Mom and The Big Red Bicycle

Weeks prior to leaving for our trip, Mom did abundant research to make sure our time would be spent the best it could be. A proud founding member of The Leisure Club, Mom did her homework, memorizing a map of town before even leaving her driveway. She’s been trained to flawlessly organize transportation from one distant land to another, to heave heavy luggage off of train tracks in the knick of time, and fearlessly navigate winding streets with guides written in exotic tongues. A veteran of all pastimes travel and leisure, I’d argue she’s more bold and courageous on foreign soil. Fearing no obstacles or running into someone she knows, Mom signed us up for a bicycle tour of Copenhagen. 

 We met our guide, Oliver, on a pretty backstreet just around the corner from our hotel. Patient and friendly, Oliver fitted us for a bicycle in relation to our height. The company prefers to put their guests on large, beach cruiser-eqse bicycles that have wide rubber wheels, useful for riding along the city’s many cobblestone streets. These big, red bicycles were notably heavy with loose steering but they functioned the way all bicycles do and the twelve of us on the tour that day all got the hang of our bikes relatively quickly. All of us but one.

Oliver, a twenty-something Danish American fella, led us miles around town. He had a California sense of calm mixed with a Danish sense of politeness which resulted in him being quite laidback about road rules (and perhaps overly confident in the abilities of others to ride bicycles) as well as being too respectful to embarrass an individual who might be lagging behind, especially if said individual was an “elderly lady.”

This bike tour was fantastic. It was an exciting way to see lots of an unfamiliar city without being too concerned about where you were going and how you would get there. Sometimes we rode in the bike lane, sometimes we took up the whole street, and one time Oliver had us ride our bikes through some government building’s breezeways, flying around sharp corners and going down staircases.

To preface Mom’s trials and let the record show, it was more difficult than normal to maneuver the big bikes around corners. A light, skinny bike might whip right around but these big guys did require less speed for big turns because their weight was off and you could certainly fall down. Two bikes fell over on this day just from the strange weight balance. So I’ll give Mom some credit there. But, no one else struggled like Mom did that day. I was so wrapped up in the tour that I didn’t notice the frustration on Mom’s face until we were halfway through. She was scowling. Nancy Union does not scowl while touring a new city. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t handle this bike!” she sneered. Just then Oliver stopped talking and started pedaling. There was no time to chat. The kid could get away from you quickly.  We all filed in behind him, one by one lining up like a dozen red ducklings. Prior to the tour, Oliver asked for a volunteer to stay at the back of the line so that he could look for that one person and know that everyone else was somewhere between them. Dad foolishly volunteered for this job, unaware that he’d be babysitting the bike tour loser. 

Note Mom's exhausted posture.

Ellen and I were having a great time. We were racing, pointing out pretty things, and comfortably taking pictures in transit. Meanwhile Mom and Dad were a half-mile behind us, Mom riding like a newborn calf and Dad pushing her along by the seat. Mom was humiliated. Ellen was delighted. On the rare stretch of empty, straight road, Dad would leave his responsibilities behind and dart ahead, rip roaring down the street to create some excitement and competition. I imagine Dad spent the tour feeling like a bull in a pen, held back from his natural state of recklessness. Dad also did instinctive Dad Things like block a road with his bike anytime one of the three of us was crossing a street. He would also pedal ahead to check traffic before we went out into the road. I wondered if he knew was doing this and if he knew that I noticed. Sweet Dad Things.

Now back over to Lance Armstrong. At some point I noticed that Mom’s ankle was bleeding and she casually informed me that she got it stuck between her bicycle and a building. I’m not really even sure how that’s possible. She ran into curbs, historical statues, parking blocks, and medians and also managed to hook a looped metal post in the crook of her elbow, knocking her off the bike completely. 

By the end of the tour Mom had given up and simply chose to crash into things as a way of stopping her bicycle. Bystanders would watch with concern as she slowly but consistently maintained speed as she closed in on a curb. BAM! Mom would then plant her feet, brush the hair out her eyes, and calmly listen to Oliver’s spiel. We’d ride along again, come up on a landmark, “Oh no watch out for that...” BAM! Mom had made it to our next stop. 
I felt a pitied amusement. I knew Mom would be indignant about this and I felt preemptive frustration for how she would certainly not feel heard on this matter.

“I know how to ride a bike!” she said with a sting. We piled into a nearby café after the tour was over and Mom was a dark cloud of undeserved shame. Dad didn’t help. He enjoys the failures of others and only egged her on by explaining the basics of bike riding.
"It was the bike!" she said. "Something's wrong with that bike!" and then she'd cross her arms and scowl. Then she'd laugh a little. "It's not funny!"

While Mom defended herself, Ellen scrolled through her photos of the day and lost her composure when she came across one of Mom. She shared it with Dad, me, and our waitress and we howled with laughter in a quiet, little cafe in Copenhagen.