You never forget your first time

March 11 , 2002
© Darrell Noakes

They say you never forget your first time. I guess it must be true. I still remember the first bicycle tour I ever attempted.

There's something about years ending in "2", at least when it comes to bicycles. In 1962, I got my first bike and learned to ride. In 1982, I moved to Saskatchewan and bought my first bike since high school. That was the same year the Wascana Freewheelers launched the Great Saskatchewan Heritage Bicycle Tour. Ten years ago, in 1992, I was fortunate enough to have been fired from my last job at the beginning of spring. A friend lost his job at the same time and the two of us spent the summer touring on our bikes.

In 1972, the dumbest thing I ever did on a bike set about a serendipitous turn of events that put me on the road to bicycle touring.

Dumbest trick to try on a bicycle

I was a young teenager growing up in the southern interior of British Columbia. Like most kids my age, I discovered that my heavy department store 10-speed could get up quite a speed going down hills. I had mounted a speedometer on the handlebar, with a cable leading to the front fork where it made a mechanical linkage to the hub. That was way before bike computers. We had this long, steep hill near our house, and every time I went down it, I tried to break my previous speed record. I tried this at night one time. I figured I could see the road well enough in the starlight, and I'd be able to make out my speed as I sailed under the lone street lamp near the bottom of the hill.

I remember that I was out of gears and pedalling as fast as I could when the front wheel stopped moving. I stayed in the air for what seemed like an eternity and thought I'd planned my landing reasonably well until I realized that the crash had sent me off in the direction of a stone retaining wall alongside the roadway. As I hit the pavement, I tried to push myself to the side. I made a few somersaults, then bounced off the wall anyway (although not smashing directly into it as I feared while airborne).

As I lay dazed in the street, my bike, which had been bouncing along behind me, came crashing down on top of me. Then, as I struggled to untangle myself from my bike, I heard the approaching drone of a heavy diesel engine. I managed to skitter to the side of the roadway just as a gravel truck rushed by. The driver gave me a peculiar look as he passed, but didn't even slow down.

My clothes were torn to shreds, my hands, knees and left shoulder were bleeding. I was covered in dust, and bits of gravel were embedded in everything. My bike was a mess, too. The fork was bent back, the handlebar was bent to one side and the saddle was torn and scratched. I picked up the bike and dragged it beside me as I limped home. I ached for several days, but I got better. I never discovered if I hit a rock or pothole or some mechanical defect caused the crash.

A new kind of bicycle

After that, I lost any confidence I might have had in department store bikes. Just the same, my plan was to take what was left of my bike to the only "real" bike shop we had in town, run by a shaggy older gentleman with a British accent. The shop was actually a tiny garage crowded with bicycles, accessories and parts. It was in a back alley on the other side of town, quite a hike from where we lived. The owner patiently listened to me, then outlined my options for fixing the bike. If I had let the subject drop at that point, I'm sure he simply would have repaired the bike and we both would have been satisfied with the outcome. It certainly wasn't his plan to talk me into buying a new bike. But lingering doubt about what caused my old one to crash left me feeling uneasy about ever riding it again. So, I asked about new bikes.

Before that day, as far as I knew, there were only three kinds of bikes in the world. All the teenagers wanted 10-speeds. All the kids wished for Mustangs with banana seats and high-rise handlebars. Little kids got clunky CCM three-speeds with sprung seats and playing cards clothes-pinned to the chainstays. Like most people, I figured a person would have to be insane to pay more than 50 bucks for a good bike.

The shop owner asked what I wanted the bike for. Ride to school? I guess. Race? Maybe. Ride around the countryside? Sure! Maybe a "touring" bike would be what I was looking for, he suggested. I had no idea. He pointed out a bike leaning against the wall near the entrance, his bike. It looked to me like a 10-speed. The shop owner explained how the geometry differed from a racing bike and how the materials and workmanship made it better than a department store bike. I moved in for a closer look. It was obviously of much better quality than the one I had dropped off for repairs. Each bike was built by hand in Birmingham, England, the shop owner said. I lifted the bike off the floor and was astounded by how light it was. I could lift it with one finger. I was convinced.

There was no bike to ride home that day, though. I'd like to remember that it was sent all the way from England, but maybe it just had to come from a distributor in Vancouver. What I do remember is that I had to wait several weeks for the bike to arrive. I paid a deposit of half the cost of the bike, $125, and walked out the door. After seeing the workmanship, the price didn't sound crazy at all. Besides, I had a good job after school, so I could afford it. I had earned that bike.

The new bike arrives

Several weeks later, I got a phone call from the shop. My "touring" bike was in. I walked across town to the shop.

In the middle of the shop floor was the most beautiful bicycle I'd ever seen. The frame was British racing green. The forks, seatstays and chainstays were chrome. At each joint, the tubes disappeared into intricate, filigreed lugs. Gold and silver decals adorned the seat tube. A small decal at the top of the seat tube indicated the Reynolds 531 frame tubing. The Lycett l'Avenir saddle looked just like the fancy leather saddles used on other expensive bikes I'd seen. Printed in white lettering on the downtube was the manufacturer, "Dawes", and on the top tube the model, "Galaxy". A white and gold crest at the front of the head tube proudly proclaimed the bike's lineage.

