In 1977, thirty eight years old, newly divorced, and with little money to spend on a vacation, I filled a back pack with socks, shorts, skivvies, T-shirts, a rain jacket, candy bars, a jar of peanut butter, and some canned goods. I fully intended to mount my trusty ten speed and pedal the old Wisconsin bike trail, mapped out in the late nineteenth century.
On the bike’s rear rack, I stowed camping gear, including nestled aluminum pans, a one-burner stove, tent, and a sleeping bag in addition to an extra tire and tube, a number of tools, a pump, and inner tube patches in case I encountered flat tires on the trip.
The first day, I felt like a ditz. What was I doing? Was I going to become another Reuben Lindstrom? Nah, I’m enjoying myself on a vacation. Wasn’t I?
Starting from Waupun, I headed south on mainly country lanes. A couple of days later, I placed the bike’s front wheel into Illinois just to say I was in another state and then turned northward to La Crosse. After visiting La Crosse for a day, I rode back to Waupun. That trip nearly used up my entire two weeks off. I not only enjoyed myself immensely but spent less than one hundred dollars. It was time off I could afford.
I discovered on next year’s bicycle vacation that carrying a back pack was not a good idea. Doing so affects the cyclist’s center of gravity. That year, thanks to our wonderful state’s tourist department, I ordered free bicycle maps. Two maps cover the entire state. Roads in red, mostly highways, were to be avoided, but green, wonderful back roads, were just the ticket for two-wheelers.
On that trip, I cycled up a steep hill to Blue Mounds state park, about twenty five miles south of Madison. Back then, I wrongly, but invariably, chose the hardest gears. (Isn’t that what a man should do?) I had a bad case of shin splints, which howled demonstrably in pain. I couldn’t pedal a lick without causing myself undue agony.
I, therefore, remained at the park for three days, swam in its nice swimming pool, read a couple of books, and enjoyed the relaxation. On the morning I left, I didn’t even have to pedal because the hill was so steep. Suddenly, midway down the hill, I encountered a sharp curve that obviously had too much gravel on it. The bike’s wheels literally slid sideways and with the added help of the back pack, down I went with a thud, my chin first meeting that road as the slide continued for a good length of time. When I got up, I thought I had gravel inside my mouth. Instead, those bits and pieces turned out to be a missing front tooth. In addition, I had a big gash on my chin and plenty of road burns.
Bloodied and concerned, I got back on the bike, rode down the hill and stopped at the first house. I knocked on the back door and a young lady, carrying a child, opened it, took one look at me, screamed, banged the door shut and shrieked bloody murder to, “Get the hell out of here.”
I figured I must’ve looked terrible.
Feeling groggy, I rode to a gas station in the extremely small town of Blue Mounds. There, its owner was just opening up his business for the day. He took one look at me, hurriedly put my bike in the back of his pickup truck, handed me a towel to stanch the bleeding, and drove me to the University Hospitals in Madison where I was patched up. The service station owner wouldn’t take a dime.
To avoid future shin splints, one doctor at the hospital told me to use the easiest gears. After I left the hospital, I took my bike to bicycle repair shop in Madison in order to get one wheel straightened. The shop’s owner used to race bikes. He reiterated what the doctor had said and then recommended that I spin the pedals ninety revolutions per minute. During the following years, I did so. I now pedal about sixty revs every sixty seconds.
I returned home minus a tooth, stitches in my chin, road rash everywhere, and a very black eye. When I reported for work the following Monday, the warden said after asking about the gaping hole where the front tooth had been, he said, “You might want to give up biking.”
I didn’t give it up, and to this day, I either daily ride the Schwinn Airdyne down the basement or make a 11-mile leisurely trip into the countryside, enjoying both its sights and sounds. On occasion, I make a 50-miler I mapped out for myself, which includes stops in Mayville, Horicon, and Beaver Dam.
On the bike’s rear rack, I stowed camping gear, including nestled aluminum pans, a one-burner stove, tent, and a sleeping bag in addition to an extra tire and tube, a number of tools, a pump, and inner tube patches in case I encountered flat tires on the trip.
The first day, I felt like a ditz. What was I doing? Was I going to become another Reuben Lindstrom? Nah, I’m enjoying myself on a vacation. Wasn’t I?
Starting from Waupun, I headed south on mainly country lanes. A couple of days later, I placed the bike’s front wheel into Illinois just to say I was in another state and then turned northward to La Crosse. After visiting La Crosse for a day, I rode back to Waupun. That trip nearly used up my entire two weeks off. I not only enjoyed myself immensely but spent less than one hundred dollars. It was time off I could afford.
I discovered on next year’s bicycle vacation that carrying a back pack was not a good idea. Doing so affects the cyclist’s center of gravity. That year, thanks to our wonderful state’s tourist department, I ordered free bicycle maps. Two maps cover the entire state. Roads in red, mostly highways, were to be avoided, but green, wonderful back roads, were just the ticket for two-wheelers.
On that trip, I cycled up a steep hill to Blue Mounds state park, about twenty five miles south of Madison. Back then, I wrongly, but invariably, chose the hardest gears. (Isn’t that what a man should do?) I had a bad case of shin splints, which howled demonstrably in pain. I couldn’t pedal a lick without causing myself undue agony.
I, therefore, remained at the park for three days, swam in its nice swimming pool, read a couple of books, and enjoyed the relaxation. On the morning I left, I didn’t even have to pedal because the hill was so steep. Suddenly, midway down the hill, I encountered a sharp curve that obviously had too much gravel on it. The bike’s wheels literally slid sideways and with the added help of the back pack, down I went with a thud, my chin first meeting that road as the slide continued for a good length of time. When I got up, I thought I had gravel inside my mouth. Instead, those bits and pieces turned out to be a missing front tooth. In addition, I had a big gash on my chin and plenty of road burns.
Bloodied and concerned, I got back on the bike, rode down the hill and stopped at the first house. I knocked on the back door and a young lady, carrying a child, opened it, took one look at me, screamed, banged the door shut and shrieked bloody murder to, “Get the hell out of here.”
I figured I must’ve looked terrible.
Feeling groggy, I rode to a gas station in the extremely small town of Blue Mounds. There, its owner was just opening up his business for the day. He took one look at me, hurriedly put my bike in the back of his pickup truck, handed me a towel to stanch the bleeding, and drove me to the University Hospitals in Madison where I was patched up. The service station owner wouldn’t take a dime.
To avoid future shin splints, one doctor at the hospital told me to use the easiest gears. After I left the hospital, I took my bike to bicycle repair shop in Madison in order to get one wheel straightened. The shop’s owner used to race bikes. He reiterated what the doctor had said and then recommended that I spin the pedals ninety revolutions per minute. During the following years, I did so. I now pedal about sixty revs every sixty seconds.
I returned home minus a tooth, stitches in my chin, road rash everywhere, and a very black eye. When I reported for work the following Monday, the warden said after asking about the gaping hole where the front tooth had been, he said, “You might want to give up biking.”
I didn’t give it up, and to this day, I either daily ride the Schwinn Airdyne down the basement or make a 11-mile leisurely trip into the countryside, enjoying both its sights and sounds. On occasion, I make a 50-miler I mapped out for myself, which includes stops in Mayville, Horicon, and Beaver Dam.
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