It's just like riding a bicycle

"I'm back in the saddle again, out where a friend is a friend … I'm ridin' the range once more, totin' my old forty-four. Where we sleep out every night, and the only law is right, I'm back in the saddle again." -- Gene Autry, "Back in the Saddle Again"

When I was a kid I spent a good portion of every summer day on my bike. In junior high, I began building my own Moto-X bikes, and I could jump off the curb, off a ramp or over a pebble with the best of 'em. I used to ride for hours, and the hills didn't feel much different than the flats. I put a speedometer on my father's five-speed touring bike and pedaled the bike up to 50 mph one time.

Those were the memories that triggered my impulse to wheel a mountain bike off the display rack and down to the cash register a couple weeks ago. That baby was on sale, and it was a humdinger. It had fancy caliper breaks, 26 speeds, hand-grip shift knobs and a very cushy seat, which was the one concession to my age and physical condition I was smart enough to make.

I felt like a kid wheeling that bike out of the store and packing it into the trunk of my car. I couldn't wait to get that puppy home and start zooming around the neighborhood. I got home, changed into my play clothes and hit the streets. Cruising around the neighborhood was just as I remembered it. I went through all the gears, sometimes reaching dizzying speeds in excess of 20 mph. I zoomed past landlubbers mowing their lawns or slowly walking their dogs. The wind gently mussed my hair, and I even opened my mouth, hoping to catch a bug in the teeth. Suddenly, I was 12 years old again, and I was just about to go no-handed and throw my head back in joy when my pant cuff became entangled in the front derailer, pulling my foot off the pedal, and sending me careening down the street, shrieking like a young girl who's just discovered a spider in her hair. I escaped crashing into a neighbor's yard only by crashing into the back of his car instead. In retrospect, the yard would have been a better choice, but I was too busy crashing to be making choices.

You can call me a lot of things -- like clumsy, impulsive, unwise, and so on -- but you can't call me a quitter. I wasn't going to let that bike, or my pants, or somebody's stupid car rob me of my second youth. I wasn't going to be discourage by a few bruises, a chipped tooth or a knee that now bends in both directions, either. My plan was to get back on the horse that bucked me, and bend it to my will.

A couple days later my young friend, Joey Bernier, dropped by to mow our lawn. He'd brought his bike. He's 12. After Joey had performed an admirable mowing job and taken me to the cleaners for 20 bucks, he said what any spunky 12-year-old is apt to say, "Wanna go for a bike ride?"

I won't lie. The memory of my encounter with the business end of a Buick LeSabre was still fresh in my mind. But I wasn't about to admit cowardice to a punk kid armed with a puny bike that has only one gear. "Sure!" I said. "Let's hit the bike trail. Just let me get my leathers and helmet on first."

We hit the trail and made the turn down the Palmer-Wasilla, cool breeze blowing, sun shining -- I once again felt the years melting off. So far we'd been mostly riding in the shade, and there weren't anything you could really call a hill. "Try to jump these bumps up here," Joey called back. He hopped over them effortlessly. I picked up a little steam, stood up on the pedals, and made a hopping motion as I hit the bumps.

The wheels stayed firmly planted on the ground, but my spine made a sound like a Peter Forsberg slapshot. I swerved a little from the sudden pain, and took a tree branch in the eye. "Are you okay?" Joey called back.

"Yeah. My jumping skills are just a little rusty."

"Your eye is bleeding."

"Just keep your eyes on the trail," I said. "I've got it under control on this end."

Heading up the Palmer-Wasilla, I began to notice hills that seemed a lot milder in my car. At the bottom of the first long incline, Joey stood up and began pedaling hard. "Let's get up a lot of speed, and then see how far we can coast on the other side." My leg muscles had begun to protest as soon as we'd departed flat ground, so the idea of coasting was very appealing. I thought, "How hard could it be to pedal like a madman up this hill, anyway? Besides, the reward of coasting for a while will be well worth it."

I was in something like 24th gear when I began really pumping the pedals. At first it worked pretty good. I actually gained ground on the kid and made a move a little ahead of him. He made an effortless transition into some other internal kid gear, and streaked away from me. I began shifting down one gear with each revolution of the pedals. Soon I was in first gear, my feet circling wildly at the ends of my legs, but producing little in the way of speed. By the time we reached the top of the hill, my feet were turning about 6,000 rpm, but my forward motion had become almost imperceptible. I was reduced to wobbling wildly and swerving back and forth to keep from tipping over, but I wasn't about to get off and walk. I was breathing like someone who had just sprinted to the top of Mount McKinley, and I was actually experiencing projectile sweating. Joey had already crested the hill, coasted down the other side, and was halfway up the next rise.

"Start coasting now!" he shouted. I did. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite made the top of the hill, and my momentum was registering in negative numbers. I stopped pedaling and instantly began rolling backward down the hill. I think I said "Oh God, no," before I dumped the bike and walked, without shame, to the top of the hill. I climbed back on and coasted down the hill. Some time later we arrived at the car wash -- Joey looking fresh and full of energy, me looking like a scarecrow that had been dragged behind a truck through three states.

"You wanna go on to Four Corners?" he asked. In fairness, the question was innocent enough. It was the sort of question I might have asked in the days before I realized my heart might stop if I made it angry enough.

At first I thought he meant the bar, and a beer was sounding pretty good, but then I remembered he was 12.

"Four corners? Isn't that another 20 or 30 miles yet?"

"No, it's just the next light up there."

"We better not," I said. "I think your mom's gonna be wondering where you are. We've been out here for hours."

"We've only been out here about 20 minutes. Mom knows I'm safe as long as I'm with you. We could stop at Four Corners and get something to drink or an ice-cream."

The idea of a drink or an ice-cream was almost enough to drive me on, but my legs had become so hot from strain that I could actually smell burning hair, and my lungs were singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic in two different languages.

"Joey, I'm just going to be honest. I think you're going to have to go back to the nearest building and call for either an ambulance or a hearse. If they can get here in five minutes, I think an ambulance will work. Anything longer than that, and it's not looking good for me. But, don't blame yourself."

"Uh, maybe we should just stay here until those veins on your forehead go down," he said. "And maybe you shouldn't try to ride the bike to work next week, after all."

I hooked my belt to the back of Joey's bike and 30 minutes later he towed me back onto my street. "If you could just pedal a little, I'd appreciate it, Frank."

"Just pay attention to the road, young man. It's your fault we're in this mess to begin with."

"Stop being a big baby, Frank. Next time we go for a bike ride, you're staying home."

Ha! The joke's on Joey. I've discovered the art of Bi-Joring, and the dogs are loving it. Joey may be in good shape, but he's going to be sorry when I'm coasting uphill and downhill. Sure, youth has its energy and vigor, but with age comes wisdom and a certain lack of pride. You might laugh as my dogs pull me along the Palmer-Wasilla Highway, but I'll be the one with my thinning hair blowing in the breeze and with bugs in my teeth.

Frank Ameduri wants the folks at PETA to know that there's no such thing as bi-joring, so relax, already.