Forty years ago, I was a regular at the Sunday morning bicycle races at Wells Avenue in Newton. They’ve been running ever since, and a few weeks ago I went back to reminisce.
The whole scene was nearly identical to when I had last seen it. Lots of racers of varying ability. Bikes ranging from cheap department-store models to the latest machines worth more than $10,000. Same chatter about equipment, training routes, other races and mileage ridden during the week. Same lack of bathrooms, which is OK if you are a guy who has to pee (there are nearby woods) but tougher if you are a woman or your need is more than just pee. Same non-existent crowd of spectators—I was probably the only person there who was not a racer or a direct family member of one.
The first race was Level C (beginners), with a mix of teens and adults. Some were trying out the sport, wondering whether they were interested, while others were definitely interested, but the C race was the right level for them.
Then the B race—a bit more serious with nicer bikes, faster pace and smoother riding. This gave me time to chat with the club leaders. We compared racer speeds based on lap times, which turned out to be quite similar across the years. We talked about how the races began in 1980, and I gave credit to Chris Ryan, the local racer who got it all going.
The A race started, and it was a step up in every way. The bikes were top-of-the-line, gleaming racing machines. The riders were bigger and stronger, without a trace of body fat. No kids. Everyone wore a sleek Lycra racing suit, some displaying the names of their sponsored team. The race was quieter—expensive bikes have almost no friction so roll silently. Dozens of racers moved fast, but as one, like a school of fish magically mimicking each other.
I felt a pang of longing. I used to be in that A pack and was one of its better riders for several years. I could ride that fast and that smoothly and often placed in the top five at the finish. My bike was the best available, and I built it myself. I wanted to return to Wells Ave. the next weekend, unload my bike from the top of my car, and jump into the A race. It would feel amazing to recapture that speed, fitness and athletic youth.
But I don’t own a racing bike anymore; I would have to buy one with a large chunk of my retirement account. I’m fortunate to enjoy good health, but am nowhere near A-level racing strength. I could work toward this goal with regular training rides, but how long would it take? At least three years, if I make it back to that level at all. And I remember the intense dedication and focus of hard training, which no longer seems appealing.
In the 1980s, I liked, even loved, the pain and suffering from bike racing. It was therapy for my grief over my father’s death, and it changed my self-image into seeing myself as an athlete. But I don’t need to suffer like that anymore; now I like sipping coffee with my wife in the mornings. Bike racing was an important part of my life, but I realized I could leave it in the past.
A few days after my visit to Wells Ave., I emailed the club to thank them and donated some money to help the next generation of riders. Maybe someone else grew up skinny and weak and wants to find themselves through bike racing. Maybe another young adult is going through a tough time and needs Wells Ave. to save them.
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Chuck Connell is a writer in Bedford, MA. He is working on a memoir, from which this essay is adapted.