It’s not uncommon to look down at my hands and see my dad’s hand attached to the ends of my arms these days. Rough, in need of some tender care and moisturizer. The same goes for my legs, my belly, my grey stubble. The reality of dad-bod.  The other day on a run, I looked down and saw my skin jiggle with a little cellulite. I kept running. I keep riding. 

I’ve never been one to shy away from age. As a younger rider, starting out as a pimply-faced teen accepting hand-me-down gear and bike parts, I looked up to the older riders. Tanned faces spewing stories about sewing tubulars and telling me where to ride in the group. Everyone had nicknames like Bananas, Mongo, and Blockhead. It was a club, and I wanted in. Not in a “I want to be cool” kind of way, but more in a “these people are my family, and I want to be a better rider” kind of way. After spending a decade of my life riding next to these people, I could start to see myself as them. I could see how to weave the act of riding a bike into my daily life. 

While I did have a stepdad who did the best he could, everyone in my immediate family was self-employed, so time was tight, and no one else was interested in being athletic. I never considered myself to be a “real” athlete, but this group of people who got together every Tuesday and Thursday evening to ride at a spirited pace ended up being my family and a collective father figure for me as a teen. Before iPods, playlists, or Pandora, I was taught the importance of being able to make up songs as we pedaled for hours in a smoothly rotating paceline past muggy corn fields in July. (This is probably where my sharp sense of dad-joke humor was honed.) 

Decades later in Portland, while I was pedaling around SE Lincoln, I saw a beautiful sight that sticks with me to this day. Across the intersection from me, I saw an older man on an older road bike roll up, pause for a split second with beautiful balance, and then push down to glide across the street. This old man had a smoothness to him. Thin with a long beard and wearing comfortable clothes that said “sporting” and lifelong rider, he had a fluid motion to his stance and grace. A complete story unfolded in that moment that spoke volumes about his life on a bike. There was a power to his whole body moving him forward in space that you can see in some racers and riders. I hoped to see myself like this someday. I do not fear getting older. I look forward to it. We should all hope to pass down our stories and teach the kids how to make up silly songs to pass the miles.