Bikemum

Today, my husband Twain, my friend June and I are cycling 90 miles up the coast of Maine, from Portland to Jefferson along the East Coast Trail. We will then ride 57 miles to Liberty on Saturday, enjoying some magnificent hills, and on Sunday, complete the ride with 90 miles home. It sounds like a lot, but the truth is, the biking component of this adventure is the easy part, and the miles fly by. I am comfortable on my bike and feel strong.

The three of us banter about issues with children, work and assorted island gossip of which there is never short supply. We laugh at our exhaustion and get the giggles when a hill presents itself to us that seems absolutely ridiculous. If we didn’t laugh, we might cry.

We pass fields of lupines, beautiful farms and cross over marshes and rivers that meander from the mountains to the sea. Twain and June even catch a glimpse of the elusive “Ghost Cat of Maine” — a large feline that roams the forests and fields of the north. I feel like I could bike forever.

Biking provides a lot of time for thinking, and when the three of us grow quiet my thoughts begin to perseverate on Oakley and our trip.

I am not sure he will laugh at the big hills or fully appreciate the long periods of time for inner reflection as we bike for 6 to 8 hours a day. I worry that he will resent me for pushing him into this. He will undoubtedly drive me insane with his yammering, going on endlessly about a YouTube video he has seen or regaling me with tales of his exploits that grow greater and greater with each retelling. How will I handle it? Will I be driven over the edge? We are looking at a whole lot of togetherness.

I am no super-mother, not by a long shot. I am not going on this bike adventure with Oakley with any sort of assumption that I know what I am doing, because I don’t. The truth is, I beat myself up daily for some parenting failure: I yelled, I was irritable, I didn’t listen, I was overly critical. The list goes on and on. I am bossy, controlling and overly involved in my children’s lives. I’ve been told. Maybe it is because I am trained as a mental health counselor and I spend my days getting all up in people’s business. I can’t turn it off when I get home. I hope I know what I am getting into.

Thankfully, before I spiral into the abyss of self-doubt too far, we arrive at our night destination, a little cabin 20 feet from Damariscotta Lake with a screened-in sleeping porch. The water laps at the shore and creates a soothing rhythm that lulls us into stillness after hours of sweat and exertion. The sun is setting, and a golden light bounces against the waves. My racing thoughts quiet. Totally worth it.

Twain, June and I end our day with Cranberry Vodkas and fish sandwiches at a local bar. We are joined by another friend and the four of us spend the evening chatting and listening to some great guitar music. My legs feel like sand (in a good way), and we linger over our dinner and drinks. Talk is easy and comfortable, and there is a true sense of camaraderie. This might be one of my favorite parts of biking. But even in these moments, I separate myself from the group, and I wonder, will Oakley linger? Ever? Will we find peace together?

This will be the true challenge of the trip, and there is no way to train for it. Oakley and I are going to have to find a rhythm, a cadence that feels comfortable to both of us. He is not a contemplative fellow, but rather a man of action. We might drive each other insane. That is my real worry. The biking is just one pedal after the other.

I hope Oakley appreciates it someday. I hope we make it. I hope I am doing the right thing. I hope, I hope.

Lately, I am exhausted and sore every night when I climb into bed. This is not because I am biking all the time, but it is because I am always very active.

I spend many hours a day practicing new flips, cheap gainers (a backflip while moving sideways), fulls (a spin with a backflip), and double front flips. I try so hard and for so long that when I finally master a new trick I am pretty much dead the next day.

I have been surfing from 9 to 3 o’clock every day this week and my arms hurt from paddling to catch waves.

I have been training with The Sellam Circus School, which is a circus school in Biddeford, Maine. I unicycle, tumble, juggle and do Diablo. This weekend we are performing and teaching kids and adults how to do circus tricks at Thompson’s Point in Portland.

I run a lot every day and play nightly games of manhunt. Manhunt is like hide and go seek in the dark. We play until we have to come in.

I play the drums every day and have been involved in Steely Dan and Queen ensembles that have played at Cadenza, a venue in Freeport. This is exercise, trust me.

