Anne has bicycled more than 2,000 miles this year. This is more miles that she has ridden in any year since 1982, the year of our Great Adventure. That year we rode over 5,000 miles, but we took off from work for six months and were also about thirty years younger. Last year, she rode 1,000 miles, which begs the question of which kind of progression will she shoot for next year, arithmetic or geometric? With an arithmetic progression, her goal would be an ambitious 3,000 miles, but with a geometric progression, her goal would be a truly cyclopathic 4,000 miles. Whatever she decides on and then does, I’ll be there for her. I’ll ride with her. I’ll support her. I’ll be her domestique and she can be my peloton leader.
Throughout our life together, Anne and I have traded off the lead in our cyclogical partnership. She started it all with her ’72 bicycling vacation to Great Britain. During college, our cycling enthusiasm seemed to wane. When we moved to Saint Louis in ’80, new friends combined with organized rides culminated in the Great Adventure of ’82. Then came child rasing and another lapse. In 1996, my brother Chris sold me his old bike and I started riding again. Anne was left home with the boys, a bike widow, while I rode off to the park each day. Soon, I had bike buddies, most of them were actually old friends that had also discovered bicycling. This led to riding the MS-150, Team TWA, and finally Team Kaldi’s. When Anne started attending the team potlucks, the allure of bicycling proved too much to resist. Five years ago, most of the time that I rode, I rode alone. Now, most of the time that I ride, I ride with her.
During my years of riding alone, I developed this cyclogical test for sanity. Simply put, if I saw six or more other cyclists out on a ride, I was sane. Less than six, well then, I had cyclogical issues. Anne and I rode in the park. It had snowed overnight, but by afternoon, the roads and bike path were clear. It had turned cold and blustery, but we launched towards the park. We hadn’t seen any other cyclists, when we turned towards home. Climbing Skinker, we did see two, including one bombing crazily downhill with two blazing LED headlights. We stopped at Kaldi’s, on DeMun and saw a third rider. While we were still three under par, what had started to look like an act of insanity, had turned into a coffee shop ride. I married a cyclopath, but I am one too.