After looking over the bike, I decided I'd need a few accessories. I picked out a headlamp, a large chrome beast with two light bulbs and a high-low beam switch. The lamps were powered by a single D-cell. A wire attached to the side of the unit could power a taillight. Next, I picked out a rack, an aluminum model with a spring-loaded arm. With a pair of British-made Karrimor black cotton duck saddle bags attached to the sides of the rack, I was ready for touring.

The shop owner attached the accessories while I waited, made some adjustments, checked the bike over one final time, then handed it over to me. I paid the balance of the price, then rode my new bike home.

For a week or two, I simply rode the bike around town, but I was anxious to try the bike on a longer trip. It was a "touring" bike after all.

The departure

A few weeks after getting the Dawes, I set out on my first tour. By most people's standards, it probably wasn't much of a tour. I thought I'd start out with a day trip to a popular recreation area about 30 miles away. I was sure that a 60-mile day would be within my capabilities, especially on such a beautiful bicycle.

My brother, two years younger than me, wanted to come along as well. This would be a wonderful adventure for a couple of kids on summer vacation. We got up early in the morning and packed for the trip. We made sure we had swimsuits, towels, and lunch. It wasn't much stuff, so I packed everything into the saddlebags on the Dawes, except the towels, which were clamped firmly in the rack. Then we headed on down the road, I on my Dawes Galaxy and my brother on his blue five-speed Mustang, both of us dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts. We rode through downtown, along the highway south of town, and up the long, steep hill out of the Columbia River valley.

The ride seemed effortless. The miles slipped away behind us and we felt as though we could ride to the ends of the earth. Even before we reached the half-way point, we had ridden further than at any time previously.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun had risen bright and hot, and there were only a few puffy clouds blowing over the mountains. About halfway to our destination, we noticed that there were more clouds than blue sky. I was determined to complete this trip according to plan. I convinced my brother, and myself, that the clouds would blow away and we'd have a great afternoon swimming at the lake. As we reached the turn-off from the highway, we realized that the day would not be as we planned. The sky was overcast and dark, and we could hear thunder rumbling through the valley. Since we were so much closer to our destination than to home, we decided to find shelter at the lake. Surely the storm would be gone in time for our ride home.

The rain hit before we got to the lake. It arrived with a horrendous downpour, soaking us within seconds. We arrived at the lakeshore looking for a picnic shelter, but found only a deserted beach. We turned around, planning to seek shelter in a change room facility nearby.

In all the times we had visited that lake, it never occurred to us that the reason there was so much light in the change room was that there was no roof on the building. The rain poured in unabated. My brother and I huddled on a bench and covered ourselves with our towels. At least we were out of the wind and above the puddles. Staying warm was another matter. The rain was frigid. Wet cotton towels didn't help at all. Although our lunch had stayed dry inside my Karrimor saddle bags, once we unwrapped the wax paper, our peanut butter sandwiches dissolved before our eyes.

The rescue

We were shivering uncontrollably when we heard the sounds of a large vehicle driving into the parking lot next to the building. My brother peeked out through the change room door and said it looked like a pick-up truck belonging to the park. The driver looked incredibly surprised to see two soaked kids emerge from the building. He said he didn't know what possessed him to drive to the building, not really expecting to find anyone there in such weather, and he was just about to leave because there were no cars in the parking lot. He urged us into the cab and turned the heater up to full blast, then strode through the puddles, hoisted our bikes onto his shoulders, returned to the truck and laid our bikes carefully in the back.

The park guy drove us to the service building, where other park employees were gathering in the kitchen for lunch. Everyone was surprised to see us, even more surprised to learn that we had ridden our bikes there that morning, but nonetheless impressed by the distance we had ridden. They cleared one end of a large table to make room for us, then set two chairs facing a huge wood-burning stove, so large that it had two cavernous ovens. An older fellow tossed log after log into the firebox. Someone else fetched a couple of blankets. We changed into our swimsuits, wrapped ourselves in the blankets, then sat in front of the open oven doors. A woman hung our clothing where the heat from the stove would dry it quickly.

A large pot of hearty soup was simmering on top of the stove. The woman sliced a couple loaves of home-made bread -- no doubt baked in the ovens of that huge stove -- and prepared thick sandwiches for the group in the kitchen. Every few minutes, she turned away from the sandwiches to stir the soup. People were asking us what it was like to ride our bikes from town. It seemed like such a long way. Was it difficult? Were we still cold? Were we tired? Were we hungry?

The staff insisted that we join them for lunch. It was an easy offer to accept, much better than soggy peanut butter sandwiches.

Most of the staff were university and high school students working at the park for the summer. A few were employed full-time by the provincial parks branch. They all loved their work, even when it was raining. I got the impression that some of them loved their work especially when it was raining. In such weather, there were fewer crowds to add wear and tear on the park. Everyone certainly enjoyed sitting around the kitchen, in the warmth of that huge stove, while the rain poured on through the afternoon.

The storm showed no signs of letting up. The staff wondered if we planned to ride home in the rain. With only enough clothing to ride in the fairest of weather, we were ill-prepared for the return trip. In an anticlimactic end to our day, we phoned home to get our parents to come and get us.

Although it wasn't the best introduction to touring, the experience didn't discourage me from trying again. Thirty years later, the region of British Columbia where I started touring remains my favourite place to tour. My old Dawes Galaxy rests in a corner of our basement now, where I hope to restore it to its original condition and ride it again. Every time I look at the bike, I'm reminded of that first tour.