Bikephobia

Bikephobia

Q: "What moving part is the most important
to a touring bicycle?
A: (The automobile.)
Pinky Walker 1995


I promised France if she would bicycle. But my dad's health was precarious--potential for a summoning phone call. Pinky wanted to see the October color in New Hampshire and Maine. Advice on the internet was: if you don't have reservations, be prepared to camp. We agreed that I should buy lightweight sleeping bags by mail order... for backup. When they came, I tested one. I was in the bag on the porch one night when she came home from coaching swim team. She had quite a laugh, a real gut buster. But she saw the real possibility of sleeping on the ground (where is the hot shower?). The next night when I came home from work, she had B&B reservations all over New Hampshire and Maine. No uncertainty for her. Master card camping only. Don't be cheap. It was supposed to be a trip to France.
Next on the table was negotiation of acceptable distance between B&B’s. Pinky has a resting heart rate in the low fifties and swims 3000 meters a day, three days a week, but she has proclaimed the limit of her bicycle endurance to be fifty miles. If her speedometer doesn’t work, she won’t ride. Her eagle eye is ever on the odometer. Conversely, her eye is not on the clock. When we start seeing things...the church, golf course, crab boat, lighthouse, and we meet the fisherman, the golf pro, and the lighthouse tender...she doesn't want to leave. When there is a little road with a sign that says "Studio", she wants to detour. Smell the flowers. Leave at the crack of noon, turn for home at dark. No type-A behavior.
We have awakened. It is eleven o'clock. Our hosts at the bed and breakfast say that Pemaquid Point would be a good day trip with lots to see. It is about 14 miles to the point from our B&B in Newcastle. There is a good restaurant near the point. So, a twenty eight mile round trip sounds perfect. It is a two hour ride, add an hour for hills, and an hour for meals...three extra hours before dark at about six.
We start down the west side of the peninsula with blue sky weather toward Walpole on 129. If Maine has anything, it is waterfront property-- more coastline than the remainder of the entire U.S., as we were later told at the lighthouse. There are lots of peninsulas like this one, and lots of islands. There are green rolling hills and very little traffic wonderful countryside for biking. We stop and enjoy at a little white church built in the 1700's - amazing when we consider the San Juan Islands where we live were not colonized until the mid 1800's . We have to stop at the Wawenock Country Club, compare green fees and a myriad other details important to my wife, the golfer. We take a side trip to the water at Clark Cove to look at the boats in the harbor, then cross the peninsula to the town of Pemiquid. I find a wonderful restaurant and try fish hash for lunch. Have you ever had fish hash? It's like corned beef hash except with fish. It is fabulous and comes in working fisherman's portions. Pinky goes for the lobster, which is affordable in Maine. They prepare it in every possible way: boiled, fried, baked, steamed, with or without sauce, shredded, salads, bisque, and it is always has that big money taste.
It is one thirty. We fill water bottles and strike out for the point passing Coombs Cove, Fosset's Cove and Lookout Hill after our post-prandial negotiation. Should we peek at New Harbor? Maybe on the way back and we could pedal home along the east side of the peninsula instead of the west side that we came down. If we want to see the lighthouse, we’ll have to truck.
We do make it to Pemaquid Point about quarter to three. The museum at the Pemiquid lighthouse is wonderful. It shows all of the lighthouses in the state on a map. It shows how the lighthouse works and what the life was like. We learn plenty of history not only of lighthouses but of the Main fishery. There are several big models of boats. The attendant is well-informed and friendly. She likes to talk about her state. I show Pinky my watch. "It's getting dark," I say.
"Isn't this what we came for? We skipped everything else. You were in a big rush to see the lighthouse. Now I want to see it."
“Okay.”
We take forty five minutes to enjoy this gift from the tax payers. We get on the bikes for home at about three fifty.