Last week I went on a sailing ship called the Harvey Gamage. I lifted 1,500 pounds of sail with a small group of people and hauled a 500 pound anchor from the ocean floor with four people.

And sometimes I bike. My parents make me bike to drum lessons, band practice, sometimes school and sometimes to beach for surfing. Every once in a while my mom makes me bike for fun with her.

So, you see, I might not bike a lot, but I think I am in good shape for biking across the country because I get a ton of exercise. There will be plenty of time for biking.

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“Where are you going to high school?” asks a well-intentioned parent at Oakley’s graduation from middle school.

“Well, eventually to Casco Bay High School, but first I am going to bike across the country.”

Really? When? Where will you travel? Are you camping? How far will you travel every day? Have you started training? That is so cool. Amazing.

Oakley answers to the best of his ability, and as he does I see the pride and confidence about this crazy adventure growing within him. He obviously feels somewhat of a celebrity. These people, these curious well-wishers are like fuel, and they will be an important part of what carries him up the mountains and all the way home.

I have decidedly become a narcissistic, loud mouth about our bike adventure, but I can’t overstate the importance of all the support and encouragement we are receiving in return.

Lately, I have taken to waking up at 2:00 in the morning in somewhat of a panic, my mind racing, wondering what the hell I have gotten us into. I get up, pace the kitchen, take melatonin and creep back into bed. I snuggle a bit closer to Twain and try not to think of how many nights I will be without him and my other children…and my dog, Cricket. Instead, I attempt to quiet my mind by thinking of all those that will be with us in spirit.

It is pretty incredible. Over the last several months, friends and neighbors have put up with my obsessive talk about this trip and have been endlessly encouraging. I can’t believe they are still listening. They try to calm my fears and remind me of how important this trip is for me and Oakley, when I feel like forgetting.

My extended family, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, mother and cousins, who have read this blog and offered up kind words, prayers, and hopes. Some of them I have not spoken to since I was a child. Who knew they cared?

My closest friends from high school have reconnected with me after 30 years. They have no idea how much their friendship means. They are my life time mirror.

Sponsors and generous friends have stepped forward to help us financially. For some reason they believe in us. If they do, so will I.

Good people whom I have never met have reached out across social media and offered advice and support, easing my mind by sharing their experience and expertise with us about all manner of things from equipment to parenting advice.

The Sellam Circus School has been Oakley’s champion from the beginning. They have seen his potential and have challenged him to do a backflip once a day during the course of our adventure. They know that circus is an important part of his identity and by practicing his skills he will stay connected with who he is and what he can do. They understand all kids need to realize their gifts to reach their potentials and that they all have gifts.

The Portland Gear Hub folks have been patiently walking me through the process of gearing up. Their enthusiasm and positive attitude make this trip seem a bit less hare-brained. They don’t laugh at me when I ask what click-shifters are.

I don’t think that we could do this without any of these people. I am hopeful that we will hear their voices in our heads when faced with rainstorms, long coyote-filled nights, lonely mountain climbs and mutual tantrums.

I am scared. It is a lonely world out there, and the time to make this happen is nearly upon us. Every time we get encouragement from people, I am reassured that I am not going to really be alone. We will play their words like a recording on repeat over and over again.

This trip has become much more than a three-month adventure. It has already changed the way I see the world. The support we feel fills us with hope and excitement, and we have gained an understanding of the importance of community in our lives. I can’t thank everybody enough.

My breath comes out in deep, regular puffs, a locomotive steaming down a track. Sweat runs down my forehead and into my eyes, making them sting. My legs ache, and my bum-cakes scream. Where the hell am I? This little afternoon jaunt has become more epic than I intended. I wanted to cycle an easy 20 miles, but now, by my reckoning, I have hit about 32 and I still have miles to go. It is 2:32 in the afternoon, and I have a client coming to my office at 3:00. I will never make it. This always happens. I take it a little too far, get a little too optimistic about what I can fit in and resist taking the time to study a map. Rather, I try to follow my innate homing instinct that is sure to guide me home. It never does.

