Kapiolani Community College
Diamond Journal 2003Fall

Evolution of a Cyclist
Cheri Scott

I am a cyclist, and the fact quite surprises me. If anyone had asked me four years ago if I wanted a bicycle, I would have answered, “NO!” I idealized a perspiration free existence, and the eighty pounds of extra flesh that accompanied me everywhere actually aided me in this endeavor. I didn’t have the stamina or muscle tone necessary to climb Leahi, a volcanic crater better known as Diamond Head that is now part of my daily commute in Honolulu. Some of my bulk simply had to evaporate before my metamorphosis into a bike enthusiast could begin. In hindsight, I took my first step towards becoming a cyclist in the fall of 1998.

“I am going to stop eating chocolate,” declared Melanie. Mel was one of my closest friends, a tall, slender waif with wavy blond hair and green eyes who would forget to eat if she was upset. I feel that demands of “Why?”, however politely phrased, muzzle my momentum when I make a decision, so I try not to do the same to others. I never asked Mel what prompted her choice, but her statement electrified me. I did not pause for introspection; I simply deleted chocolate from my diet.

There have been four decisions in my life that took about five seconds to make, and I often wonder where my resolve came from. When I was fourteen, I decided to become an exchange student for a year during a fifteen minute presentation from the program’s counselor. I spent the next year in Australia. At twenty-one, I was looking for a college where I could begin my undergraduate studies. I felt no zeal for the quest until my father suggested I think about where I wanted to go, rather than what school I wanted to attend. “Hawaii!” my imagination shouted in reply. I bought a one way plane ticket from San Francisco to Honolulu the next day and have now lived here nine years. The third great decision-making moment in my life came when I decided to quit eating chocolate.

Headaches, nausea and debilitating lethargy plagued me for two weeks after I severed ties with my favorite food. I had a part-time job and would collapse into bed in the afternoon after work. I would awake from a two to three hour nap feeling as if I had never slept at all. My eyes would be dry, my temples throbbed, my stomach churned and I had no desire for consciousness. I didn’t make the connection between my symptoms and the absence of caffeine in my diet until another friend watched me vomit in a parking lot, and commented, “You’re going through withdrawal.” The observation stunned me, but I knew it was true. Chocolate would never seem innocuous again, and I have not eaten it since Mel made her startling statement almost five years ago. Anything that could make me feel that ill has to be evil!

Melanie moved to Arizona to live with her brother and work as a waitress at a Chili’s one year after I was weaned from chocolate. One friend exited and another took her place in the form of Soo-Jin Laanui and her husband and their four children. They met a new version of myself, one that was thirty pounds lighter sans chocolate. The children found me fascinating. I was the same age as their parents (old at 27), yet I was single! Inquiring young minds would ask, “Are you going to get married, Cheri?” “Do you want to have children?” I represented possibilities they had never been confronted by in their own home. Soo-Jin was equally fascinated by me. I don’t see myself as an object worthy of study, but I know I am forever delighted and intrigued by my closest friends, and I saw it as a sign of our friendship that Soo-Jin felt the same about me. After we met, both she and her husband adopted a chocolate-free lifestyle and endured the same trial I had.

A chocolate-less Thanksgiving was the first holiday I spent with the Laanui’s. I arrived forty-five minutes after my ETA, and the walk had caused a bus trekker like myself to sweat. The Laanui’s lived only two miles from my apartment, so walking was more practical than taking a bus. Honolulu has an amazing bus system. You can get anywhere on the island, so long as you’re not in a hurry and don’t want to take a direct route. To catch a bus from my apartment to theirs would have required me to walk one third of the distance, wait an indeterminate amount of time before boarding a bus that would take me a couple of miles away from my destination, and then deposit me a good ten minute walk from the Laanui’s front door. It was simpler to walk. Soo-Jin was not angry at my tardiness; she had a solution. “You need transportation! I am going to have my husband fix up my bike, and then we’ll give it to you. I don’t use it; someone should!”

