In late summer, to celebrate my wife’s 70th birthday, our sons offered to buy her an electric bike, and I, not wanting to be left out, decided to get one as well. After an exhaustive search of makes and models and learning more than we realized there was to learn, we chose bikes offered by a recent start-up having great reviews and a promotional price second to none.
E-bikes have battery powered motors that can be used all the time, not at all, or only when the pedaling gets tough. When engaged, the motor delivers an invisible push allowing the pedaler to maintain cadence and speed. Because the amount of motor assistance is rider-determined, anything from a thigh-burning, oxygen-starved workout to a casual cruise is up for grabs. I view pedal assist as a morphine pump— when the sting in my thighs reaches a critical limit I touch a button for instant relief. Hills and headwinds are of little consequence.
There’s a peacefulness out there on county roads seldom traveled. I notice things, like the crunch of dried leaves between tire and pavement, the praying mantis at the road edge, a newly hatched snapping turtle, a northern redbelly snake, wooly worms and grasshoppers. I hear the tapping of deer hooves on the road as a family crosses a dozen yards ahead, a squirrel clawing at asphalt in a sprint for safety, the cries of migrating killdeer as they settle in freshly harvested fields. So much is missed from the seat of a passenger vehicle.
We have in our possession nearly every bicycle we’ve owned, and at a time when we are trying to minimize, we buy two more. We are masters at justifying our wants, using aging bones and the need for healthy activity to explain our actions. We joined “Ebike Cyclists Over 60” on Facebook, and in our first month logged over 300 miles on our new toys.
The e-bike industry is booming. It has inspired aging folks to get back in the saddle, but interest is not limited to the over 60 crowd. My brother, a lifelong biker and career bike shop employee, mentioned with some disgust how fully 50 percent of the 30-somethings entering his shop are in search of electric bikes. There’s sometimes a rift between traditional bikers and the pedal assist gang, with the former accusing the latter of cheating or downright laziness. There have been complaints about e-bikes traveling too fast, and too many clogging roadways and parking areas. In places, including some national forests, new rules are restricting motorized bikes. While some concerns may be legitimate, the bigger problem could be too many cars and a lack of accommodations for bicyclists. Ask anyone from the Netherlands.
None of this applies to rural Cass County, where on a typical 15 mile jaunt we see no other bikes and maybe three or four vehicles. The wooly worms and squirrels, and wild, unexpected delights far outnumber any manufactured conveyance.
The riding experience stimulates mental cleansing. When worldly concerns are reviewed while muscles are strained and our brains are pumping dopamine and endorphins, the result can be a fresh perspective, a clearer understanding, a bit of hope.
To date we’ve not been run over, audibly cursed, or splattered with rotten tomatoes hurled from roadside gardens. Instead, we’ve noticed a disproportionate number of folks who wave hello— far more than if we were driving a car— and a basic courtesy shown by people on the road or sitting on porches or at work in their gardens. It suggests we live among good, civil minded folks who look out for one another, have similar needs and wants, and an equal claim to a clean environment, opportunity, and fair treatment. It’s a perspective worth holding onto as midterm elections approach and our differences are brought into sharp focus.
We pedal up a long grade which I choose to climb without motor assistance. I think about how our biking experience and lives might differ if we were part of a minority demographic. I wonder if we would get as many friendly greetings or have the luxury of new bicycles.
We turn into a headwind and my head clogs with concerns for our democracy, a changing world climate, a capitalistic ideal run amuck. I cringe at the flow of misinformation that bombards everyday life.
But then the dopamine and endorphins kick in, and I see a maple tree so ablaze with color that it appears to generate its own light. And I think about the incredible fresh apple pie waiting at home— four pounds of apples in one pie, spiced and baked to perfection, with a tender and flaky crust that relies on a generous dose of lard.
I take a shot of imaginary morphine and we ride on. There is hope on the road ahead. There has to be.
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