I have hit a traffic-laden street. Lots of cars, going fast. I try to maneuver along the side of a jake-braking propane truck, a rattling old landscaping truck, and a string of vehicles with intense and/or distracted drivers. The cars push me against the edge of the road. Suddenly, on a down-pedal, my clipped-in foot knocks the curb, sending me into a wobble. My front tire snakes crazily. I grip the handlebars tightly and, by the grace of God, correct my position. I try to move away from the curb into the road so it doesn’t happen again, but the shoulder is narrow, and I feel like I am in everybody’s way. I know I should pull over and take some time to cancel my appointment, figure out where I am, and cool down before I do something even more reckless, but I have canceled on this client twice before. She is going to fire me.

Not a minute too soon, I recognize a landmark and realize that I am on Payne Road in Scarborough, probably 30 minutes from my office, provided I pedal just a little bit faster than the fastest speed I can muster, I might make it. If I really bear down I could arrive at my office on Commercial Street in Portland, Maine, only five minutes late. Taking another deep breath and digging in, I decide to go for it. My fight or flight response in overdrive. Stupid? Yes.

Thirty minutes later, when I step out of the elevator and into the waiting room, I see my client sitting comfortably on a leather wing-backed chair. She is patiently paging through one of the magazines on the coffee table. Her hair is nicely brushed, her lip gloss bright, and her clothes clean and respectful. When she looks up at me she smiles. “I will just be a minute.” I grin apologetically as I wheel my bike into my office. Quickly, I strip down and pull on a skirt, and a clean shirt and change my shoes. I drag a brush through my hair and wipe the sweat off my face. That is all I have time for. As I step back into the waiting room I feel the second wave of sweat pour out of me, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “Come on in,” I say, trying to exude nonchalance.

This little ride across town sums up my current state of mind. My bike adventure across America begins on August 1st, and, at this point, I feel like I am living a double life. It is all a little too much and a little over-stimulating but makes every day an exciting whirlwind. I am biking about 75 miles a week, trying to fit it in between working, spending time with my family, writing and planning for our expedition. I am in the process of telling all my clients that I will be closing my office. This is emotionally exhausting as I care deeply for them. At the risk of sounding unprofessional, it is like having to end 40 personal relationships, one after the other, day after day.

I am waking up nightly, into full consciousness, with lists and anxieties filling my head. I am excited and scared. I love being a mental health counselor. I love my job as a parent. I love biking. I love my friends. I love writing. I love my life, and I want to do it all. I am just worried that if I don’t slow down I will hit a curb and I might not be able to correct my wobble. Maybe, this is just the thrill of adventure?

Oakley has always been super naughty and super cute. His devilish grin and sparkling eyes have let him get away with terrible, mischievous things. As we navigate the teenage years sometimes cute doesn’t cut it and his antics can make me really angry. It is at these times that I need to remember that underneath his aggressive tone and pimply cheeks, the little darling he used to be still resides within him.

Jonah, Oakley’s older brother, created this little podcast about him and where we have come from, and where we hope to go. It’s a good one. Take a listen.

If anyone wants to contribute to our ice cream fund to keep Oakley’s motivation up feel free! He is going to need it…well, actually, so will I. Check out the link below.

https://www.gofundme.com/ice-cream-fund-for-oakley-amp-leah039s-big-adventure?fbclid=IwAR2pQwn-U6lTCv9qM5HGhqwowfwVogNP6gtrU1Jf8hSaWUN32yWtA1mkBKE

Many people have been asking me lately, “Where are you going exactly?” or “When do you leave?” This makes me feel two things. Either, A) They are ready for me to stop wagging my tongue about this so-called adventure and actually leave already, or, B) they are actually interested, so I shrug and give what I hope is a satisfactory answer:

“Across America, from Oregon to Virginia. We will follow the Trans-American Trail. We will leave this August.” As the trip draws closer this response has seemed increasingly vague, and I feel the need to delve into our route a little more, so bear with me.

