As I was just pulling up at Papa’s Corner, I met a man – around my age – leaving the coffee shop, who asked me how I was doing. “I am able to ride my bike this morning, so I guess I’m doing fine!”
I meant that it was a beautiful morning to be out, and I was upright, not dead. I was intending a simple answer to a simple question. He, however, pulled so much more from it.
He explained how he used to ride his bicycle every day until his hips wouldn’t let him. And that he still missed it.
“I guess its like being on my motorcycle… when I’m on it, I feel free. And you are part of everything around you, and you can come up on it so quietly, so you’re in it. You’re part of it.”
I was amazed at the words I was hearing. We’ve had many customers come through our doors, and I’ve not heard such understanding expressed so well. Granted, our customer’s may agree with that sentiment perfectly, but they’re preoccupied at the moment with a flat or a broken chain.
Such expression is more frequent on long, group rides like the Cottonwood 200. People who have trained around their hometowns finally get out on the highway, get their first unfettered exposure to the Flint Hills: rolling silently through undulating hills of gold and green, contributing to the beauty of the moment without taking anything away. Except memories – of a joy that’s overwhelming to the point of almost pain.
The gentleman outside the coffee shop concluded our exchange as he began to enter his vehicle. “The bicycle is transportation for the soul. This,” and he tapped the hood of his pickup, “is transportation for the masses.”