The clouds have rolled in and it is cooler, but still good riding. The return trip we ride along waterfront through New Harbor, then Chamberlain up the east side of the peninsula. New Harbor is closing down for the season; beautiful, quiet, and almost eerie. There is a mist so fine that we think it is fog. Then there is the first sign, the anxious voice. Pinky refuses an ice cream stop.
"I don't want to be here when the mist turns to rain and it is going to get dark." It is time to head for home in earnest. A little mist; we are still okay.
I pedal ahead, pushing a little. I wait at each hilltop. It is part of our marital agreement. “I want you ahead not right behind pushing me, so if you can’t pull me, at least wait for me at the top of each hill.”
It is raining lightly now. When she pulls up at the hilltop she is grim but not complaining. "I'm okay. Lets keep moving." Not too chitty chatty. It is not quite dark, but we are only half way back.
At the top of the next hill, I stop in the definite steady rain. It is now dark. It is Maine in October and it is cold. Pinky pulls up, gets off of her bike, and holds one handlebar grip and lets the bike down onto its side. She doesn't quite let it fall. I could tell that she wanted to. She is staring at the bike.
"I don't want to be on this bicycle right now." She is not addressing me. She is talking to the bike.
"Do you want to rest?" I ask, attempting to intercede for the bicycle.
"How far?"
"I'm not sure. Five or six miles."
She doesn't care for either part of the answer. "Five miles," she says grimly, "Let's go."
At the next hilltop, a headwind has come up. It is now cold for sure. Traffic is picking up. The cars crest the hill behind us. They don't see us right away. The headlights shine way beyond us in the distance. Then they see us. When they hit the brakes, the nose of the car goes down and the headlight beams retract from infinity and shine on the pavement right at our rear tires, as if we are in their sights. Pinky swings a leg down, holds a handlebar grip and let the bike fall on its side. She is not crying, but the pitch of her voice is rising. "I hate this." She is looking at the bike again. "I am behind you. I see how close those cars come to you. This is dangerous."
"You stay here and I'll come back for you in a car."
"How are you going to do that?"
"I'll find a way."
"No!" She is practically screaming. "Let's just go."
At the top of the next rise, Pinky pulls up, drops the bike, gives the back tire a kick, and says, "I am not doing this again."
I don't reply. I know not to talk when she gets like this.
"Where are we?"
"I thought we would cross our outbound road by now." I have learned, but I always forget. Think carefully before you answer questions in a cold rain. It wasn't the right thing to say.
"We're lost," she says accusingly. The wind pushes a few preliminary tears back along her cheeks toward her ears. "and I hate this bicycle," she mutters through clinched teeth.
"I could ride ahead and …"
"Just go!" now she is yelling.
I start out again. In a hundred yards, I can see all kinds of lights. There is a big road. It has to be Highway 1. Then I can see the double arches of McDonalds. Hot food, warm building, telephone, highway; we have to be at the outskirts of Newcastle or Damariscotta. We are saved. I sprint back to tell Pinky. "There's the highway we've got to be close." I am expecting that we will high five, all smiles.
For her it is the end of all hope. Because we haven’t found the exact road of our outbound track; in her mind, we are hopelessly lost. Also, we have only a highway to ride on, in peril of high speed night-time traffic. She regards this as a death sentence. She is weeping. "I'm scared, and I'm not riding on that highway." She drops her bike and kicks the back wheel.
"Lets go to that McDonalds and get something to eat. I can call the B&B and get a ride or get directions." I take off, and she picks up her bike, mounts up, and pulls in behind, weeping.
We pull up in front of Mc Donalds in a continuous downpour. Pinky is still crying. She lets the bike fall to the ground. The sound it makes when it hits the ground is like a spark in a grain elevator. Pinky explodes, cursing and kicking her bike. I lean on her and push into position between her and the bike. She will break some spokes if I don’t stop her.