Oakley and I will fly from Boston to Portland, Oregon, around August 1st. We will then take a bus to Astoria, where our lovely little bikes will be waiting for us at a local bike shop, having been shipped ahead of us. From there, we will hit the road, post-haste, our homing beacons all a dither.

Over the first several days we will follow the West Coast, giving us a chance to take in the vastness of the Pacific and the humongous spruce and redwood trees that cover the hills. I hear that there are a lot of them. Both hills and trees…

We will then turn east near Eugene, and head up into the Cascades. We will ascend through lush forests, cross under snow-capped peaks and travel on to the high desert of Oregon. This section of the route follows a portion of the original Oregon Trail. (Be sure to read Ghosts of the Pioneers by Twain Braden!) We will lug our gear and foodstuffs in our panniers rather than in a covered wagon, but I hope we will feel connected and inspired by the adventurers who have come before us.

Next, we will enter Idaho and cycle along the Salmon River, which is rich in Native American history, and begin a 75-mile ascent to Missoula, Montana. The headquarters of the Association for Cyclists is located here, and they promised us free ice cream. I think we will need it. I hope they aren’t kiddie size. After a brief stop-over with a friend in Bozeman, we will head into the Rocky Mountains and make our way to Wyoming. We might hike for a bit in Yellowstone or play with some Grizzlies or Bison or perhaps some Elk.

At that point, with our legs of newly-brandished steel, we will head south again, through the Tetons and along the Wind River Range into Colorado. It is here that we will cross Hoosier Pass with an elevation of 11,152 feet. The summer snow that high smells like watermelons. No problem.

Oakley is then planning to practice backflips and various other parkour moves at the Great Sand Dune National Monument and then hopefully, somewhere near Colorada Springs, we will meet up with Twain. He is planning on renting a bike in Denver and cycling with us for a week across the high desert of Colorado into Kansas. He is excited to experience the tall grassy plains in late September.

After we kiss him goodbye, and I cry a little, we will head into Missouri and into the Ozark Mountains. From there we will take a ferry across the Ohio River and into Kentucky. We are hoping to stop and explore the Mammoth Caves. They were made from rivers of lava flowing and cooling underground and remind me of subway tunnels to the underworld.

Next, we will give Tennessee a gentle nudge and then climb up into Virginia and on to the Appalachian Mountains. We will follow the Blue Ridge Parkway for a bit, and then descend down through the farmlands of Virginia to the Atlantic Coast where Twain will be waiting in Yorktown.

The total trip will be 4,300 miles. We are aiming to get home soon after Daylight Savings Time in early November. After all of this extreme togetherness, the thought of Oakley and I stuck in our tent in the dark from sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon, for 14 hours until sunrise, makes me rather jittery.

We will camp the whole way except for the rare hotel stay, once or twice a month. Perhaps we will partake of the kindness of the folks at “Warm Showers,” a group of people who offer hospitality to cyclists who are on long expeditions. They are active across the country. Sometimes they offer a shower, sometimes a garage floor to sleep on, and sometimes a dryer for a swamped sleeping bag.

We will cook on a wood-fired stove to avoid having to find and carry gas. We will carry our water and belongings on our bikes. We will homeschool along the way. Might be the best education for both of us ever.

I am sure our itinerary will change and change again, but that’s the plan. Sounds fun right?

It is a Thursday in May, and Oakley and I have cut school and work for the day and are headed off to bike the Cape Cod Rail Trail. It is a 50-mile-long, paved, flat trail connecting Hyannis to Wellfleet, surrounded by beautiful lakes, nationally-acclaimed seashores, and miles of pine forest. Oakley has been especially naughty lately and this outing counts as being grounded. Time with his parents, away from the influences of social media, friends, and bad patterns often helps him regroup. First, we need to bike to the Portland Gear Hub to pick up a rack. Twain, my husband, will pick us up there and drive down with us the rest of the way.

As we navigate our bikes through Portland, I accidentally stop short at an intersection, and Oakley screeches to a halt with his front tire nearly kissing my rear. “Mom, why did you do that?” he yells, both scared and furious.

“Because I didn’t want to get hit by that truck. I am sorry.”

