Self Portrait in Bicycles, continued
As I moved into my 50s, two things happened at roughly the same time:
1. Over 40, weekend warrior soccer started taking its toll on my aging body—most notably a series of achilles tendons injuries which brought me three times a week to PT—or what I referred to as “Dafna’s House of Pain.” Dafna was the physical therapist, and she would “massage” (inflict unspeakable pain) my nearly ruptured tendons in an attempt to revive those atrophied, poorly designed parts of my body (it turns out, evolution hasn’t quite caught up with us, and the engineering of our bodies doesn’t really work all that well for walking and running upright).
2. My eldest son, Nick, started getting serious—as in very very serious—about cycling: after a few rides with me where he was even hesitant to put on those stupid-looking tight pants, he was now shaving his legs, racing every weekend, some days leaving the house at 6 in the morning with some friends from his team and telling us he’d try to be home by dark, after a 200 mile “endurance” ride….
When recording an album in Italy with Hand (my band) became a reality, I started looking into ways to get the most out of the trip and was delighted to discover two additional things I could dovetail onto the recording sessions—a Hemingway conference in Venice and a cycling trip to the Italian pre-Alps. Nick would have to attend the Hemingway conference with me if he wanted to do the latter, and with the promise of riding several of the same roads as that year’s Giro d’Italia, including the grueling time trial up Monte Grappa, he agreed.
The Internet helped me discover the Italian Cycling Center, run by then 82 year old Philadelphian, George Pohl. George looked not a day over 60, tall and thin, with many many miles in his impressive legs. Every summer for many years he would leave Philadelphia to run the cycling center from a small hotel in Borso del Grappa, tucked up against the Pre-Alps at the edge of the Venetian plains—the otherworldly Dolomites in the not far-off distance. Each day of our week there I would ride with George, while Nick set off with a younger, stronger group. And each day, George would destroy my ego, riding far out ahead of me, especially on the hills, circling back to see how I was doing, suggesting rests at cafes, churches or Villas/museums when he sensed I was faltering…. George spoke multiple languages fluently and knew everything about the local history and had even met Hemingway as a boy living in Europe. Each day we’d set out for a 30-40 mile ride, and I would return exhausted, humbled and amazed that someone could possess so much knowledge and be so physically fit in his eighties. I was determined to keep riding (and learning).
I quit my soccer team when we returned, and through Nick, now working at a local bike shop, I bought a new carbon fiber bike (much lighter and with more friendly gearing than my old Torelli). It was a white Colnago, another Italian bike, and a thing of beauty—and something I didn’t deserve, but with Nick’s discount it was (sort of) affordable.
Since then, cycling (along with hiking, canoeing and fishing) have become my primary physical activities. I ride mountain, gravel and road bikes, ideally spending 6 or so hours a week spinning down Connecticut back roads, “gnarly” north east rocky trails, Adirondack gravel, or, now in winter, on my bike trainer in my cold basement attempting to make my avatar on the computer screen keep pace with a virtual peloton on the app Zwift. While I do miss the thrill and intensity of competitive soccer, I don’t miss the hours lying on my stomach while Dafna dug her fingers into my damaged tissue and brought tears to my eyes.
(To be continued.)
*All photos by the author
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So thoughtfully observed, well-written, and aspirational.