The Unnamed Bicycle Column: Riding Out A Decision

Take a map of the United States. Draw a line beginning from Wall Township, heading west. Continue for 764 miles, or there abouts. You end up right around a tiny town of just more than 2,000 called Rockville, in west central Indiana.

Now, get on your bike and ride there. In less than four days. On a six-speed bike never meant for long distance travel. Oh, and wear a dress, too.

That’s what Sophie Matter, a French cyclist, did at the 1,200 kilometer Paris-Brest-Paris long-distance cycling event, held last month.

The PBP event is the Holy Grail of long-distance cycling, and the oldest regularly held bicycle event in the world. It’s held every four years. More than 5,000 riders participated in the grueling event this year.

One was Matter, who several times had ridden the tour – it is not a race, mind you; just being able to finish is winning. This year, she was looking for a bigger challenge, hence the dress and the stripped down bike.

She finished, by the way, the whole 1,230 kilometers, in about 87:53.

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Matter is an inspiration.

, I’m staring down my first Century Tour, taking place on Sunday. I don’t know that I can complete the whole 100 miles, but I’m going to leave it all out on those grimy New York streets anyway.

It’s also my birthday present to myself, this ride. I’m masochistic like that, I guess. I’m riding with two good friends who haven’t seen in quite a while. It’s going to be an old man bike nerd kind of day and I’m really looking forward to it.

The ride also coincides with another anniversary of mine. Sunday will be the fourth anniversary of the day I quit smoking.

I was a committed smoker of 25 years. Camels. About a pack and a half a day, more if I was going out drinking or just had a stressful day.

I smelled like an ashtray and I didn’t care. I’d purposely blow smoke at non-smokers grimacing at my habit and I’d curse at joggers at will.

I’d also spend most of the night coughing myself to sleep and likely couldn’t have ridden my bike to the end of the driveway to get the mail, let alone consider 100 miles of New York City streets.

People ask if I used the gum, or the patch (all pun intended) to quit. I did not. I went “cold turkey,’’ which is an odd phraseology in the American lexicon meaning that instead of lighting a cigarette, I simply didn’t.

I’m not saying it was easy. It was, in fact, quite miserable, as anyone around me at the time would attest. But I got through it. And people eventually forgave me.

The execution, I found, was less difficult than the intent. That is to say, making the decision to quit smoking – to honestly decide this was it, today is the day, no more – was harder than actually quitting. My mind had to be in the right spot. I had to really mean it.

I did. And on Sunday, no matter how far I ride, or don’t, I’m celebrating that decision.

Probably I won’t be in a dress, though.

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I'm still looking for a name for this column. If you've got suggestions, please leave them in the comments below!