“This is so stupid. I don’t know why we have to do this. You are the worst biker.”

The tirade continues as we navigate our way up Washington Avenue, weaving in an out of construction mayhem, and clouds of grit and sand kicked up in the wind from the road work. This seems to add fury to Oakley’s mood. “This was your idea, this whole bike thing. I never wanted to do it. I won’t go!” he yells over the sound of jackhammers and traffic. His biking is becoming more erratic, and I realize that we need to deal with this before we get to the shop and attempt to be socially appropriate. I pull into a parking lot and signal for him to join me and park his bike. We sit on a curb a bit away from the road.

“This is just dumb,” he mutters. “Why can’t I be like other kids and just go to high school. I don’t like biking, you do.”

I feel defeated, but I sit there and listen. This isn’t the first time that Oakley had voiced anger over the choices we have made as parents. His fury over having to participate in sports, play an instrument, attend forced-family-fun activities, and do homework, comes on hot and fast. I want to validate him, but I am also aware that he would likely opt out of all structured activities if given a choice and partake solely in what we call Idiot Glee — when his physical activities rise to a hysterical pitch. We try to make room for this in his life to an extent, but as Twain frequently says, “Oakley needs a firm hand on the tiller.”

Once again, I take the time to explain to Oakley why we are taking this trip and all the benefits. Getting away from the jackhammering and construction seems to quiet him as much as my words.

I am not sure he can completely comprehend that this isn’t “just a bike trip,” and it isn’t just for me. I am afraid of this bike trip. Afraid to leave my family and the comfort of my home. Afraid to close my business and have to reinvent a career when we return. Afraid of camping alone with him for three months. But I am more afraid of not going.

As Oakley transitions solidly into a teenager, the repercussions for his impulsive behavior and emotional deregulation take on a new weight. We need to break some patterns to help him reach adulthood healthy and intact. It isn’t always pretty and can seem controlling and heavy-handed to some but, when you are trying to lasso a runaway bull, you can’t pussyfoot around it.

It isn’t long before his fury subsides and he is able to acknowledge that getting away from schedules, rushing, and lists, and the idea of perhaps biking by bison, rather than orange cones and blaring horns, does sound intriguing. He can even voice that he is struggling to make good decisions. Eventually, he cools down enough to continue on to the shop.

We arrive at the Gear Hub, and I begin talking to Bryan about bike racks. Oakley wanders about fingering stoves, tents, panniers and associated touring gear. “Mom, look at this!” he calls again and again as he notices all the little accoutrements that would be good to have on our trip. Before I know it, his mood has swung 180 degrees, and he is exclaiming about how fun it will be to start our adventure. Life with him is an emotional rollercoaster and often leaves me exhausted.

When we finally arrive at the Cape Cod Rail Trail, Oakley takes off like a rocket, as I knew he would. His legs power up and down, and he quickly outdistances me. A flock of wild turkeys has congregated on the path. The males have their tales fanned, out and the females are coquettishly prancing around them. Again, Oakley must screech to a halt. “Look at the turkeys,” he calls. I zoom up behind him. As I do, a rabbit is flushed out from the bushes and joins the turkeys. It freezes long enough for us to marvel at its huge, white fluffy tail and twitchy whiskers. “He is so cute!” Oakley has obviously forgotten how much he hates biking. “This is awesome! I am going to see how many miles I can go no-handed.” He is off again. The dark fury inside him has been extinguished as he moves through the outdoors burning his energy and feeling amazed by what he encounters. He cycles one and one-half miles no-handed with panache.

How many times will he shout at me during our cross-America bike adventure “This is the worst idea!”? How many times will he insist he is quitting? Probably as many times as he will say, as he did while we ate our ice cream along the Rail Trail, looking out at the ocean and watching the ships roll by, “This is really fun. My bike is awesome. Watch me do a backflip from that rock.”

And maybe, it will help us figure out a lot more.

“Oh my God, I can’t get this freaking pedal back on! Oaks come here, I need your help!”

