process was repeated multiple times until the moment I happened to look back and see Tony standing several yards behind me, arms folded and grinning ear to ear.
I was doing it! I was riding a bike! Of course, a moment later I had ridden it right into a tree.
It was a day of skinned knees and elbows, bumps and bruises, but it also was the day my universe expanded as far as I could ride and I learned the simple joy that comes with a packed lunch, a bottle of water and no real destination in mind.
Over the years my trusty green machine gave way to newer, fancier bikes with less weight and more gears.
In every instance, they represented freedom. Freedom to explore ever-expanding circles of my neighborhood. Freedom to get myself to and from school. Freedom to run errands for my parents.
Decades later, I am happy to report that sense of freedom and fun remains as strong as it ever was.
Now, my friends know full well I’d rather walk over ground glass than go shopping for things like clothes or fashion accessories.
In fact, I don’t think a timing device has yet been invented that can measure the shortness of my attention span for such things.
But my cycling gear? I can spend hours pouring over catalogs or in shops, looking for just the right pair of gloves to match my newest jersey.
In my very cluttered and disorganized home, there is an oasis of order on which my helmets, gloves, shoes, sunglasses and water bottles are neatly arranged on shelves according to use and color.
Several years ago my cycling friend, Penny, and I were in Freeport for a ride. Penny — a lover of all things shopping and delighted to be at the retail mecca of Freeport — somehow convinced me to accompany her to the L.L. Bean outlet store.
After five minutes of looking at shirts and pants she insisted would look nice on me, I was in great danger of morphing into a bored and fussy toddler who missed her nap.
Penny, wise woman that she is, quickly plunked me down in the corner of the store that was full of cycling clothes, gear and novelties. If there had been a bicycling-themed coloring book, I am sure she would have given me that and a box of new crayons.
Shopping for anything cycling related? Bring a snack because I’ll be there a while.
This past week, I purchased a brand new Trek mountain bike in a gorgeous blue-and-black color scheme with a few orange highlights, which I then accessorized with a new blue and black bike helmet — on sale — all from a very patient and helpful Mark Fullen at Mojo in Presque Isle.
Minutes later I had changed into bright spandex and cycling shoes — and, yes, all of us who bike know exactly how ridiculous we look in those outfits — and was taking the new bike out on its maiden voyage on a trail connecting Presque Isle and Washburn.
We’ve had some pretty extraordinary fall weather this past week in northern Maine, and it was a picture perfect day for a ride and the new bike became something of a time machine.
As I sped down the trail splashing through deep mud puddles, grinding over gravel, even jumping a berm with the wind in my hair and grit in my teeth, I suddenly was 12 years old again.
I had a snack, water and no real destination in mind.
Over the course of the ride, I was at times overjoyed at the feel of the bike, triumphant after recovering from having the wheels begin to slide out from under me in mud or terrified after hitting a stretch of granite-like gravel that threatened to send me toppling in a painful crash.
But never, not once, was I at all melancholy.
Julia Bayly of Fort Kent is an award winning writer and photographer, who writes part time for Bangor Daily News. Her column appears here every other Friday. She can be reached by email at jbayly@bangordailynews.com.
