Getting a tricycle this summer was probably one of the best things I’d done for my health since discovering Rolfing. For some reason, even on days when I’m feeling particularly lazy about walking, I’m more than willing to go for a bike ride.
So all summer I rode my trike through my woodsy neighborhood, learning which house had loose dogs, which house had friendly people, which house was for sale or getting a new driveway or using the same lawn service as I was. Probably by the end of the summer, I knew the houses on my route better than the people who lived in them.
By the end of the summer, I also expected to feel strongly muscled and healthy. OK, maybe my expectations didn’t run that far beyond reality but I did expect that with each passing day, the exercise would get easier, not harder.
I was wrong.
With each passing day, I found myself struggling more and more. Soon, I was walking my bike up the little hills because I could no longer ride up them. I didn’t really start to panic though, until I found that even going downhill made me exhausted.
I had recently started taking iron pills for anemia but instead of feeling my strength return, it felt as though it was being sapped. At that point, I’d pretty much convinced myself that I was ill with some terrible blood disease and death was just around the corner.
I would return from each ride with my knees aching, barely able to pull myself up the stairs in my home. I knew it would be just a matter of time before I started mysteriously losing weight and be forced to take to my bed, there to fade gracefully away while flowers bloomed and birds sang their songs outside my window.
But the flowers never bloomed, my birds still called out with high pitched shrieks that could in no way be called song and the pounds did not melt away. Drats! Leave it to me to get a disease that would kill me while I was still fat.
And then one day my friend Sandra came over and invited me on a bike ride with her. I warned her at the outset that my yet to be named disease would hinder me from keeping up with her but that I would do my best. I put on my bravest face, sighed a martyred sigh, tossed my dog into his basket and took off.
About half way through the ride, as I panted heavily while attempting to pedal down a particularly steep and exhausting hill, Sandra commented on the lack of air in my tires. “What lack of air?” I questioned between gasps. “Well,” she said, “usually bike tires are round and firm while you’re pedaling. Yours, on the other hand, are flat.” I craned around to see what she could possibly mean. This was a new bike. The tires looked round in the garage. Why would they look different now?
And yet I found that indeed, while sitting on the bike, the rear tires did look a bit low. But no lower than the radial tires on my car. And I just assumed my bike tires should look the same.
Sandra suggested that this was not necessarily true. In fact, she suggested, it was totally wrong. We rode back to my garage and I promptly called Paul Mello, my 14-year-old jack-of-all-trades. Despite his father’s total inability to pick up a wrench without hurting himself, Paul has always shown a preternatural ability to put things together after ripping them apart. This has matured into an ability to rescue me from my bike when needed.
He checked the air in all the tires and found that they were what could be called a wee bit low. Instead of 40 to 60 pounds of pressure, the tires varied from 18 to 25. As he pumped the tires up, he barely rolled his eyes at me, though I’m sure there was a part of him that felt of all the adults he knew, I’d be the first one in an assisted living facility.
The best part of all, though, was that adding air to the tires seems to have put my mysterious disease in remission. I can now ride up and down hills again with ease. And I’ve learned a valuable lesson. Air is important to life and tires. In fact, the only time it’s not needed is when it’s hot and coming out of a politician’s mouth.