“I am busy!” shouts Oakley, from the nearby trampoline where he has just completed his 65th backflip. “Watch me!”

“No Oaks, come now. Please!” Oakley hops down gruffly and stomps over. “Here, try to get this pedal back on. I keep trying, and I can’t screw it in.” I need to attach “Power Grip” toe clips to my pedals so I can push down and pull up with them for added leverage as I climb hills and mountains and my bike’s original pedals won’t accommodate them. I just need to swap them out with another recycled pair. How can it be this hard?

Oakley lightly pushes me out of the way. “Move over.” He is annoyed that I have interrupted his jumping, and he is more than a little sick of bicycles, but also a little proud that I needed his help with something mechanical. He tries once–no go–he tries again– “It’s stripped!” he pronounces, and drops the offending pedal on the deck. In seconds, he has bounced back to the trampoline and has executed backflip number 66. I am in this alone.

It can’t be stripped–it looks perfectly good! I kneel down on the deck and try again and again. I try with slightly different angles. With increased pressure, with a light touch. Nothing. I can’t gain any purchase.

Jesus Christ. I wobble off my knees that have begun to ache from being mashed against the wooden planks of the deck and fall to my bum. This is ridiculous. I can’t even put a pedal on. How am I ever going to get across the country? I think of all the people who have commented online about how I am getting in over my head. Those people don’t even know how mechanically uninclined I am!

I admit it. I am all thumbs, and, as I have previously mentioned, not at all detail-oriented. Even trying to tighten the brakes of my bicycle often gives me busted knuckles. I am clumsy, and, honestly, don’t know my left from my right, am one-eyed with no depth perception, and have a tendency to rush in a most unhelpful way. This is going to be tough, but I won’t give up, no matter what!

I crawl back up to my knees and try again two more, three more times….. then I give up.

“Oaks!” I call, “I am walking to the bike shop.” With my head hung low I coast down the hill to Brad’s Bikes. When I arrive, Brad is in the front yard tuning up one of his rentals.

“What’s up?” he says with a wry grin, noticing my obvious discomfort as I stand there, bike in one hand, pedal in the other.

“Brad, I am so embarrassed. This is humiliating. I can’t even put on a pedal.” Brad knows all about this upcoming bike trip. He has been nothing but supportive. I hand him the pedal. He takes it and shakes his head.

“This isn’t humiliating. This is learning.” He explains that one bike pedal is threaded clockwise and the other threaded counterclockwise, so I had been trying to screw one of them in backward the whole time. This is so the pedal won’t unwind itself. He laughs, but kindly as always. In no time at all, we attach the pedal, and I ride back home. Problem solved.

I do worry about my shortcomings on this trip. I do acknowledge that I am a bit half-cocked. I am sure that about Oaks will send me straight to crazy town, but, I will carry Brad’s words with me.

This isn’t humiliating; it’s learning. Fenders come next.

Recently, biking has become the fulcrum of my life. I am riding, writing and talking about it more than I ever thought possible. I am currently riding three times a week with an assortment of folks. Each ride is about 20-30 miles, nothing crazy, just super fun.

Once a week I go with Oakley. These rides are going really well. I can feel us becoming a team; our communication is improving, we are working better and better together and our mutual excitement about our trek across America is on the rise. These rides are fast and hard — he sets the pace and then yells at me that we are going too fast. We keep reminding each other that we don’t need to race across the country.

Once a week I ride with my husband Twain. These are sweet rides. They are not overly taxing and usually end with a beer somewhere. We meet after work and use them as an excuse to get away from the monotony of the work-week, pretending that it is in the name of exercise.

And once a week I ride with a motley crew of rag-tag bikers from Peaks Island, Maine, and the surrounding area. We meet every Wednesday off of the 6:15 am ferry and hit the roads before traffic builds for the morning commute. We are not trying to break any records — rather our mission is to enjoy some comeraderie and get out in the spring freshness. Anyone who wants to join us is welcome.

