Some of the best rides I’ve ever done have been some of the worst rides I’ve ever done.
It was a blistering hot day in North Texas…
I moved to the Dallas, Texas area in the Spring of 1980. I did not know I was moving into a record breaking drought and heat wave, but that was in the future and would be followed by record breaking rains and floods. Such is life in North Texas.
Prior to the move, I’d been living, working, and cycling in the Delaware Valley. I’d lived in northern Delaware, and in Southeastern Pennsylvania for seven long years. I’d enjoyed the benefits of a rich cycling community. But I hadn’t much liked the northeast. When the chance came to join a large “silicon prairie” defense contractor and live in Texas, I’d jumped at it.
The move was a flurry of activity. Winding up one job, closing and packing a household, and then jumping over a thousand miles to a new and completely unknown location, where challenges. Upon arrival in Texas, the first task was to find a cheap temporary apartment, and begin to integrate into the local life. When the moving truck came, I spent a long and grueling weekend, sorting out what would stay in that apartment, and what would go into storage. Sadly, one of the choices was to store my bicycle. (I would later learn never to let a moving company so much as touch a bicycle.)
We were busy. I had a new and demanding job to learn. It was seriously challenging work. In some small “spare time” my wife and I searched for a more permanent residence. Once located, that entailed another move, and the resulting chaos of finding, sorting, etc.
It was Summer. It hadn’t rained in a long time, and looked like it never would again. I was jonesing for a ride. I hadn’t been on the bike in more than two months. I had a rare Saturday off work. (We tended to think that a six day week was normal.)
First I had to find some clothing. Not easy after a double move. And worse, most of my old bike clothes either didn’t fit, or were too moth eaten to wear. Then I turned my attention to the bike. That was when I discovered that it hadn’t survived the move in prime condition. Okay, find tools. Find parts. Clear workspace. Work on bike. It was ready to ride by sundown. Sunday then. After church.
That first ride in Texas was both a joy and a disappointment. The joy came from once again being aboard my old friend. The disappointment came from… Well I was in terrible shape, and I didn’t know my way around. It was a short ride. I vowed to fix both of those things soon.
I did start riding. Just not with much regularity. I mostly rode in the evenings. It was hot, but I like heat. These were, by necessity, shorter rides. I worked long hours, and I didn’t own any lights then.
So, high summer came. We were seeing temps in the 100+ range on a daily basis. I had another free Saturday. This time I was ready.
It was a blistering hot day in North Texas. The thermometer was reading in the mid 90s by the time I mounted up at 9:00. That was when the “honey do” list kicked in. I had to postpone the ride. I cleared the accumulated chores and errands by late afternoon.
The temp had passed the high, but was still well into the 100s when I finally saddled up. I was carrying two water bottles. I wasn’t afraid.
I went “bingo” on water less than two hours later, but there was a store in sight. I got off the bike, on somewhat quivery legs, and refilled bottles, drank one dry, and refilled again. I had the thought that I should probably start for home. The problem was, I didn’t know exactly where home was. I was that new to Denton County, Texas. I’d been too consumed by work to do much exploring. I knew, generally, in which direction home lay, but the roads weren’t cooperating with me. Worse, I was in mostly empty ranchland. No services, buildings, or signs of habitation in sight.
The situation was closing in on serious. That was when another cyclist appeared in the distance behind me. I watched a bit. He was moving well, and gaining. I sat up, and went into low cruise mode. The other rider overtook me and slowed, grinning. “You okay?” he asked.
I admitted that I was almost out of water, and didn’t know where I was. He laughed and said, “I thought you looked like a Yankee.” (Ed Note: In Texas, if you are not from Texas, you are a Yankee.) Then he handed me his extra bottle and said, “Stay with me. It’s only about fifteen miles to the shop. There’s a country church up ahead where we can fill the bottles up.”
That rider was Jim Hoyt. He had only recently purchased the bike store in Richardson, and changed the name to the Richardson Bike Mart. That would have a lot of influence on my life in the future, and would ultimately lead to me being dropped hard by a punk kid named, of all things, Armstrong.
Jim opened the store, and I called home. I hate calling home for a ride, but this was definitely one of those times. I didn’t know how to get from Richardson to Lewisville. I was sunburned, dehydrated, over-exerted, near exhausted, and besides I was whipped. But I had found a friend, and a bike-home in Texas.
That was one seriously tough ride. Thanks Jim.
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