Ode to Gator Bike

It has been just over a year since I purchased my first road bike -- a sky blue Cannondale that had made the trip all the way from Florida to sit in a garage in Arizona, until a beautiful thing called Craig's List brought us together. The addition of the Cannondale made for four bikes in my garage. I also had a Jamis that I was renting, my roommate's something-or-other from Target, and a white Trek 700 (which I will refer to from here on out as Gator Bike). This made my initiation into bike culture complete. The two-wheelers had completely taken over my garage.

The one inalienable truth about bikes is that you can't have just one . . . or is that potato chips? In any case, it's true for both. Different occasions, different places, different weather, call for different bikes. I wouldn't ride Cannondale to the bar and then attempt to clip in after a pitcher of Hefewizen, and I wouldn't show up to Ironman with Gator Bike. Every bike has something different to offer and some unique personality traits. Simply put, bikes are like people.

Of the now five bikes that have called my garage home (Bianchi became part of the family last June), my favorite is Gator Bike. GB has been handed down four times, but was originally purchased by a guy who was 6'4". I am only 5'8" -- you do the math. It is entirely too big for me, and I imagine that I must look like a circus clown when I ride it. The front derailer doesn't work, so I use the big ring for EVERYTHING. Climbing, descending, whatever. The back derailer isn't much better and will shift at random which, come to find out, can be pretty unsafe. But the best part of this fine cycling machinery is the horn which is in the shape of an alligator head. He has one wonky eye and a snarly grin and when you squeeze his snout he squeaks like a dog toy.

Meet Gator Bike.

If GB was a person I imagine he'd be that guy that everyone wants to hang with. He's easy going, unpretentious, he tells the best stories. He'll drink a few cheap beers and school you at pool or darts, or he'll enjoy the complex aromas of good glass of wine and talk in depth about American Foreign Policy. When he arrives, everyone thinks, "Sweet! GB is here!" (This part is not made up. As it is, even with rider, people are generally more excited to see GB than they are me. "Squeak the horn!" is usually the welcome I get when I show up on GB.)

GB and I are kind of like an opposites-attract-match-made-in-heaven. I like things clean and in perfect working order. I like my work to be efficient and precise. I am quiet and reflective. I would rather not be the center of attention. But GB has chosen me, and I can't tell you why, but I'm glad he did. He is much too cool, too outgoing, too worldly, too fun, to be hanging out with me. But here we are, most mornings catching the sunrises and cruising down the 16 mile bike path. Especially in the summer months when the asphalt will melt your wimpy road bike tires, GB and I spend a lot of time exploring the path -- parks, golf courses, neighborhoods, schools, ponds, soccer fields. During monsoon season there are evening downpours that leave the path totally saturated, but we don't care. We tear through the puddles and flooded sidewalks without hesitation, flinging mud and dirty water everywhere.

Simply put, GB allows me to have adventures that I would never get to have on my road bike. I can take risks without worrying about damaging a tightly tuned bike. I drop off curbs, jump over bumps in the road, mash through the gears -- things you'd never do on a delicate road bike. GB makes me much cooler and much more confident than I really am. He makes me embrace things that I fear: adventure, risk, the unknown. He makes me better, stronger, faster.

After the Ironman last spring, and all the training that preceded it, the last thing I wanted to do was get back on my road bike. However, I missed that "wind-in-your-hair-freedom" of the bike, so I dusted off GB and filled up the tires. For weeks on end we did a 30 mile out and back, daily. My times were getting faster, but I didn't think much of it. As the weather cooled, I began taking Bianchi out on Saturday mornings for about 40 miles. The first 40 miles went ridiculously fast and I assumed it was a fluke. Over the next few months my times dropped dramatically and I was beginning to feel like maybe I no longer sucked at the bike. Like maybe, without even realizing it, GB had made me, well, fast.

The final test came just a few weeks ago at my Half Ironman "season wrap up." The outcome? Fifteen minutes faster over 56 miles, averaging well over 20 miles an hour. (But no worries -- I still got my dose of humility during the swim, as always.)

As I walked Bianchi home that day and leaned him up in the garage next to GB, I gave the gator a squeak and a quiet thank you. I had no doubt that he was the one who deserved the credit. I thought back to 18 months earlier when I first inherited Gator Bike and I remember being fearful -- fearful of riding a bike in general (it had been decades since the pink Schwinn of my childhood), fearful of traffic, of hills, of speed, of falling, of making mistakes.

I'm sure everyone can think of someone in their life that pushed them to a place they didn't necessarily want to go. A coach, a teacher, a parent, a friend, who created some sort of resistance or challenge or level of discomfort -- for no benefit of their own, but just to unlock the greatness they saw inside of us.

Although just a bike, this is what GB taught me: to embrace your fears and your deficiencies; to appreciate those that ask more of you than you think possible; and then to thank them for seeing in you what you yourself did not. Initially, these people motivate us to do our best. But eventually we find that the gift they've given us is actually the motivation to do out best, even when no one is watching. When I used to look at GB this is what I saw: old school steel frame, heavy as hell, white with lime green writing, gator shaped horn. But come to find out he's much more than this. He is a period in my life when I grew up, when I realized you are as good as you believe you are, when being my best became not only satisfying, but liberating.

I used to think GB was too good/cool/fast for me. I would get mad and frustrated when the work was hard, when I would make mistakes. I would ignore him for months, assuming that the only way to become a faster road biker was to ride my road bike. But GB has proven to be like that friend that you can always go back to. He doesn't want an apology or a thank you or any of the credit, he simply wants to help you work hard, become better, find confidence, set you free. He just wants to fly up and down the bike path together, "Squeak, squeak! On your left."