Riding Gravel (since 1974)

The big buzzword in the cycling community today is: gravel. The industry is ramping up production of thousand dollar “gravel bikes.” The internet is filled with “gravel grinder” groups. Races and rides are suddenly being planned on, get this, gravel roads. I have to chuckle. Hell, I've been riding gravel since 1974.

On my 13^th birthday I received a much-coveted and drooled over Huffy 10-speed. Back in the early seventies those tall, slim tire, steel bikes were the rage—transforming an industry that was almost exclusively geared toward children to a more adult orientation. Man, when I got that ten-speed, I l felt like a real racer—like that kid from Breaking Away (even though the movie wouldn't come out for another five years). The future was so close, I could pedal to it. And over the next few years, I pedaled that bike all over the farmland country roads.

Now, back in those days, kids and bikes went hand in hand. From the time we could ride, we were on our bikes, pedaling off to each others houses, riding across the farm fields as a short-cut to our “forts.” Those were different days. We were pretty much free to ride wherever we wanted—our range was only as limited as our legs (though we were instructed to stay off the state highway). Most of our bikes were ancient hand-me-downs--old cruisers from older siblings we dusted off from the barn and re-purposed for our uses. I remember I rode an old English Racer for years and, because we rode them through mud and fields, we stripped all the fenders and unnecessary accoutrements and basically made defacto mountain bikes-- years before they became a thing.

When I got that ten-speed, however, my range suddenly expanded. Not only was it fast and efficient making it easier to go longer distances, it was a “road” bike. Now the highway was no longer out-of-bounds. I remember the first great adventure of my life, two neighbor kids (my cousin, Curt Groat, and a friend) planned a summer day ride that would take us all the way to Lexington and Lake Huron. Back then, Lexington was a magical place for us kids—usually a special holiday destination for the family. This trip would be our first visit on our own. No parents, no cars, no rules. And it was an ambitious 40 mile ride. Once underway, it was obvious that a long highway ride was going to be different than messing around on our little back roads. This was going to be more of a grind and, with high speed traffic whizzing by inches away, it took a different level of concentration. Also, Curt and I soon realized our riding companion wasn't in good enough shape for the ride. He lagged behind, complaining of mysterious bike problems. We egged him on the best we could and, to his credit, he made it all the way to Croswell before calling his Mom--the 70s kid's version of a SAG wagon.

Curt and I continued on. I remember cresting that last hill before the lake and gliding down that long grade into town—thinking we actually did it. I don't remember what we did specifically once we got there. I think we had an ice cream cone at the Diary Queen and I know we rode the bikes down to the beach, but I don't think we went swimming or anything. I do vividly remember, though, the trip back. In the afternoon the traffic increased considerably and the big semis would blow by us inches away and buffet us in their backwash. Eventually, I lost my nerve completely and convinced my cousin we had to get off the highway So on the way back, we took nothing but farm roads. It took a lot longer but, for me, miles of loose gravel and the occasional roving farm dog was a better deal than that terrifying highway. In fact, I hardly ever rode on a highway again.

I did ride that ten-speed all over the Michigan State campus for four years. In fact, when I graduated, for some reason, I insisted on leaving that bike there—chained up to a rack near the Farm Lane bridge. I remember my dad quizzing me when he picked me up because it had been a part of me for so long that it didn't make sense that I would leave it. I don't know why either, but it seemed important. Maybe I needed to leave a piece of myself there. My only regret? I do not have a picture of that “Mellow Yellow” ten-speed anywhere.

Fast forward to living in Sedona in the late eighties/early nineties. Mountain biking was a brand new sport and, of course, it intrigued me. I bought one of the first commercial mountain bikes ever made, and hit some of the trails that would eventually make Sedona a world famous mountain bike mecca. The thing is-- I never really liked mountain biking all that much. It was gruesome fearsome work pedaling up steep rocky slopes—only to plummet precariously down the other side. Lung searing agony followed by an adrenalin rush never really appealed to me. Those steep, rocky paths were much more fun to hike than ride. What I did enjoy, however, was riding away down forest service roads and up long grades. When I lived near Tlaquepaque, long before Sedona was overrun, I started riding up Schnebly Hill road. The long, aerobic workout, followed by a victory coast through beautiful scenery was a perfect workout. After moving to Cottonwood, I started riding the gravel road towards Cherry. The first time I made it all the way to the town of Cherry, the feeling of accomplishment was very similar to that first ride to Lexington.

Since then, my gravel rides have been a complement to my hiking. Days when I only have a couple hours but want a quick workout become bike rides up Bill Gray, Buckboard Road or Sycamore Canyon Road. Sometimes in the heat of summer, I'll drive to the top of Mingus Mountain and start there. Or up the Canyon to Fry Park. Or up the freeway to Rocky Park.. My rides aren't glamorous or particularly impressive but I love riding those long, lonesome, empty roads. Not only is the fresh air and exercise invigorating, but somehow, just being on a bicycle makes being a responsible adult damn near impossible. When I ride, I still feel like that 13-year-old kid with the wind in my hair, dust on my spokes and the fresh taste of freedom in my lungs.