How I Returned to the Saddle: A Tale of Two Wheels

As an four year old infant, my odyssey on two wheels took flight. Though the mists of early childhood obscure much, the vision of my first bicycle remains etched in my mind's eye: a modest 18 or 20 inches, adorned with a brown frame, gleaming chrome handlebars, and a steadfast luggage rack – a noble steed devoid of a top tube. Training wheels? The sands of time may have buried that detail, or perhaps it's a memory I choose not to unearth. Nestled in the heart of the city, a parking lot became my proving grounds. Amidst the steel giants that slumbered there, I mastered the art of cycling – a wild and exhilarating ride that bestowed upon me an indelible sense of freedom. Two things remain unforgotten: the joy of cycling and the thrill of its mastery.

With a move to the countryside, my cycling adventures took on a new dimension. I learned to ride hands-free, arms outstretched to the sky – a young bird testing its wings. But with the sweet taste of freedom came a dash of daring curiosity: how far could one travel with eyes closed to the world? On a fateful day, I succumbed to the temptation and, to my astonishment, veered off course, grazing a slumbering VW Beetle in my path. A moment of fright, yes, but one without dire consequence, save for the insurance that gracefully covered the mishap.

The procession of bicycles that followed my first are but shadows in my recollection. There was a racing bike, a relic of my mother's friend or perhaps my sister's, and a Bonanza bike – both towering giants to my youthful stature. In time, I grew to claim the Bonanza as my own. Despite its grand saddle, lofty handlebars, and the promise of speed from its gears and drum brakes, its grandeur was a facade; the ride was anything but majestic. You need the gears to get up a hill at all and the drum brake is absolutely essential to get the heavy thing back to a standstill downhill.

In the bloom of my early teens, a time shrouded in the mists of memory, I made a pivotal choice. With savings clutched in hand, I ventured to the only bike dealer within miles and laid claim to a mountain bike, a Giant Boulder 520. It was the steed of dreams, costing a princely sum of 500 German marks, and it marked the beginning of a new chapter in my cycling saga. Twenty-seven Gripshift gears, thick studded tires, sturdy frame, good rim brakes, bright red color… a dream of a bike.

In the kingdom of adolescence, where the passage of time is marked by newfound freedoms, my sixteenth year heralded the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. The trusty steed of my childhood was exchanged for a mechanical mount – a Herkules moped with a heart of Sachs, a faithful companion that would carry me beyond the familiar trails and into the vastness of the world.

The moped, a symbol of independence, was swift, but not swift enough to satisfy the yearning for speed that coursed through my veins. With a tinkerer's spirit, I transformed it, now with T-handlebars, now with a sleek full fairing, and at times, with a 95 cc kit that promised the rush of the wind and the blur of the landscape. Never caught in the act of these mechanical escapades, I reveled in the good fortune that smiled upon me. Where once it roared at 80 km/h, it now soared to 140 km/h, racing down hills with the tailwind as my ally.

A tale of daring and adventure unfolded as I took to the go-kart track, a gladiator arena for the modern charioteer. With my friend's bike beneath me, a steed not built for the high top speed of my own but blessed with the gift of acceleration (Enduro Yamaha DT 80), I claimed the silver laurel. Second place was mine, a triumph in a race where the thrill of the chase was victory enough. By the way the gold vent to another Street Yamaha driver with optimised racing parts (RD 80 with full fairing).

I recall a time when I, in a bout of folly, braked too harshly upon a dew-kissed meadow. The earth claimed me, and I found myself a knight not on its steed but flattened beneath it, a humbling reminder of nature's embrace. The scar on my shin still reminds me of it today.

On another occasion, at the crossroads of destiny, my trusty moped and I danced a little too close to the edge. The footrest, a rigid sentinel, kissed the ground in a fervent scrape as we leaned into the curve of fate. The world spun, and there I lay, pinned beneath my iron horse, until a kind soul, a passerby in the tapestry of life, lent a hand. With a heave and a ho, I was freed, my steed and I left with but a broken blinker to tell the tale.

Ah, those mopeds of yore, they were forged in the fires of resilience, enduring the trials of youthful exuberance with little more than a scratch. Such were the days of adventure, of lessons learned and stories etched into the annals of memory.

In the heart of the countryside, where the roads stretch far and wide and the air whispers tales of adventure, my journey on two wheels had long been forgotten. The roar of engines had become my siren's song, leading me away from the simple joy of pedaling through the world. My trusty Honda was succeeded by a Yamaha XT 600, and then a BMW 1100 GS, which stood as a silent sentinel in my garage, gathering the dust of years and the cobwebs of time. I've probably seen too many people my age driving their necks off with motorcycles that are too fast.

Nearly two decades had woven their tapestry before the call of the wild beckoned me back to my long-lost friend, the dusty red speedster. It was the arrival of a new soul in our midst, a child, that rekindled the flame of exploration. For what better way to discover the world's wonders than from the saddle of a bike, with the wind as our companion and the open sky as our guide?

With tender care, I awakened the sleeping Giant, its frame still sturdy, its spirit undimmed. A little polish here, some oil there, tires filled with breaths of new life, and a throne for my little one – we were ready to embark on a quest anew.

Yet, the passage of time had not been as kind to me. The Giant bore the years with grace, but I felt each mile in my bones, a reminder of days gone by. Twenty kilometers was my humble limit, a pilgrimage to the temple of ice cream and back, a bittersweet taste of what once was.

It was not until the turning of another page in our family's book that the spark truly ignited. Our child, now seven or eight, was gifted with their first noble steed, a 27.5-inch mountain bike that beckoned to me with a promise of renewal. In the same store, it was love at first sight – I mounted another bike with a special offer, and as I rode, the years fell away, and I was reborn.

Also at this time, we ventured into the realm of camping, from the humble abode of a family plastic tent to the enchanted tipi with its heart of fire in the winter, and finally, to a caravan steeped in stories of old. My new bike, blessed with the rare gift of holes in its suspension fork for a lowrider, became my chariot of discovery.

My first voyage was a solitary one, but soon, my child joined me, and together we embarked on a 50-kilometer odyssey during the Easter holidays, where the sun's warmth battled the night's chill. Frosty it was. It was an adventure that etched itself into our souls.

As the seasons turned, our family set forth on a grand expedition, tracing the winding path of the Eder River for 250 kilometers. And thus, a new hobby was born, a passion rekindled, and a tale that would be told for generations to come.