Being immersed in all this biking has put me in touch with all manner of bike nerds. Don’t get me wrong I LOVE BIKE NERDS! I am not a researcher, and they are my best source of information and how-to. Besides, the truth is, I love nerds of all types; bird nerds, math nerds, music nerds, news nerds, bowling nerds… Nerds are just passionate people pursuing their interests and engaging fully in them. They are far more interesting to me than those trying to be cool.

The advice these bike nerds have bestowed upon me has been incredibly varied and often contradictory. I have been told: to get toe baskets for my pedals and to invest in clip-on bike shoes; to buy Kevlar tires to avoid flats and to have Oakley become well versed in bike maintenance by repairing three flats a week; to get pepper spray for wild dogs we encounter along the way and to carry a tennis racket for bopping them on the nose; to wear chamois-lined bike shorts for protection from saddle sores and to not wear bike shorts at all in the hopes of increasing air flow to my nether-regions; to pack all my outfits in separate plastic bags to help with organization and tidiness and to only bring one change of clothes to cut down on weight. I have been told to bring parachute cloth for emergency bivouacs and to forgo a stove to reduce bulk. I have been told to increase my speed by getting ceramic bearings and to cart my dog Cricket with me in a Burly bicycle trailer. The list is endless, and I eat it up. I am sure I will follow nearly everyone’s advice at one time or another.

I have found that these bike nerds giving me tips come in multiple varieties. First, there are the Gear Head Bike Nerds. These enthusiasts have the latest and greatest available bike gear for which they have paid top dollar. They are often seen on the road covered head-to-toe in spandex with wraparound sunglasses and aerodynamic helmets. Their tires are razor thin and their bikes weigh next to nothing. They blow by me and leave me huffing and puffing in their wake.

Second, come the Hipster Bike Nerds. They can be identified by their tall dark socks and earth-toned outfits accompanied perhaps by a clever, ironic tee-shirt. They love bicycles with personality. These are the beautiful bicycles with sleek frames and subtle tones, leather wrapped handlebars, and retro saddles. Hipster Bike Nerds frequently purchase their bikes from individuals sellers and have lovingly restored them to meet their specifications and eye for the aesthetic.

Third, come the Commuter Bike Nerds. They are recognizable at a glance due to the fact that they almost always have some sort of elastic around their ankle to keep their trouser cuffs from getting caught up in their chain or getting covered with grease. They either carry a backpack or a pannier to hold their lunches and other work-related paraphernalia. Often they are seen wearing windbreakers or dayglow vests to keep them safe amongst the more inhospitable commuter traffic.

Fourth, come the Collector Bike Nerds. These people love bikes for the mechanical genius inherent in them as much as they love riding them. The often have 8 to 10 bikes lovingly stored in their sheds and garages and can pick just the right one for any given situation. They may have a bike with snow-tires, the bike they rode when they were 20, a foldable bike, a mountain bike, a racing bike, a touring bike — the full gamut. They never let a bike go but rather keep them archived with stories about their histories and significance at the ready.

Fifth, there are the Sunday-Driver Bike Nerds. These guys are only seen cycling in fine weather. They are not fast, because what would be the point? They poke-along, chatting with fellow riders and stop often to smell the roses. They can be seen cruising along on their heavy, drop-down cross-barred bicycles made for easy on/off access, complete with a basket carrying a bottle of water and perhaps a good library book. They wear overalls, linen pants, jeans or even skirts and have no concern that they may break a sweat.

Sixth, there are those folks out there who love their bikes because they are the only wheels they have. These people either don’t have a license or a car and have fitted out their bikes to haul themselves– and a great deal of stuff, around. They often are seen with converted child trailers laden with various personal belongings or shopping bags swinging perilously close to the front spokes of their handlebars. They are out rain or shine, just doing what they have to do.

Lastly, there are the Fun-Time Bike Nerds — recognized by their sturdy bikes of either the mountain or BMX variety. They are simply playing; jumping curbs, skidding out, hopping boulders, whooshing far too fast down enormous hills and generally yee-hawing throughout their rides. They are excitement-driven, full of exuberance and spunk. Their bikes are often bashed up, covered with battle scars, each a point of pride with a suitable story attached.

