GLENN’S PEDALING HISTORY: TODAY TO THE BEGINNING
Sunday April 1, 2012 is the maiden ride of the
Maze Boys. The ride will start the border to border bicycle ride Dad Maze is
embarking upon. This will likely be the last time Chris and Geoff will visit
Georgia. It will be the first time we will ride a trail together and certainly
the first ride together on the Chief Ladiga and Silver Comet trails. The
forecast is for warm weather (80-92 degrees is my definition of warm and
anything above 92 is hot) and 20% chance of rain. I hope this epic trip isn’t affected
by miserable weather. Following my two week posting plan, I should have a
dissertation of the ride posted once we are back in Augusta. While I write, the
boys can attend the Masters. I hope they will be able to get my favorite PGA
golfer’s autograph on a 2007 Master’s pin flag. Iowa boy Zach Johnson won that
year and I was blessed with getting through the gates on Thursday, Friday and
Sunday. What an upset and what a neat deal for me to be able to follow Zach for
three days, and then witness him don the green jacket. Wow that was a special
deal for my first ever Masters. For this year, it was great that my pal Steve
let me purchase two Wednesday par 3 practice round tickets at face value, and
for favorite patient Francis to give me two Thursday competition badges. Geoff
came to the Master’s last year, but this will be Chris’ first time inside the
hollowed gates of Augusta National.
But I digress on my other passion. This post is
to be about the pedaling part of my life. I started pedaling when I was a very
young fellow, probably four to five years old. It was a tricycle that was
incredibly difficult to ride on the farm, especially with the driveway being a rut
ridden dirt path, often filled with mud puddles that could swallow up a medium
sized pig. So little Glennie decided if he would ride his tricycle on the gravel
road that ran past our farm; now paved and known as Northwest Street in Carroll,
Iowa; it would be more fun and allow me to go really fast. Well it was fun to
raise some dust for only a very brief moment. One of the neighbors, I think Al
and his wife, were driving up the road and noticed this little urchin on his
trike. Being responsible folks, I guess they thought they needed to scare the
living crap out of me. Al laid on his horn and blared me into total panic. I
kept pedaling, trying to ride on the edge of the road. There is something
significant about gravel roads at the outer edge. The packed midroad gravel
switches to soft loose stones, which immensely affect stability of any vehicle,
let alone a little boy’s three wheeler. Panic struck. I hit the gravel; throwing
me head over heels into the ditch. In a nanosecond I learned how painful the
needles of bull thistles can be. If that wasn’t enough, the neighbor man
continued to blare his horn incessantly. He just kept insanely blasting it at
me. Maybe the horn was stuck, a common occurrence of cars in the late forties. Of course I did what most four year olds would
do at this point, proceeded to pour buckets of tears. I cried and I cried. The
tears stung my face and made little ripples in my dust laden face. That was not
the end of it; the horn honking awakened a grizzly bear, better known as the
Old Man, the endearing name my seven brothers labeled dad. The old man was taking a Sunday afternoon nap. When
I heard him shriek my name with several expletives added in for good effect,
somehow my urinary sphincter let loose. The warmth was a bit of a relief yet I
guess looked a little freaky to bother Dick. He ran up the road to rescue me,
yelling back to my mom that he would get me home safely.
There are other early pedal stories that are
forever carved into my mind. For example, the bicycle I wished was mine: a
freshly painted blue and white bike that just sat there in the back of a house
in town. I was convinced it could be borrowed without anyone caring, satisfying
my desire to be like my friends who had wonderful bicycles. So I snuck behind
the houses to find this blue and white beauty. It was an adult bike, too big
for an eight year old to ride. Stealthishly I wheeled the gem back to the farm.
When my mom asked, “where did that bike come from?”, the mastermind of all my
bad luck, transgressions and mischief was immediately uttered. “George T” I
said. Well God had a plan for that untruth. When I tried to ride this oversized
horse of a bike down that rutty driveway, my feet not touching the pedals, I
lost control and crashed with the full force of the handle bar impaling me. Not
only was there unbelievable stabbing pain in my gut but the collision left me
out of breath. Had I died? I thought yes but it just scared the bejeebers out
of me, to the point that I immediately wheeled the bike back to town and placed
it where it belonged.
When I got
old enough, probably twelve or thirteen, I took a paper route with the Des
Moines Tribune, an afternoon and evening paper. I needed a bicycle to pick up
and deliver about thirty five papers. The only bike in the Maze family was a
hand me down coaster brake machine. I believe my oldest brother George bought
this bike some fifteen years before I was able to ride it. Given seven brothers
used this bike, it would now be classified as a “beater”. Each brother repaired, splashed paint on
spots and crashed it. I inherited a pretty trashed bicycle, which I fondly
named Ol’ Unfaithful. I remember
repairing the coaster brake mechanism multiple times. Sometimes being
frustrated to tears over not placing bearings, coaster discs or the axle in the
proper place or order, then having to disassemble all the parts and start all
over again. It was especially stressful when mechanical malfunctions occurred
at key moments, like the time I had to repair O’Unfaithful, before pedaling a
couple of miles to the newspaper office. One such frantic day of repair, I was
late to pick up the papers, resulting in a mad dash to town one hour late. This
was the first time I was hit by a car. Riding hell bent for leather, I just
started to stand up to pedal when a lady backed right into me. Wham, I hit the
street like a dead pigeon. In pain but not thinking I had any broken bones, I
slowly got to my feet. The lady got out and asked me if I was hurt. Of course I
said no, even though I was. The bike was bent but I could ride it. After limping
around with the route, I returned home to get a scolding for not getting the
lady’s name. Most of my other crashes have occurred later in my biking years. 
