After 4,230 trips cranking it out on two wheels over a 22-year ride to the daily grind that concluded Friday, there were some lingering considerations that needed to be pumped up and aired out.

The bicycle we know today has been around since the Grover Cleveland presidential administration — his non-consecutive second term, like what Donald Trump hopes to achieve.

Throughout the ensuing decades, the bike has been refined, but not revolutionized.  After all, pedaling is still required, and despite the advances in technology, folks will still pony up several thousand for a smooth pair of pristine wheels.

I am not one of them.

My preferred bike I obtained secondhand.  The choicest way to acquire one is to find those who were gifted one that they had good intentions to use, rode a few times, then parked it in the garage/basement that now takes up room next to the water heater.  We all know where good intentions lead, and in order to make space and salvage a few bucks in the process, a Trumpian deal could very well be in the offing.

It makes no sense that bikes built for males have a straight metal bar right in front of the seat, whereas bikes made for females have a low curved bar.  If you see a 60-year-old dude on the west coast riding a bike, he is working out.  Provided you come across a 60-year-old grunt in Pennsylvania cranking it out on two wheels in January, he has a DUI.

That, however, is not necessarily true.

When a fellow bicyclist was run over by a garbage truck last February along Route 61, who thankfully survived, it was certainly interesting to witness the reactions of my fellow coworkers.  Speculating on what may have occurred as all traffic was detoured that fateful morning, including me, one co-worker who recently retired caught me as I was cranking up the 8%-grade hill to work.  She genuinely told me how "glad she was to see me."  I replied, "It is great seeing you, too, Janet."

Realizing I had no idea, Janet proceeded to tell me what had happened along my usual route.  Some others throughout the worksite joked about it, while some were not as generous, with one lamenting, "I thought you were supposed to be dead."  He actually seemed disappointed.

NeverTrumps are just impossible to please.

The berm of the road always served as a sort of daily retreat.  Whereas some disappear to an isolated trout stream, others to their cabin, I had the berm, where I could discern, smell, and practically taste the countryside on the perpetual move, but at a much slower and more contemplative pace and panorama. 

Initially, my adventure commenced after the wife anchored herself at home with the growing brood that left us with one vehicle.  Having always wanted to make the trek, a reasonable seven miles one way, it all began in earnest in early April and ended the same month over two decades later.  That first year I racked up only 84 rides, vowing not to ride in the rain and especially not in winter.  That would eventually change as I registered 238 rides last year, not missing a day.

Summer is the favorite, winter the most challenging.  It is one thing to be wet in the summer, but wet in the winter meant frigid.  The extra winter gear, the weather, and the road considerations always made the journey arduous and longer.  I became perhaps too well versed in sunrise and sunset times and just how much precious daylight we gained or lost daily.  

For over five years, I had a riding partner in Bob, who rode with me in the morning but went solo going home since his gig ended a half-hour earlier.  Bob racked up 1,078 round trips himself and could also tell a few tales.

I will continue to pedal, but minus the commuter mindset, with destinations at my leisure and not by mandate.  That is the best gear change of all.

Image via Flickr, public domain.