"I should have known better. I'm not ever doing this again. This is my last bike ride. We are driving. We're renting a car tomorrow." Attendants can't get people to pay attention to placing their orders at the counter in Mc Donalds. I turn around and I can see the curious faces of the diners on the warm side of the plate glass. The customers are pressed against the windows, looking at us, some of the noses flattened. Pinky's tirade stops as it is getting into full swing. She has developed a very impressive bloody nose. The blood is on her rain gear and on her pants. It is gushing.
"Let's get inside."
"I'm not going in there like this"
I run in and rip two handfuls of napkins out of the over packed dispensers. I just get them to her and have to make a second trip for more. She is sitting on the concrete picnic bench in the rain with her head tilted back on the table, and the bleeding is beginning to slow. My fellow customers inside regard me sternly. The most recently arrived customers think that I have beaten her. I can see by their facial expressions as I get more napkins that they are considering how dangerous it might be to interfere in a domestic dispute. I am expecting the police.
The next car to park is a pickup truck, twenty years old in mint condition. I step quickly up to the truck and I am standing face to face with the driver as he steps out. He is a middle aged pleasant thin guy appropriately surprised by my approach and that I’m standing so close.
"You have to help me," I say urgently. I turn and point to Pinky surrounded by bloody napkins holding her nose. Still close, I can see a few hairs from his nose merging into his mustache.
"Okay," he said. I can see that he believes me.
"We need a ride to our bed and breakfast in Newcastle." I pause. "This is your chance to save a marriage," I plead.
"I think I could do that," he says. "Let me get something to eat."
The raining and the bleeding have both stopped. I take him over to the table and we make introductions. I get his order, acknowledging that he deserves better than Mc Donald’s. The other customers motion that I should go to the front of the line. Gratefully, I do, and I make the first order since the show began. The service is quick. I go back out with the sacks of food. In my absence Pinky has transformed. They are almost nose to nose across the table, like a couple of teenagers at the soda shop. She is smiling, twittering, animated in conversation. She is telling him all about our boys, about bicycle touring... on and on at a dizzying pace. We eat the warm food, McDonald’s best, and things are looking up. He says that he has to go, and we can load the bikes in the back of the truck. I give him the address and he takes us to our B&B, with the confidence of a man driving home from work. It was only a few blocks away. We unload the bikes, thank him, and offer him money that he refuses. As we walk up the driveway, I say, "Nice Guy."
"He is. He was on his way home after work. He is the week end conductor on the train from Newcastle to Rockland. It is mostly for tourists. His day job is refinishing furniture. He specializes in antique early American and he is some kind of expert on authentic colonial period furniture. He is single. He lived at home for a while with his mother but has had his own place for a few years. He grew up in this town and never left.”
"There's more." She says smiling as I opened the door to the garage. As I we park the bikes, that smile disappears. I see on her face that she has recalled her grievances. “I’ll tell you this. I am not riding that bicycle tomorrow.”
“I don’t think we can stay another day here because our hosts are leaving tomorrow themselves,” I say.
“I know. We can’t take a day off…not if we want to get to Bar Harbor,” Pinky says, tears forming along her lower eyelids. She is having a relapse. I am able to deflect her kick at the bicycle with my right leg, then turn her around toward the door. We head from the garage to the house and her spirits improve with each step. “We saved a day by a taxi ride to Portland instead of biking,” she said hopefully.
“Okay. Look. I’ll pack the bikes in the suitcases, and we’ll do our next leg warm and dry. We’ll go for a new indoor record, a ten day bicycle trip with two legs by taxi,” I respond.
“You had better do that because I’ve got bikephobia way to bad to peddle tomorrow.”


Bikephobia
Stage I -- Comments regarding turning for home, changing weather, obligations to return
Stage II -- Silence, no more chitty chatty talk
Stage III -- Negative comments pertaining to the bicycle
Stage IV -- Careless treatment of the bicycle
Stage V -- Directed mistreatment of the bicycle which might pass for careless
Stage VI -- Direct assault on the bicycle.
Stage VII -- Assault on the bicycle requiring restraint
Stage VIII - Multiple separate assaults on the bicycle, rekindled aggression after cooling off periods