Cycling - The Racing Post

Cycle Logic - Cycling Vacations

By Diana North

By unspoken agreement, my husband and I no longer take vacations to any place we can’t lug our bikes. Preferably there are cycling friends and/or local group rides waiting at our destination. If not, we sniff out the local bike shops and start asking nosy questions.

Even impromptu trips mean bikes will be hauled along. The kids have learned to pack duffel bags that can squeeze between bikes and that if they don’t want their hair full of bike lube, hide the pillows. The hubby and I have shown up unannounced at out-of-town and out-of-state group rides with varying degrees of success.

Once we left three of our kids sleeping in a hotel room to crash a small group ride in Tarpon Springs, Florida. We learned about the ride the night before from a small local bike shop with a bar next door owned by the same guy. Our nosy questions were met with skeptical looks.

When we arrived for the group ride the next morning, there were about eight guys and they all looked the same. They had serious bikes and even more serious physiques. Our bikes were dirty and we’d been lounging in the sun between meals like lizards out of hibernation. Understandably, they formed a tight little group of side-ways darting eyes above scowls while quietly plotting the route amongst themselves.

One guy came over and told us they’d never had a female in the group. I think that was my dismissal cue, and if I’d been a few years younger and a little less stubborn I might have heeded it.

But today this ride is one I look back on with pleasure. For one, the west coast of Florida is lovely. The beaches, the water and the tropical weather all combine to make the area a true vacation spot. This ride took us over a causeway with glittering blue-green water on both sides. We rode down curvy rural roads lined with green and dotted with small subdivisions of pastel-colored houses. There were no mean dogs in sight. When it was my turn to pull I made sure to stay just a little bit longer than the last guy, even if it meant I had to listen closely through the rushing wind for directions.

Even though it really hurt.

We only had to hold up once, for the hubby of course, and I kept my huffing and puffing as quiet as I could in a feeble, underhanded attempt to make him look bad. By the end of the ride the group was chatty and friendly and they invited us back. I was ready to move to Tarpon Springs to live on Greek food and sunshine.

On one romantic trip for two, hubby and I lugged the bikes south from our home in central Florida with no reservations and no schedule. We knew we wanted to end up in Miami to meet a cycling friend and join his local group ride. So we meandered with no plan except to eat at mom-and-pop restaurants exclusively. And eat we did; Italian, more Italian and Cuban and Mexican fare.

In open air café’s with live guitar music, in little shops no wider than a car, in pristine old-world buildings with white linen table cloths and free cannoli from the friendly owner. We made one overnight stop in Del Ray Beach and found the riding sublime. Cyclists were everywhere, especially on the coast where wide bike lanes bordered sand and surf and cars didn’t seem to mind sharing the road.

The next day in a posh Miami hotel where our bikes weren’t welcomed, the hubby had to use his negotiation skills so we could keep them in our room where they belonged. The Miami group ride took us through Coconut Grove, through shady streets and up and down causeways that came as a pleasant surprise to us both. Who knew you could ride to Key Biscayne on a bike?

My 25-year high school reunion served as yet another excuse to haul bikes to southern Michigan, for crying out loud. Back to the pig and dairy farms of my youth. Back to the miles and miles of winter wheat, corn and alfalfa fields where I grew up riding horses and found my first second-hand road bike at a yard sale. We showed up at the Sunday picnic after the reunion with our bikes loaded on the car.

Part of it might have been to show off my new Mavic rims, but part of it was so I could cruise down country roads I hadn’t seen since graduation. The same crops were growing in the same fields, I swear.

On our last vacation hubby and I contacted the local bike shops weeks ahead and found the group rides. He even e-mailed the leader of one close to where we planned to stay near Phoenix. Temperatures hovered around 100 degrees and higher that week in August.

Visions of dehydration danced in my head. I wondered how I would feel in such intense dry heat. But I ended up feeling great. I charged up little hills. I sprinted with strangers, got to ogle all the interesting jerseys and talk to some interesting people. This place was cycling nirvana as far as I could tell. The roads were new or nearly new and smooth, unlike the cracked, speed bumped and railroad tracked roads I’m riding on these days. The dry air felt nice. Not at all like the lead weight humidity of Houston summers. This group stopped for bagels just before the end, so we squeezed in some socializing. I even talked my husband into looking at some model homes later that day. How about moving to Phoenix, honey?

This summer, the family and bikes are headed back to Florida once again. Back to familiar roads and familiar group rides through new subdivisions that have sprouted up everywhere. We’re down a couple kids, we’ll pawn off the remaining two. The party line on this trip that it’s a visit to family and friends we’ve missed since we moved away almost three years ago. Unofficially, though, it’s an excuse to spend yet another vacation lugging around our bikes and hiding the pillows.