Bicycling at Mid-Life

I have become a superhero at mid-life, for only they wear stretchy, tight black outfits in public there to kick evil’s ass and engage in calorie-burning feats far beyond the ability of ordinary mortals.  That’s what I’ve been doing, every day, although in my case the two categories of action do not necessarily coincide.  Also, sometimes, evil kicks my ass back.  Ordinarily, when taking the fight to the prince of darkness grim, I wear street clothes or business casual.

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Saturday before last, I rode my Razesa 12-speed 25 miles, from my house to the county seat and back again, to vote early in the upcoming primary election (one categorical coincidence, as above).  While at the administrative center, I got to visit briefly with a friend I don’t see often enough.  My bike’s chain came off on the way home, but I was able to figure it out and keep riding.  At home, I showered, ate a huge lunch and took a long nap.  That’s what the comic book guys do after one of those epic battles that appears to involve more heroes and villains than can be numbered in a Hindu pantheon, er, comic book universe – functionally, is there a difference?

Yesterday, I rode 20 miles, round-trip, with no errand in mind beyond getting some exercise and pedaling a different route.  That same hill I’ve always had to walk up partway I still had to walk up, but I was able to ride all of the other hills.  I know this could not have been the case, but it felt like the 15 – 20 mph wind was in my face most of my ride.  This time, into the wind I “rode the drops,” that is, rode with my hands holding the bottom or terminal parts of the ram’s-horn-looking handlebar.  Doing so altered my body’s position and seemed to reduce wind-resistance.  I was again glad I’d bought a set of Continental Gatorskin tires because there’s a lot of gravel, garbage, and crud on the highway’s sometimes uneven surface.

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Today I rode the Razesa to worship service and used (for the first time) the panniers Eric included with the bike to carry Sunday School material and the bulletins I’d printed, as well as a book for Theodore.  I think it’s cool to be able to “commute” so to speak and conveniently carry stuff with me using a bike.  Annoyingly, with the balls of my feet on the pedals, my heels kept kicking the panniers, and I had to pedal on my arches, which shifted my body’s relationship to the seat and made for a slightly uncomfortable ride.  After I got to the meeting place this morning, I slipped off the sweat pants I’d put on over a pair of shorts, as well as my windbreaker, folded both, and stowed them the ancient “Triplex” bags that were purchased in Madrid the same time Eric bought the gold bike.  The bags proudly proclaim “Made in Spain” in English under the logo.

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On the ride home, the shifters didn’t work like they should.  They’re friction shifters, and with the left one at ninety-degrees to the tube, the front derailleur is supposed to be on the most difficult ring, but this afternoon, it was like the Opposite Gnomes had gone to work at them while I’d been singing hymns and listening to a sermon Romans 7:1 – 6 (I am much less antinomian than in former times).  I made it home without losing the chain or crashing into a ditch or into traffic, but haven’t had a chance to monkey with shift problem, yet.  Had to mow, and have a relatively tight schedule for this afternoon.

Superheroes and Smart People

For about a year I’ve been thinking about repeated appearances in literature (and therefore also in film – I know nothing of stage) and television of the superman.  Not the sort of man whose natural good health becomes something superhuman and ageless in the light of the yellow sun, but of the man whose native ability to make sense and understand circumstance in detail and in whole becomes something superhuman in the light of a painfully clear, blindingly bright intelligence.

While the former experiences few conflicts beyond those imposed upon him by the rigors of maintaining sufficient anonymity to function effectively, the latter’s apprehension of the actual world he inhabits is so conjoined with that unfortunate offspring of understanding, empathy, that his primary and constant experience in/of life is conflicted pain.  As I’ve noted to the annoyance of others here, that is a pretty reasonable state to find oneself in.  Usually the protagonist of superhuman strength wishes to use his great physical powers to benefit humankind and his efforts are narrated as meeting with the resistance of one or more opponents of equal or similar physical power and it turns out to be some quality of character or spirit, if you wish, that decides the contest.  Because he is most frequently the one to whom those in great distress appeal in last resort, and while generally well known not usually afforded celebrity status in the way professional athletes or attractive film stars are known (again, in the ‘public eye’ due primarily to their physical features or abilities) the other variety of superman tends to be known by his given name.

My most popular blog post is the one where I quote a section of Lyle Rossiter’s The Liberal Mind.  Rossiter posits that the problem with nanny-statist political and social liberals is that they wish to indefinitely prolong their infancy by forcing all of society to meet their need for a lifelong coercive-but-protective parent/provider by "legally" stealing in the form of taxes ever greater portions of the wealth created and amassed by those of us who work and produce.  The reason for the post’s popularity is doubtless the fact that in it I discuss my old Murry 11/36 riding lawn mower and contrast its performance with that of the used the John Deere GT235E I purchased to replace it.  Back to Rossiter, however, his view taken to the extreme is a stark vista of purely individualistic self-reliance that seems to deny any human longing for love and care that an Evangelical Christian would probably attribute to a "God-shaped-hole" in a human being’s essential (as opposed to physical) heart.

Sure, some of that folk-religious hocus-pocus linked above is pretty cheesy stuff glorifying helplessness and sickness.  The apparent fact that many people seem to have a desire for or a sense that they need or should have the care of someone greater than they may bespeak something qualitatively different than soul and self-destroying sentimentality.  For instance, it may be a neurological artifact from  time in-vitro or a vestigial grasp-reflex having more to do with the human navel than the human heart.  If it can be explained in that way, this sense of need or desire for care still serves to remind the human that generically he is not self-existent.

In literary fiction, Sherlock Holmes is the stand-out superman of his or arguably any age – soaring intellect, uninterested in fame, energetic, able to communicate with and understand the communications of people of every social stations, unimpressed by social station because he apprehends the truth of the human being, experiencing and dulling the pain produced by extreme clarity of understanding.  And in the realm of televised fiction, Dr. Who is the other such figure – both in and out of time, energetic, active in his own and the circumstances of others, seeking human companionship and working to improve the lives of (mainly) humans.