I am not really expecting anyone to read this, I am doing it more for myself. It’s pretty rough. I don’t plan on editing or rereading, just letting my thoughts and emotions flow. I have wanted to write about my dad for a while now, but haven’t been able to fully take on the emotion of doing it. What a better time to remember him than on his birthday. People have frequently asked me, “And you still ride your bike?” after hearing about my dad’s accident. It’s hard to describe to someone how much closer I feel to my dad when I am on my bike. This is my attempt to share some of those feelings about something we both shared together – the bike.
I would have never dreamed that when I was younger that I would someday grow up to be passionate and competitive about riding a bike. I still remember some of those early days on the bike. My dad started riding bikes when my Uncle Daren moved back from Ohio. With his return to Utah came a new passion for cycling. My dad was never one to be outdone, particularly by his younger brother, so he bought his first road bike. It was a pink Schwinn. It was no wonder my first thought of the sport was that it was pretty girly – spandex! Pink bike! I remember taking it out of the garage and using the curb to get my leg over the bar. I had to stretch on tip toes to reach the pedals. On every down stroke my bottom would collide with the top tube. It was exhilarating to look down at the computer and see I could reach speeds of 14 or 15 miles per hour.
Things changed as I got older though, other sports started to take precedence. Somehow while I was in high school, my dad talked me into going on a 50 mile bike ride to Brigham City. Twenty-five miles there and 25 miles back. I’m pretty sure the conversation went something like this: Doug: Don’t be a wuss! Me: I’m not a wuss. Doug: You’re going to let your old man beat you on a bike? Aren’t you some big, bad football player? Me: Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not wearing spandex. And I didn’t. I got out on the tandem with my basketball shorts on. I was too cool for that tight stuff. Luckily, Adam was on the front to help pull me along. Riding out to Brigham on the old highway I thought to myself, “this isn’t too bad!” We were flying down the road at around 28 miles per hour. It was a beautiful fall day and I was really enjoying myself. Then we hit the 25 mile turn around spot. I quickly realized as the wind hit me straight in the face why we were going so fast – tailwind, which was now, a headwind. We limped back into Ogden going 12 miles per hour, using all of my strength to hold on. Adam pretty much dragged my butt home. I was complaining and swearing never to ride a bike again. Doug would look over at me, smile with that gleam in his eye and give me his profound advice, “You have to earn it, Bub! Enjoy the suffering.” Enjoy the suffering? Are you crazy.
Needless to say I didn’t get what he was talking about. And it took me a few years before I ever got back onto another road bike again. My ideas about cycling started to change when I discovered a love for the mountains and hiking. Doug and I would frequently walk/jog up over Indian Trail. It was amazing to look out over the Ogden valley and have that time with my dad. Just he and I talking about life and finding our own pathway through it. This was a difficult time for me and I found peace being up in the mountains. During this time Doug convinced me to try riding again, but on a mountain bike. Heck, you could wear baggy shorts! I cherish that time we had to be up in the mountains together. Doug always had a way of listening and giving advice, without being authoritative or condescending. He would simply tell you a story or get you to come up with the answer on your own. Also, it was the quietness that surrounded you as you could think take in the beauty around you. I miss those times.
It wasn’t an easy decision to move away from home, and it wasn’t easy telling my dad. He and I were always close and he took it as a surprise to hear we were moving to Eugene, Oregon. We had been there before for track meets and fell in love with the area. Doug liked the idea of frequently visiting Track Town USA. Shortly after moving to Eugene my mountain bike was stolen. On the first night I put it outside. I even used two locks. I went without a bike that first summer but found I really missed being on the bike. I talked my dad into letting me have his old Specialized Allez because he hadn’t been riding for a while due to shoulder pain when he rode. It was a new world to be out on the road. I quickly got to know the back roads of Eugene and found myself excited to discover the new beauty in an unknown area.
My weekly calls to my dad describing my rides got him excited again about the possibility of riding, so he got himself a bike. But the pain didn’t go away. Fortunately for me that meant he had a bike to sell. I bought my first real road bike from my dad. It was the Specialized Tarmac, fit with zebra print to match the flamboyant style of Mario Cipollini. It didn’t take many phone conversations for my dad to realize I had fallen in love with cycling and that he wanted to have that connection again. Naturally, he got another bike. Once Doug had something on his mind, it was good as done. He was a pretty stubborn man at times. Very driven.
I miss the phone calls with my dad. Hearing every exaggerated detail of a race. Telling me how he was training specifically for cross. How he was trying a new diet. Mostly I listened. Listened to a man I love share a passion that brought us together. Good old honest Lance was right, it isn’t about the bike, it was about a connection between me and my dad. When I would ride alone I would push myself up that hill because I knew in the back of my mind Doug was there saying, “Quit slacking and go harder.” He drove me to push myself. This drive lead me to push myself outside of cycling as well. It was on the bike that I felt a closeness to him. It was my time to listen to him. Listen to myself. Listen to everything around me. Even though we were miles apart, I still felt that closeness to him when I rode.
Through the years I looked forward to my dad visiting so that I could show him how much better it was to ride in Eugene and how he was missing out living in Utah. For months I would tell him about a ride we had to do when he came to visit. Our favorite was Wolf Creek. It is an old logging road that winds around the outskirts of town through a densely populated pine forest. It’s beautiful to say the least. He loved it. Every visit we had to do that ride together. Doug couldn’t do a casual ride. It was always an all-out race! I would push him until I made him crack up a hill. When he would get to the top I’d say some smartalic comment, “You’re getting too old for this pop!” To which he would reply, “Nice ride, Bub. But if I was your age I would have finished two minutes ahead of you.” He took pride in knowing that I could whoop him. He was so competitive and hated to lose, but I knew deep down he was proud of me.
I don’t remember much about the day or phone call I received telling me my dad was in an accident. I do remember thinking that my dad was a fighter and everything would turn out ok. Unfortunately, his race was done. I am grateful I was able to spend some time with him before he passed on. While he was lying in his hospital bed I would talk and talk. It was different. Usually I was the one listening. I still remember how his face lit up when I talked about our riding adventures. Doug fought a hard fight, but his time to hang up his bike had come. So why do I continue to ride my bike? Because my bike is my dad and represents the time I had with him. I can’t give that up. It would be like giving up on my dad. I feel a closeness to him. And he is, forever drafting behind me as I continue on with the race. You are missed old man! But you carry on in me. Happy birthday pop!