“I don’t need a bike, Soo-Jin! I buy a bus pass each month.” Secretly I didn’t want a bike; I had my perspiration-free lifestyle to protect. I could walk slower or take the bus next time to avoid melting. Months went by and Soo-Jin would reaffirm her intention to provide me with a bike each time transportation issues got in the way of us getting together. Could I meet them at Borders? Sure, but it would take me about half an hour to walk there. A movie at Kahala? Ok, but the Number One can be a little unpredictable, so I’ll be there in an hour and a half. Ultimately, it was not inadequate transportation that brought a bike into my life; it was a visit from my father.

My parents divorced when I was four, and, over the years, my father would sometimes show up for our visits sporting a tan and wearing an aloha shirt. I was envious and proud at the same time. How many other kids had a dad who regularly went to Hawaii? When I reached high school, his trips stopped. I had lived in Honolulu for seven years before he paid me a visit. I was excited he was finally going to make good on his word to visit me. I have always been close to my father. He makes me laugh, gives me hugs, and is very consistent (even with habits that annoy me).

My father’s vacation lasted a week and a half. He would spend his days on the beach reading while I was at work. When I arrived home, he would cook dinner for me and we would walk and talk until I needed to crash. I must have casually mentioned Soo-Jin’s offer of a bicycle, because my father asked if I could get it for him. He is mildly diabetic, and I think he imagined himself a changed man due to the sun on his skin and the beauty of Hawaii constantly before his eyes. Without the stress of his inner city office, his blood sugar had dropped into the almost normal range, and my dad was eager to stay outside in the hope it would drop some more. I called Soo-Jin with my father’s request, and she said, “Of course!” I think she felt that she was flaking on a promise to two people instead of one, and guilt spurred her into action.

“Where are you?” began a typical conversation with Soo-Jin.

“I am at work. I am finished in half an hour, why?”

“The bike is ready.” She sounded like a nighttime news anchor with a juicy story. “She’s beautiful! My husband cleaned her, changed the tubes in the tires, put air in the tires, replaced the back tire, replaced the brakes, balanced the wheels, oiled the chain,” I heard a deep intake of breath, “and she’s ready to go! Get over here!” I couldn’t help but smile at her pride.

“I’ll stop by after work, but I have to go straight home cause my dad is still here.”

“Alllrrriiight then!” Soo-Jin drew the syllables out and shaped them like the curve of an ocean swell.

With perspiration on the brain, I boarded the Number One going towards Soo-Jin’s house. I disembarked at Pensacola, walked four blocks mauka (towards the mountain) past Safeway and the freeway entrance, and turned right onto Davenport. The kids were playing in the street, keeping an eye out for me when I rounded the corner. The Laanui children yelled, “Mom! Mom! She’s here!” Their voices were amplified as the other kids in the neighborhood picked up the cry and yelled, “Mrs. Laanui, Mrs. Laanui! She’s here!” Did those kids ever wonder who was here? I smiled and waved, and I think I blushed a little to have created such a spectacle. The Laanuis lived in an apartment smack in the middle of Davenport, by the time I reached their building Soo-Jin was downstairs with the bike. A sparkly, deep purple Specialized Hardrock mountainbike. It was a man’s model and had twenty-one gears that I didn’t know how to use.

To this day, my knowledge of bicycles has not progressed past the color and the self-serving graffiti provided by the manufacturer. Out of necessity, I have learned to change tubes and tires, adjust my seat, install a rack for packages, and oil the chain. My bike’s other needs are met by a mechanic. I do not tinker; I do not follow bicycle related sports; I ride.

Soo-Jin showed me how to work the quick lock release on the seat so I could adjust it to my height; then the whole gang watched as I mounted my new bike and wobbled down the street and back. Soo-Jin’s brow was furrowed, “Do you know how to ride?”

