Sometimes I Wonder If My Bike Is Thinking About Me Too

By Stan Purdum

“Context,” so the saying goes, “is everything.”

I thought about that a few years ago while participating in a multi-day bicycle event. After one day’s ride, I saw a woman wearing a T-shirt that read “Sometimes I Wonder If My Bike Is Thinking About Me Too.”

“Nice shirt,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied. “I usually wear it as a sleep shirt because most people don’t understand it. But here, everybody gets it right away.”

As I said, context is everything.

Naturally, the statement on her shirt caused me to realize that I think about my bike quite often, but mostly when I’m not on it. And a lot of what I think about then is 1) when can I next squeeze a ride into my busy schedule? And 2) where can I ride that isn’t just one of the same routes I have ridden so often?

Ironically, perhaps, when I’m actually on my bike, unless it’s emitting odd noises or not operating properly, I don’t think about it all that much. Some of my attention is taken up by operating my steed so as to ride safely, especially when traffic is heavy or the road surface is bad or there are other potential hazards to navigate. But once I’m in a low traffic area, riding the bike is a pleasurable activity, and I’m in a place of contentment. And if I am riding alone, my mind is unleashed and goes where it wishes, sometimes surprising me. Elsewhere, I’ve called my bike a marvelous thought machine, because sometimes the peace of pedaling frees my mind to solve non-bike-related problems I’ve been stuck on.

Other times, my mind while I cycle is like a device a friend once showed me — a rock-tumbling machine. You put any small stones you wish in the machine and turn it on. The stones tumble against each other and eventually become smooth and usable for jewelry. My unrelated thoughts tumble against each other and often yield nothing at all, but occasionally a gem appears. 

Here’s an example: I am retired from the ministry, but back when I was pastoring a church, I became friends with a church member, Phil. After I had been there several years, Phil was stricken with a particularly nasty cancer. He went through several courses of treatment, but things eventually came to the place where there was nothing left to do. Phil accepted that he was going to die, and he asked me to conduct his funeral when the time came. Phil was well liked by the congregation, and I knew they would grieve his passing.

During Phil’s final days, I visited him often, both as his pastor and as a friend. After one of these visits, I went out for a bike ride. I was feeling a heavy sadness. Phil was on my mind, but my thoughts were non-focused, and they tumbled around in my head along with my considerations about route selection and drinking enough water on that hot day and some other unrelated ruminations.

And then, all at once, I knew what I needed to say at Phil’s funeral. While it was not a usual thing with me, the funeral sermon came to me almost as a completed work in my mind. In fact, it was so unusual for that to happen that I cut my ride short and headed for home so I could get the gist of it down in writing before I lost it. I opened my laptop, and in an hour or so, I had the sermon, complete with scripture texts and words about Phil’s uniqueness and goodness ready to go. 

Within the week Phil died, and after I spoke at his funeral, Phil’s wife said to me, “Stan, you nailed Phil exactly.” I considered responding with “You can thank my bike,” but it didn’t seem appropriate in that context, which as I said earlier, is [often] everything.

But really, in preparation for that day, the bike had thought about me and given me what I needed to help Phil’s family and my congregation — and me — to find some comfort for our grief. 

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Stan Purdum has ridden several long-distance bike trips, including an across-America ride recounted in his book Roll Around Heaven All Day, and a trek on U.S. 62, from Niagara Falls, New York, to El Paso, Texas, the subject of his book Playing in Traffic. Stan, a freelance writer and editor, lives in Ohio. See more at www.StanPurdum.com.