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.