For Wilshire Baptist Church
I’m a piker when it comes to cycling.
I’ve liked that word “piker” ever since I first heard it used by my college philosophy professor to differentiate between the theoretical depth of various 19th and 20th century philosophers. In his definition, a piker is an average, lazy pretender.
The twist is that when I say I’m a piker compared to other cyclists, I’m not comparing myself to the those who fly around White Rock Lake in the thick of some phantom stage of the Tour de France. I don’t worry about keeping up or competing with them. I’m also not comparing myself to long-distance riders; I rode 125 miles one day and can check that box. No, I’m a piker compared to the cyclists I encounter, mostly men, who ride because it’s the only way to get to where they need to be. I’m a piker compared to men like Charles.
I met Charles at White Rock Station on a Saturday evening. I had circled the lake and was waiting for the train back to downtown Garland when Charles walked up pushing a three-wheel adult tricycle. He complimented my two-wheel Trek and said he was on the trike under doctor’s orders due to an abdominal hernia that threatened his balance. Seeing his large, distended belly, I believe the doctor was right.
On the 15-minute train ride to Garland I learned that Charles had ridden DART and the three-wheeler to C.C. Young senior living center to visit his mother. She has dementia and still remembers him but in 10-minute bursts of clarity. I commented on the load in the basket between his back wheels, and he said that he also rode to an estate sale and bought a belt sander. He does some woodworking for pay and the sander will help with that.
We also talked about the pros and cons of different makes and models of bikes. Charles didn’t look at all like the type that would know so much about bikes, but when that is your main way of getting around, you collect some knowledge. He grumbled that his trike was a cheap model and has just one gear — “whatever speed I can ride” — and he is hoping to get something better.
Another man rolled onto the train with a bike and joined the conversation. He too was bike-bound for work and not for recreation. And earlier, on the train going to White Rock, there was a younger man who was not dressed for sport cycling but wore a dirty safety vest and had a claw hammer and other tools in his bike basket. We made eye contact but didn’t talk. He seemed tired, and his fatigue only deepened when a fare inspector came through the train. I showed the inspector the e-ticket on my iPhone and then watched as she approached the other cyclist, asked for his pass, and then pulled out her book to write him up. What a shame, I thought. My DART pass was only $3, and this man might have to give up a week’s pay to cover the fine for not having one.
I didn’t learn Charles’ name until I asked him as we parted at Downtown Garland Station. I’ve watched for him since then and don’t know if I’ll see him again. Regardless, I’ll always be a piker compared to him. It’s not physical fitness or equipment that separates us; it’s commitment, stamina, endurance, a philosophy of doing whatever it takes to get it done.
I bet we’ve all seen someone like Charles out there — they’re doing what we’re doing, but they’re doing more with less. We’re doing it in pursuit of self-fulfillment or self-satisfaction; they’re doing it for survival. And on those hot summer days when Charles rides to visit his mother, he’s doing it for love.