I am sure there are more. All these nerds really share one thing and that is simply that knowledge that bikes are awesome. They are fun, practical, environmentally friendly and good for you. Sometime this summer, a friend and I are planning to organize a bike mob. We are inviting all types of bike nerds to come together on a hot summer evening in July and take over the streets of Portland, Maine, to ride together simply sharing what we love. We are hoping for a bike mob. Bike Nerds Unite!

Details to follow. Meanwhile — keep the advice coming.

My mother is disabled. She has been paralyzed since she was 42 when her light-blue VW bus was struck by another vehicle while stopped at an intersection. Her body flew through the front windshield, and she was declared dead at the scene. She wasn’t. She had seven children all under 14 and we needed her. I was three.

I don’t remember much from that time, just a string of well-meaning neighbors and relatives and a lot of frozen lasagna. I do remember visiting her in the hospital on her birthday later that summer. My father had to sneak me in because no children were allowed in the ICU, and I hid under his trench coat so that no one would see me. When I saw her, she was immobilized in a hospital bed and was dressed from head to toe in pale green hospital apparel. She looked shockingly weak. I remember her smiling at me. I was afraid that she would never come home.

After months of hospitalization and rehabilitation, she did come home. The accident caused her to permanently lose the use of her right arm, left leg, diaphragm and neck mobility. Breathing was difficult, and she often became out of breath just from trying to read out loud to me. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t cough. She couldn’t write. She couldn’t kneel. She couldn’t carry things. She couldn’t do many of the many activities that had comprised her life. And she had seven children, did I mention that?

Against all odds, as time passed, she started walking. I am not sure how it was possible, but my understanding is that she retrained different muscles in her body to compensate for those that could no longer work. At first, the walks were short, but they got progressively longer until eventually, she could poke along for several blocks. She learned to write left-handed. She learned to knit with one hand and has created countless beautiful pieces. She relearned to drive with a special knob on the steering wheel. She relearned to swim by holding on to little floaties. She is a fantastic cook and learned to utilize all manner of cool, one-handed contraptions to help her navigate her way in the kitchen. She seemed to refuse to give anything up. But all this was lost on me because I couldn’t remember her any different.

By the time I was six, I had become well-versed in pushing her wheelchair, and I would torment her by pushing her over grates that opened to the subway far below and laugh and laugh as she would shriek in fear. Sounds mean, right? But, to me, there was nothing wrong with her. I was just teasing, and she seemed to be playing along. Her disability was as normal as any mother’s slightly annoying, but endearing habit. As I got older I would push that wheelchair down bumpy, forested paths up and over all manner of tree roots and gravel. She would groan good naturedly and hold on tight with her good hand. She has been launched from that thing several times and is always trying to find a wheelchair more suitable for all-terrain travel. Just last year I pushed her through a jungle in Mexico so that we could see Mayan ruins. It can’t be comfortable, all that jostling and jarring, but she always wants to go.

I cut her no slack. She cuts herself no slack. Today she is 87.

I only have one memory of my mother before her accident. I am sitting on a metal folding seat, attached to the back of my mother’s black, clunky Schwinn. The seat is covered with a blue-plaid vinyl. It has little metal armrests and a small backrest. Not at all safe by today’s standards. My legs dangle freely below. I kick them forward and back. My mother’s legs are pedaling up and down, and her butt is in my face. It swishes a little, side to side. I don’t mind. Her efforts are creating a nice breeze, and the landscape whizzes by. Green grass, suburban lawns, huge maple trees. She is talking and laughing with my father who is on a matching bike.

I know there must be some connection between my mother’s internal drive and my quest to remain physical and engaged with life. She could have given up so many times, but she didn’t. She still doesn’t. She is hauling herself up to an island in Maine from Philadelphia for a visit again this summer. The trip involves a lot of logistics and not everything is handicapped-accessible in the little cottages she rents. Her mobility is decreasing and little tasks are getting more difficult, but she’ll be damned if she is going to stay home and sit around. She doesn’t want to miss out!

My determination pales in comparison.