October 21, 2015 Article

The Old Coot isn’t saved by the bell.

By Merlin Lessler

There are two kinds of bike riders: athletic, physically fit, serious riders, who approach a ride as though it was an Olympic event, and then there are the fun peddlers. I’m a fun peddler; I ride without a helmet, in regular clothes, on a cheap, heavy bike. I face traffic when the road is narrow (in violation of NYS’s motor vehicle regulations). I even glide down the sidewalk when it’s the only safe way to go. My friend, Jeff Poulin, is an athletic biker. When I take a ride to Newark Valley and back you’ll hear me crow about it for weeks. When Jeff (who by the way is the race director for the Chris Thater Memorial races) completes a quick 50 to 75 mile run in less time than my Newark Valley ride, you have to pry out of him how far he rode. 

He’s definitely a different rider than I am; he cruises along on a bike that weighs less than my Medicare Card. He’s swathed in Spandex and a perfectly sized, aerodynamic helmet. Expensive bike shoes interlock with his pedals, pulling the pedal, as his foot comes up and achieving maximum energy efficiency. Water is supplied from a camel pack on his back through a tube that runs over his shoulder and lets him take a sip by simply turning his head whenever he feels the need. A safety light blinks on the back of his vehicle when it’s dark or foggy; a rear view mirror prevents him from “getting it” from behind. He obeys the NYS traffic laws; my crowd ignores stop signs, red lights, one-way street markers. But, we never ever exceed the speed limit, not that we don’t try. Sometimes I come close, like when I’m peddling through a school zone. But usually, I’m riding along the side of the road with a red face, embarrassed by the number of joggers and speed walkers who catch up to and pass me. 

Now comes my rant. It wouldn’t be an Old Coot column if it didn’t have one. I won’t criticize the Spandex, the cost of the bikes or any of the other differences between my crowd and Jeff’s. I’ve done all that and all it ever gets me is a protest poem from Bill Schweizer. No, my issue today concerns the lack of a bell on athletic bikers handlebars. I have a bell, I use it to say hello to friends as I “fly” by, to warn walkers that I’m coming up from behind them on the sidewalk (slowly and carefully) and to signal a biker on the road ahead of me that I’m about to pass. A rare event. Nevertheless, I’m prepared when it does.

And, that brings me to the genesis of my complaint. Those speeding, athletic bikers silently sneak up on us fun-peddlers and scare the heck out of us when they elbow past. No warning whatsoever. No jingle, jingle, to prepare for someone coming up on your shoulder. Just a swoosh, as they fly by, startling us and nearly sending us tumbling into a ditch. It’s bad enough when they do it to one of their own, or to a young and fit, fun-peddler. But, it’s a bigger issue when they pass an old coot. We don’t ride in a straight line; we weave and wander in a meandering route along the shoulder. Sometimes I’m listing left just as one of Jeff’s friends pulls along side. I haven’t ended up in the ditch yet, but I’ve had a legion of close calls. So, I say, “Please; buy a bell.’ I know you’re loath to add weight to your bike, but a bell won’t really add much, not enough to put you at the back of your pack. You’ll still be an Alpha biker. But now, a polite one.