Columns: Why Roll When You Can Fly?

My brother, Dylan, and I go riding together on weekends. He insists that he's a rock-climber and not a cyclist. I insist that, for being a rock climber, he sure rides his bike a lot, doesn't live in a locale that's even remotely conducive to climbing, and hasn't scaled any good-size, natural rock since before the winter hit.

Dylan isn't serious about riding; he does it for kicks. He sees us all as obsessive technoweenies in our flashy clothing, pads and shiny, space-age mechanisms. I used to be more like him. I rode the trails on flat pedals, wore BMX pads along with my plastic skate helmet, and I didn't spend money on parts unless whatever it was I had wouldn't rotate, swing, retract or otherwise perform the function for which it was designed anymore.

The change must have been gradual. So gradual, in fact, that I didn't even realize what was happening. There was a time when I would throw a leg over a bike and, if I was wearing shorts, a T-shirt and footwear that wasn't sandals, I'd be cool. Now I won't leave the house if I don't have my Lycra pelvis sock on with Depends insert sewn in. I won't consider going farther than a couple of blocks without flashy (protective) eyewear or neato bike shoes that clip onto lightweight bindings, and I feel like a fool if I wear plain, white, cotton socks. What happened?

Last weekend, as Dylan and I pedaled toward the trails, we noticed conspicuous objects riding thermals in the sky. They were model airplanes. As we approached we saw a row of cars lined up, each with their tailgates open, and a dozen guys standing around, eyes to the sky, watching their little mechanical birds go round and round. One gentleman was operating the "launcher" on the ground, which was some kind of contraption that gets these things airborne by pulling them rapidly along on a cord. When the plane reached a given height, the cord would release and automatically retract, floating to the ground on a fluorescent parachute.

I laughed and said, "People sure get serious about some strange stuff, don't they?"

"I bet they were psyched when that guy threw down for that launcher, " replied Dylan.

"I can just see him calling one of them up: ‘Hey, Hank-I finally got the new Launch-o-matic 12,000 in the mail. It's the gas-powered one with automatic-retract features and a parachute that keeps the drag line from getting tangled.'"

We laughed and spun away thinking, dorks.

That night I caught myself trying to explain to Dylan, with stark conviction, the reasons why my top-dollar seatpost was ingenious. He wasn't convinced. To Dylan, a seatpost is just a seatpost, wheels are wheels, and model airplane launchers are just model airplane launchers. If he rides in sneakers, his prescription glasses and a borrowed helmet, and fancies himself a rock climber on sabbatical, who gives a shit? Here's to keeping it real-something it's high time I started doing again.