What if...

By: Erin E. Wood

My grandmother died eight months ago.

In some senses, my life feels like nothing has changed, but, in other ways, I feel like everything has changed.

In the past eight months since her passing, I have spent a great amount of time reflecting on my relationship with my grandmother. Like any person grieving the loss of a family member, many of these thoughts shift to the “what ifs” in our relationship.

“What if we had lived closer?”

“What if I had called one last time?”

“What if my grandmother had never helped me buy my bike?”

Like any grandmother, my grandmother loved to spoil me with gifts. As a child, these gifts were usually in the form of stuffed animals or toy horses, but as an adult my grandmother would begin to forgo the guesswork and would send me cash or a check so that I could be free to save it or spend it. When I started college, my grandmother would send me a monthly card some money inside for my “ice cream fund” as she would call it (unbeknownst to her it became my beer fund once I turned 21).

In the summer of 2019, my doctor told me to stop running for a bit to let my shin heal after an injury I received. Since my mental health has largely been tied to my ability to be active, the doctor said that I could ride a bike instead. After a few months of staring at a beige wall as I rode a stationary bike at the gym, I realized that I wanted to buy a real bike. I knew that there was a vibrant biking community is Stillwater—I figured if anything I would make new friends.

But first, I needed a bike.

During one of our phone calls, my grandmother asked if I was saving my money for anything or if she could help me save for something. This is when I told her I was planning on saving for a bike. I told her I was wanting to get a bike in October because I wanted to get it for myself as a reward for passing my comprehensive exam (note: I didn’t actually do my comps until April—but that’s not important to the story). Because I didn’t know if biking would be permanent or a phase, I told her it was my plan to buy an entry level bike. If I ended up loving biking I could upgrade, but if I decided that biking wasn’t for me I would at least have a good bike for the next 10-15 years to ride occasionally. Quickly, after telling my grandmother this plan, she said “I guess I’m just going to need to budget more ice cream money!”

A few short months after, I walked into District Bicycles to buy my first bike. It was a bright orange Salsa Journeyman Flat Bar Claris 650B. I was so excited to pick up the bike that I even had my friends Robert and Lydia drive me to the shop so that I could ride the bike home.

But nothing could prepare me for what came next.

In the first few months following the purchase of “Leroy” – my beloved orange bike. I started riding with some of the local riding groups in town. Along the way, I started riding with another new rider—Janine. Slowly we started building our miles—leading us to signing up for the Mid South 50 mile race less than 24 hours before the start.

Trudging our broken bikes across 50+ miles of Oklahoma mud, a deep friendship was born.

A few weeks later, as everyone was baking bread and hosting zoom happy-hours, I was scrolling Instagram and saw that Larin, someone I knew from my running group, was posting pictures riding her bike solo as she social-distanced. After seeing a few of these posts, I finally messaged saying “hey, if you want a riding buddy we could socially distance while we ride.”

And we did. And then Janine joined too—and the #SalsaSquad was born.

Over the next year, we rode thousands of miles—with several stops for snow cones and lottery tickets in between. As we rode we would share the things we were learning about our bikes, or the gear we were buying. We wanted to make sure that as we got better, we could get better together. Within a few months of riding together we even rode our first century together (forever ruining the Glencoe route for me).

Life was not easy for any of us at this point, but together we made it through.

After a year on my beloved Leroy, I realized that cycling wasn’t just a phase and maybe it was time for me to upgrade to another bike. Enter “Lola” my Neptune blue All-City Space Horse.

Lola's first ride-- if you were to watch the Live Photo of this you would see that she falls into the mud midway through taking this photo.

When I first bought Lola, everyone was asking “are you going to sell your Journeyman?” or saying “you should sell your old bike so that you can get even nicer components.” But to each comment I said a resounding

NO.

While Lola was a “nicer” bike, Leroy was my bike. Leroy was an extension of me. Selling Leroy would be like chopping off my arm and selling it. I couldn’t do that. Additionally, this was the bike that my grandmother helped me buy, and I knew that at some point she would be gone—but the bike she helped my buy would be with me forever.

Sometimes I worry about where my life would be if my grandmother hadn’t helped me to buy my first bike. My orange bike brought me some of my most cherished friendships, and has gotten me through my toughest days. To say the past three years have been rough would be an understatement. Between jobs and relationships gone wrong, loneliness, and homesickness, at several times my mental health was at an all-time low. At some times my body would feel like it was falling through an endless black hole with no end in sight. The numbness would literally make my body tingle as I would try to shuffle through the day. However, no matter how bleak things seemed or felt, my orange bike was always there. Waiting for me to ride it. Waiting to put a smile on my face as I felt my body meld with its pedals.

And the friends I made along the way were there too.

Now, I ride Lola more often than Leroy because she’s a bit zippier on the flat farm roads of Illinois. Yet, Leroy will always be my “happy bike.” The bike that I ride when I need a hug but I am 600+ miles from everyone I love and care about. The bike that, no matter how bad I am feeling at the start of the ride, will always put a large smile on my face by the end of the ride—even if its only a short ride to the grocery store.

This past weekend Leroy transitioned to the role that I think he was always meant to be—a bike-packing bike. On Saturday I loaded up my beloved orange bike and went on an overnight trip to a local state park. With each pedal stroke I felt my soul come back to life. I began seeing a wide-open highway of opportunities of the adventures that Leroy and I could go on. And it felt good.

Leroy ready for his first bike-packing adventure!

None of this joy would have happened if my grandmother had not helped me buy my first, beloved orange bike. While the past eight months have been filled with “what ifs”—this is the one “what if” that I will never ever question.

So, if I didn’t thank her enough while she was alive– I hope she knows that I am always thankful for my little orange bike.