Pedal Pushing

    I think it was in the year 1966 that some friends and I decided to ride our bikes around the lake, spending the night on North Shore and then continue the next day on to home.  There were four of us, all motel kids.  Ralph and his brother Bill, their family owned the Lake Haven motel, and Mike whose family owned the Carriage House motel both up at Stateline, and my folks still had the Alta Vista motel at Ski Run Blvd.
    We had Schwinn Varsity 10 speeds except for Mike; he had a Schwinn Continental which was considered top-of-the-line at the time.  I bought a Continental after my Varsity was stolen a few years later.  We tied on our big bulky Coleman sleeping bags to our rear mounted bike racks along with canteens full of water and some food stuffed inside our sleeping bags.
    Now bear in mind this is far from a hi-tech bike ride.  We had heavy bikes, high top tennis shoes, Levis and t-shirts.  No lightweight bikes, no Spandex riding shorts or light colorful jerseys, no helmets or gloves or even sunglasses.  Just four kids going for a 72-mile ride around a lake with lots of hills and no bike trails; just hug the edge of the road and hope you don't get hit by a car or crash into something.
    We started at Stateline, headed east, and made it to Cave Rock with no problems.  Then we start climbing Spooner Summit.  Not real steep but long.  We took many breaks getting off our bikes to sip some water and wipe the sweat off our faces. We were glad to see the turnoff for North Shore, the road there winds down a gradual decline and gave us a chance to cool off and rest our legs as we coasted along.
    We rolled into Kings Beach late in the afternoon; tired and hungry.  Bill went a ways down the road looking for a campground and Mike rode into town to buy some soda and food.  Ralph and I hung out at the beach and noticed a tiny island about 50 feet offshore.  We take off our shoes, roll up our pants legs and wade on out to take a look-see.
    Turns out the place is perfect; trees and bushes surround the perimeter but the center is open with enough room for all of us to sleep.  Bill comes back and the campground is full and Mike comes back with some provisions.  We decide the island is where we'll sleep so we carry our bikes out there and I find enough dead wood to make a small fire.
    I had brought a small can of Vienna sausages and a few pieces of bread which I tried to toast over the fire; a pretty gross dinner (I haven't eaten Vienna sausages since; yech!) but it was enough to fill me up and ready myself for the ride around the rest of the lake the next day.
    We got up early and headed down the West Shore to complete our circuit.  Our next big hurdle was Dollar Point, a short but steep hill.  So steep, in fact, we got off our bikes and pushed them up the hill.  Pretty much smooth sailing after that, pedaling through Tahoe City, Sunnyside, Homewood, and all those other little communities.
    Then we got to Emerald Bay.  The road along the ridge line is beautiful!  You've got the bay on one side, Cascade Lake on the other, and Tahoe out in front of you.  Once you drop off the ridge there are several sharp hairpin turns as the roadway rapidly drops in elevation.  I started picking up speed even with my hands on the brakes.  I make the first couple of curves but on the last one I was going too fast and went off the road into the soft dirt shoulder, my bike violently going from side to side.  Fortunately, I finally got back on the road just in time to cross the small bridge that spans Cascade Creek.  A close call!  The rest of the ride home was nice as we rode through the aspen groves and forest around the Camp Richardson area.
    A few years ago we were camped in the boat at Emerald Bay.  I was up early to watch the sunrise and get ready for fishing.  My morning solitude was interrupted by a bunch of bike riders up on the road.  "America's Most Beautiful Bike Ride," an annual event here.  They were all hooting and hollering as they first caught sight of the bay.  At first I was angry but then I remembered my time up on that road on my Schwinn and how elated I was.  My anger turned to joy as I began to wave to them from the back deck of the boat, grinning and thinking about my time in the saddle with legs burning and sweat running down my face.  A 12-year-old kid who, all those years ago, did what these folks were doing now.

Pedal on my friends, pedal on.  
Bob