May 13, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gives a heads up.

By Merlin Lessler

Spring is here. Finally! I’m not allowed to celebrate its arrival because I spent the winter in Florida and I didn’t suffer through the unending bitter stretch of cold weather here. But anyhow, spring has sprung. You can tell; the birds are chirping, the buds are on the trees and bicycles are gliding along the side of the road.

Both varieties. The serious peddlers, hunched over carbon fiber frames on multi-thousand dollar velocipedes, bodies wrapped in Spandex, feet shod in bike shoes that interlock with the pedals, sleek (alien looking) aerodynamic helmets and electronic devices that measure hydration levels, pulse rates and calorie burn (to let the riders know they’ve had a good outing). Then there’s my crowd. Well, it’s not much of a crowd. Our numbers are small and shrinking; we’ll soon be on the endangered species list. We shun the Spandex; if we wore it we’d look ridiculous, like the proverbial two pounds of baloney in a one-pound sack. No, we’re in a comfortable pair of cargo shorts and tee-shirt. Sneakers or flip-flops on our feet. And, NO HELMET!

We ride to the beat of a different drum. We do it to get from one place to another. The grocery store or café, for example. And, we also do it to feel the wind blow through our hair and enjoy the scenery along the way. To see things we miss when we pass by in a car.

I get a lot of flack for not wearing a helmet, from friends, from strangers, and especially from Fred Strauss, if he sees me ride bareheaded to a Rotary luncheon at the Treadway. He pulls me aside after the meeting and gives me a helmet lecture. I appreciate his concern; it’s nice that he cares. When he’s done I hop on my bike and ride home without a helmet, or any intention of ever wearing one. I’ve done the math! I ride at a speed of 8 miles an hour, 10 with a tail wind. When I was a jogger, years ago, before old-coot-hood assaulted my muscles and joints, I ran at the same speed that I now achieve on a bike. Marathon runners go faster than that. I watch them run the New York City Marathon every year. 50,000 people going faster on two legs than I go on two wheels. And guess what? Not a single one wears a helmet.

So, if you see me, or any other old coot, peddling along the side of the road at a snail's pace and bareheaded, toot your horn. We’ll know you approve. If you don’t approve, give Fred Strauss a call. Maybe he can help you cope with the “advice offered and not taken” syndrome.

Ps. To my 92 and ½ year-old, Iron Man friend, Bill Schweizer – Yes, I wrote about Spandex yet again, but notice I did not chastise those who wear it. (It was implied but not stated.) If you feel compelled to submit a poem to the editor in protest, you’ll have to confine your rhymes to my bare head.