Pauline Nevins

“On your bike” is a phrase you’ll recognize if you have an Irish connection. And you’ll know it’s not a question, but an invitation to “buzz off,” if you’re American, or “bugger off,” if you’re British.

I’d heard this phrase from my Irish mother but never saw it in writing until I read “Good Eggs,” a debut novel by Rebecca Hardiman. I laughed so much I read it again. In Hardiman’s book, her character, Millie, a shoplifting 83-year-old Irishwoman, is anticipating a getaway. “She’ll be on her bike. So to speak,” writes Hardiman, after Millie calls a taxi.

One woman who doesn’t need to be told to get on her bike is Carol Maynard. Sitting with my back to the door at Grandma C’s café in Colfax, I was distracted from licking chocolate off my lips by a clickety clack. Someone entering the café in their tap shoes? I turned and recognized Carol, clad from the kneecaps up in skintight cycling Lycra. We exchanged greetings. She grabbed a coffee and off she tapped.

I’d driven past Carol on her bicycle several times and was curious why a woman, who I assumed was retirement age, was brave enough to ride a bike on an American road. Growing up in England, it was common to see adults riding bicycles for transportation. My stepfather, Sid, an accounting clerk, folded the cuffs of his suit trousers with bike clips and rode to work at Whitworth’s – flour millers since 1886 – each day, rain or shine.

A close American relative, who shall remain anonymous, assumes an adult riding a bike either can’t afford a car or they have a drinking problem. Neither case applied to Carol. I found this out when I called and invited her for coffee.

I first met Carol at the home of her brother-in-law, Mike Lorang. He and Carol’s sister, JoAnn, are owners of Lorang Brothers Construction in Colfax, where my husband worked before his retirement. Mike and his family welcomed us to the area when we moved from Elk Grove almost two decades ago. I was reminded again of their kindness when Mike and his daughter, also named Carol and manager of the company, showed up to haul a paddleboat out of our lake following a heavy rainstorm when Jim and I were unable to do so.

Mike, who’s close to my husband’s age, bounded into the boat and began bailing the water that threatened to sink the craft. Carol waded waist deep beside the boat and joined in the bailing.

I shared that story with Carol as we sunned ourselves at an outdoor table at The Local Café in Meadow Vista. It impressed me to learn Carol is president of the Sierra Foothills Cycling Club. She eagerly provided information about the club.

We have rides every day of the week, except Monday, said Carol. The rides are typically in the sierra foothills, and in and around Auburn. There’s a designated leader for each ride who plans the route and makes sure everyone is present and accounted for. I learned the club has a website: http://sfcyclists.com that describes the daily rides. The annual membership is $20 and includes discounts at several bike shops. All levels are welcome.

It surprised me that exercise isn’t Carol’s primary reason for cycling. I enjoy the social side, she said. We have a variety of events – Christmas party, fall picnic, and coming up June 20-24th, the annual summer camp – this year in Bishop in the Eastern Sierras.

I haven’t ridden a bike since I was a teenager. My friend, Joy, and I would race each other home from the shoe factory, our tight skirts hiked up beyond a decent level. The soles of our stiletto heels would slide off the wet pedals. That wouldn’t happen to Carol. That tap dancing I heard in the café was cleats, not the soccer type but those that clip the foot in place, ensuring a more efficient peddle stroke.

My anonymous relative who disdained bike riders should know there was a time in history when the driver of a car couldn’t have been more grateful to see one. The place was France, and the year was 1908. Contestants from six countries battled bone-chilling weather, terrible roads and physical exhaustion, competing in the automobile race from New York to Paris. The American car, the Thomas Flyer, arrived in Paris only to be stopped by a gendarme, short of the finishing line.

The car had only one headlight. A passing cyclist offered his lamp but then couldn’t unbolt it. The Americans hoisted the bike onto the hood of the Thomas Flyer, proceeded to the finish line at the Eiffel Tower, and declared the winner.

So, those of you who can, take the advice of author Hardiman, and “Get on your bike.” Literally.