Considering things like the stars

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Dear beloved cycopaths,

Life’s wheels have been spinning fast lately. Too fast, I’m afraid, for my legs to keep up.

As some of you know, I began teaching a university journalism class part time last fall. It was one class, pass/fail, meeting once a week. Not a whole lot involved, but still a time muncher. And then, in January, I picked up another class — this time a course with a text book that meets thrice per week. Grading. Assigning. Reading. Lecturing.

When I agreed to do it, I saw it as an opportunity to inspire the next generation of reporters. But it’s done more than that.

It’s reinvigorated my passion for journalism, a passion I didn’t really even realize had dissipated until it was my job to instill it in others.

Truth is, I was ready to leave my reporting job behind for a totally different career path. And, in fact, almost did. A day before Ashland University approached me, I had an offer to earn more money in a totally different industry.

I took the university’s proposition as a sign that my time as a reporter wasn’t over.

In the midst of considering a divergent path, I relied on Cycotherapy (this newsletter) to distract me from the monotony of punching in and out each day from my reporter job. Writing this newsletter was fun, my job wasn’t, I told myself. In my withdrawal of my day job, I leaned into Cycotherapy.

Creating content meant, in part, riding my bike. A lot, or at least a lot more than ever before. “Got to. I have a duty to my readers,” I told myself and family.

And so the withdrawal from my day job and refocusing on Cycotherapy indirectly meant a retraction from spending time with my wife and girls. I don’t think it ever became abandonment. Maybe, from their perspective.

I felt this all in my gut but didn’t acknowledge it until recently.

Naturally, this nugget of enlightenment came to me during a ride. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and I had ridden the road bike the previous day. My legs were tired, so the trail ride ended up being slower and smaller than imagined. I had seen several vehicles at the trailhead, but didn’t see any of them out on the trail. And that was OK with the introverted version of myself. It was quiet and the conditions were perfect.

I got back to the van at the end and spotted a man walking back to his truck. He wore waders and carried a rod. I nodded at him. And then, behind me, I heard: “Someone stole my bike!”

I dismounted and walked over. He held his head in his hands, clearly upset. I didn’t know what to say, so I uttered, “Are you kidding me?” I sprinkled incredulity to my voice in an effort to relay my shock. I didn’t fake it — I really was incredulous. As if a total stranger would play such a weird joke, right? But, also, a pat on the back and a “It’s gonna be OK” seemed inappropriate.

He thought his friends, with whom he’d just finished a ride, played a rude joke on him. He called them and they hadn’t. I looked around, hoping the robber would be dumb enough to store his loot in the back of their vehicle. Looked around the changing shed. Nothing. It was gone. I felt for him.

For those of us who own them, bikes are more than bikes. The bicycle represents something. Freedom, nostalgia, whimsy, community. He decided to go fishing just a few steps away from his truck, where this symbol of freedom stood secured in a spot where only two other bikes had been stolen in a 20-year span. (His truck featured a OneUp mount, I think.) And when he returned, it was gone. Just like that.

I reached out to him recently to ask about it. Here’s what he said:

I first called the Loudonville police, who forwarded me to the DNR, who had an officer in the area. She responded within minutes and spent around an hour taking down a report and helping me search the area because a homeless man had just walked through the parking lot. She later found him and was convinced he had nothing to do with the theft. 

I posted a notice of the incident on as many mountain bike -related facebook pages as I could think of. Unfortunately, scammers immediately posted responses telling me that I should get in touch with services that had helped them recover missing bikes. A quick check of their profiles confirmed that they were indeed scammers. Plenty of other well-meaning mtbrs responded, though. Unfortunately, no one has contacted me with any pursuable information. 

Needless to say, it was a hard lesson to learn. I still believe I was at the wrong place at an incredibly wrong time, having ridden mountain bikes all over the country for 20 years without an incident. Oh well!

He told me he still hasn’t found his bike. But fortunately for him, his insurance ponied up the money to buy a replacement.

After helping him for a few minutes that day, I drove home. We made some chicken wings and watched the Kansas City Chiefs win their fourth Super Bowl. We made a game out of T-Swift appearances and my wife and I said things like “Wow, I can’t believe Usher can still do all that” during half time.

And so, my cycopaths, I’m not finished with Cycotherapy. But I’m also not in the same place when it first started. I still enjoy riding my bike — on the road, on a trail, on a lark or in a park. I also like hanging out with my family.

Virginia Woolf once said, “When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?”

Maybe this newsletter becomes something less structured and scheduled — “affair” like — so I may consider things like the stars.