“Of course I do! It’s just been fourteen years since I’ve done this.” I had a dad waiting at home, so I set off after quick good-byes. The wind rushing past me was exhilarating! How could I have forgotten how good that felt? I am a woman who will hike up Makapuu Point, hop over the protective railing, climb twenty feet down the face of the cliff and stand with my arms outstretched just to be a part of the wind racing across the ocean. I was moving so much faster than the pedestrians! Why did I ever think walking was an acceptable form of transportation? I glided to a stop in front of my building fifteen minutes later, and my thighs trembled when asked to walk me up the two flights of stairs to my front door while I carried my new bike. I left the bike, prepped for display, in the middle of my studio, and found my father reading on the lanai. He took one look at the bike and told me we were visiting Sears after dinner.

I didn’t make the connection between Sears and my bicycle, but after dinner I found myself standing petrified with embarrassment as my father placed various bike helmets on my head and lectured me on their value. Seeing that I was going to leave Sears the owner of a big styrafoam headpiece, I pointed to one of the sleeker models, mutely indicating my preference. My father loudly told me, “No, the more padding the better! You don’t want to make a fashion statement with a helmet! Bigger is safer!” I was greatly relieved when a green helmet finally fit to his satisfaction. The helmet was so large and insect-like that I referred to myself as a superhero named Ant Woman for months afterward. My father also picked up a bike lock, water bottle holder, all-purpose tool and a new squishy cover for the seat on our way to the register.

The shopping trip should have been an indication to me of my father’s plans. He commandeered the bike for the rest of his vacation. My father was visibly tanner when I returned from work each evening. He punctuated the detailed travelogues of his adventures with lots of arm waving and pointing towards the directions he thought he had ridden.

My father returned to California on a Sunday morning, and before I went to bed that night, I made the decision that turned me into a cyclist; I was going to ride my bike to and from work. It was an expensive gift, and I felt obligated to use it. I twisted my ankle Sunday afternoon, but I did not waver. Soo-Jin showed up at my apartment Monday morning to wrap my ankle before work, and ask again, “Do you want a ride?”

“No!”

“OK,” she said with raised eyebrows.

My first commute via bike took place the last working day of March 2001, and lasted sixty-five minutes. I rode on sidewalks, was out of breath the whole way, and felt as though my thighs were on fire when I gratefully dismounted. I walked in circles around the first floor office, alternately panting and taking swigs from my water bottle until it was time to clock in. Climbing the stairs to my office on the second floor caused such pain I could do nothing but laugh. Pain took on a new definition when I climbed aboard my bike for the ride home. My thighs weren’t the only thing that hurt. My pelvis was not used to bearing the weight of my entire body, and my vagina was not happy. I now joke with friends that when I marry, my husband will discover I am a tough old bird. Two weeks would pass before my body would perform without complaints.

Two months passed before I understood how to use the twenty-one gears my bike came equipped with. I was sitting on the toilet one Saturday morning and I glanced at my legs. I gasped and thought, “I am Conana the Barbariana!” My thighs were solid muscle and as thick as ham hocks. While I appreciated the loss of an additional fifteen pounds from riding, it was not my intention to transform myself into a female doppleganger of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I had been riding around town in nineteenth gear; the higher the number, the greater the resistance. Two of my co-workers used to race, and I asked them about my predicament. They assured me I needed to drop to a lower gear for town riding, and informed me of possible injuries to my knees and hips, “You want to arrive at your destination, Cheri, not blow out your joints!” I started using twelfth gear for town and named my bike Magnum Mortis.

I cannot explain where Magnum came from. I have a tradition of bestowing male names on my possessions; I am a single woman after all. Maybe Tom Selleck flashed through my mind during the search for a moniker? Mortis is the name of the steed Death, or Thanatos, rides in Greek mythology. I had recently read On A Pale Horse by Piers Anthony in which Thanatos is the main character. I was so impressed with the abilities of Mortis, who was a sidekick rather than a means of transportation, that I felt it an appropriate name for my bike.

Aside from my thighs, Magnum Mortis made other changes in my life. I found out months later that my co-workers had a bet going about the cause of my suddenly improved disposition; the favorite theory was I had obtained a boyfriend. Actually, I was taking my frustrations from work to the asphalt and pushing anger out of my body with every tired, strained muscle I possessed. It was a relief to have a clear head during my personal time, rather than reliving aggravating episodes from work punctuated with improved come backs from myself.

