Mason Unit Bike Club Hits the Road
By Fred Kirchner
I just reset my bike computer and left the Smith Cemetery State Nature Preserve. I needed to know exactly how far it was to the Dutch Kitchen, for I would shortly be meeting the kids from The Salesian Boys and girls/Mason Unit Bike Club at the Dutch Kitchen Bike Fest. Some of my fellow members of the Third Hand Bike Co-op were driving out from the kids' neighborhood (near the Hudson/Joyce intersection) with the kids and their bikes. We would need to know the distance of this short introductory ride in order to plan for a safe and fun day for the kids. These motivated youngsters have been earning a recycled bicycle and a helmet through attending workshops twice a week on basic bike maintenance, repair skills, and bike safety. This afternoon's festivities would constitute their first ride outside of their neighborhood, and their introduction to the well-established bike culture of Central Ohio.
As I made my way back to the Dutch Kitchen - around 4 miles from Smith Cemetery - I was eager to lead these young riders out onto these roads and share with them my love of the black asphalt ribbons that bisect the October fields of dry corn. I wanted the kids to be able to hear the wind rustling the stalks as they pedaled quietly. I planned for them to play "Cemetery Detective" at the State Nature Preserve, memorizing the name of Elizaphon Holycross, a pioneer woman whose gravestone was hidden by the tall Echinacea. Their assignment would be to find her grave and discover when she died. I wanted the kids to scream with delight as they pedaled-under their own power-past the horses, the cows, the farm vehicles, and the whitewashed Mennonite homesteads where sun-lit laundry hung to dry in the autumn breeze. I wanted them to sign their names in my bike journal when we got to the preserve, a ritual to record their effort and work, and a reminder for me of how they have touched my life.
They finally arrived at Dutch Kitchen, ready to eat and look around. We hooked them up with some food and drinks and got ready to ride. A former teacher who has led many field trips, thought that morning to throw a couple outdoor toys in my rack trunk. As there was some down time while folks finished up their lunches, the kids played catch with my Foxtail. The moment I took it out of my trunk they knew exactly what to do with it, and ran off with it, experimenting and making up their own games. Within minutes, they had made teams and were tossing it back and forth. As we started to head the kids over to the bikes, I waited for the last throw, planning to swoop down and playfully grab it back. Tiesha outraced me and caught it on first bounce.
We all laughed and headed out to ride. Once we got everybody on a bike and in line, I began to notice anew the speed of the trucks on US-42. They are fast-and big! They seemed bigger and more menacing then when I rode here earlier. Poised at the parking lot edge, at the front of the assembled line of riders, I screamed out the rules of the road to these urban youth for whom we were responsible, pointing out the "cars-up" and "cars-back" as they sped past, the kicked-up dust swirling around us, telling them that we would stay safe by yelling these words to each other. I told them to hold on tight when a truck passed by, that the 18-wheelers would rock us in their breezy wake, but that we'd be okay if we stayed in our line. Finally we walked our bikes across the centerline, got in single file in the northbound berm, and headed off. You could hear the joyous cries of "CARRUP!", "PASSING!", and "CARBACK!" coming from all the kids as we neared Converse-Huff Rd.
Suddenly, from the back of the pack, there was the unmistakable sound of a blowout. Our first flat - less than a mile into the ride! It was also our first chance to see how the kids would handle repairs in the field. They told us to stand back and let the "pros" tackle the job. You could sense the purpose and pride in their motion as they quickly reassembled the wheel, reminding each other not to forget the stem. We continued on our way.
I was amazed by how the kids were interpreting this new experience. They were not fazed by any of the huge trucks rumbling by, the flat tires, the new surroundings, or the grasshoppers that I caught to show them. They were just out there, riding a simple machine, providing their own locomotion, heading off into the unknown with a smile and an indomitable spirit.
Once we turned off of US-42, the group spread out. The oldest kids and I pulled away a bit. With the lack of traffic, we began to ride next to each other. Lemeul went on a breakaway. I couldn't figure out why he kept going off the road into the gravel, and then I noticed how the berm had shrunk once we left 42. That was it - he was still trying to stay on the miniscule berm, following the directions that I gave everyone on 42. I told him that on this road, we didn't need to stay on the berm, that there was less traffic, and that we could ride in the road.
Shortly thereafter, Tiesha chased us, and then passed. I stayed close, seeing how it would play out. Tiesha stayed in front. I pulled even with Tiesha and asked her if she wanted to know how fast she was going. She did. She then accelerated and asked me again, "How fast now?" Within a couple hundred yards we were approaching 20 miles an hour - in her jeans and sneakers and on an old recycled bike that many of us would never think of riding, Tiesha was having the time of her life seeing how far she could push herself. I showed her how to stand up and get more power. She looked like she could go all day. I had to pull ahead to hide the tears welling up within me, as I felt the power of this experience, showing these intelligent, curious, and charming kids a part of the world with which they not familiar, and sharing with them an alternative form of travel and exercise that has meant so much to me in the last decade.
We all made it to the Nature Preserve safe and sound for photos and gummy worms. The kids rushed to sign my bike journal, several writing in both print and cursive! We found out when Elizaphon Holycross died (1853). I explained to the kids that this was one of the last remaining sections of the native prairie surviving from the world before the European settlers-settlers from whom I am descended-changed this landscape forever. I didn't mention at the time that some of these European settlers were involved in the institution of slavery, and the creation of a social system still plagued today by the racist vestiges of a time not so long ago when the ancestors of these children were taken by force from their families and homes and brought here, to the United States, to be sold at auction. Later as we all slapped high fives in the parking lot back at Dutch Kitchen, it never occurred to me, that in some small way, all of us, adult and child, black and white, had found a way to reclaim this land for each other, to free each other from the complicated history that has kept so many people apart and afraid.
So, if you're on a ride and you see us on the road, consider slowing down to visit with us. You'll hear us yelling "Carrup!" and laughing from quite a distance. There won't be many of us hammering on sleek carbon fiber road ghosts, and we won't always hold our line on turns, but you might find that the miles pass at this slower pace with lightness, freshness, and a joy that makes this kind of riding as enjoyable as any I've ever done.
COP provided a $500 matching fund contribution for tool acquisition in support of this organization's mission of teaching bike repair and safety skills to children.