Despite the benefits I was experiencing, I quickly became dissatisfied with riding through town. Roads I regularly traveled, like Kapiolani and Dillingham, were in terrible repair. Potholes were so wide and deep I had to migrate to the middle of the lane to get around them. Worse than the roads were the cars and trucks and buses and mopeds swarming over the streets. They seemed to think I was in their way, when actually it was the reverse. I longed to ride without having to stop for a traffic light, or slow down for a vehicle that hugged the curb and emitted noxious fumes.

At the end of my first month as a cyclist, I rode from Windward Mall to BYU-H in Laie on the North Shore. After Windward Mall the road is obstacle-free; no lights, no signs, and sparse traffic. The ride was glorious! I took the Fifty-Five bus from Ala Moana Shopping Center in downtown Honolulu over the Pali
Highway and arrived at the mall at 6:30 a.m. The highway follows the coast, and I rode ensconced in the majesty of ocean, mountains and sky with a lovely breeze tickling my skin the entire way. I smiled like a maniac and turned down the occasional country rode just to see where it went. I rode past tropical rain forests, beautiful homes, pine trees, fish farms, parks with campers, and local oddities like, “The Hygienic Store.” Two hours later, I reached BYU. The Laie ride became a weekend favorite, and within three months I turned my sights on Tantalus.

My first attempt to ascend one of the steep roads that circumscribe Tantalus led to vomiting. I chose Mott-Smith Drive as my point of entry to the hill. The street tackles the hill head on, and soars quickly in elevation before joining Makiki Heights Drive, a road that rises slowly through the contorted wanderings of switchbacks. I pedaled with all my might, dropping gears every ten feet and quickly reached first gear, a place I had never been. My heartbeats became painful blows assaulting my chest from within. Every muscle engaged in moving me forward burned. However, I kept my butt on the seat and forced my muscles to propel me forward. Standing on the peddles would have employed my weight rather than my strength for movement. My shoulders tensed in concentration as I was reduced to a woman forcing her way up a paved precipice. The thought of reaching the head of Mott-Smith Drive consumed me. I made it! And then I hurled.

While, I have not thrown up again due to biking, neither have I succeeded in circumnavigating Tantalus in the two years I have been riding. I refuse to try another approach until I am able to push past the crest of Mott-Smith Drive. I have a fantasy that I will one day ride the complete circuit of roads that wrap around Tantalus. There is music that accompanies this dream, “Because We Can” by Fatboy Slim . . . “Because we can can can, yes we can can can, because we can can can can can can can can can!”

In real life I have a daily commute of twenty miles. It is five miles from my apartment to work, a ride I complete in thirty minutes now, instead of sixty-five. (I have a second fantasy about riding to work on empty streets. How long would it take me without cars getting in my way?) From work I ride ten miles towards home and past it again to Kapiolani Community College where I am a student. This leg of the journey includes the volcanic crater I mentioned earlier. The route home is a five mile, downhill roller coaster.

Magnum Mortis made the daily pilgrimage with me for sixteen months before succumbing to an irreversibly broken part (my mechanic could explain better). Three weeks later I was miraculously given another bike by a different patron, a classmate who was moving to Maryland. My softened thighs and groin had to go through a readjustment period again, thankfully shorter this time. My new vehicle is a forest green, and marked by the appropriate graffiti “GT Timberlake.” The initials “GT” led to him being named The Green Turtle. Yes, I have another male bike with twenty-one gears. The main difference is this model would better fit the body of a thirteen year old. I look enormous and a little silly perched on the seat, but The Green Turtle does his job. I am forever grateful to the people who have generously given me bicycles, but I will buy the next one.

My lifestyle has an amazing impact on lay people. Some try to “help” by telling me where I can buy a cheap car. Others note the bike helmet that perpetually hangs from my backpack, and describe me as athletic. Odd, since I’m easily thirty pounds overweight still. Strangers usually refer to my bicycle solely as a means of exercise. Maybe that’s what a bicycle would be to them; I ride for pleasure, for transportation, for relaxation. I am a cyclist!