Jim Whitehouse: Shiny new bicycle puts distance between friends

"Saddle up!" says L.P. Fattire. "Let's ride!"

As we do every Saturday morning, we’ve gathered at the clock tower for a bicycle ride.

"Not yet," says Goliath. "Dr. Routemeister isn't here yet."

Since Routemeister, true to his name, decides where we will go each week, we can't leave without him. We’d just ride hopelessly in circles around the clock tower like moths to a lightbulb.

About a minute later, Dr. Routemeister rounds the corner and pulls to a stop by the tower.

"Hey!" says L.P. "New bicycle!"

Indeed, Routemeister is on a shiny new bike.

The world of bicycles has changed a lot in the past few years with the advent of e-assist bikes.

E-bikes have motors and batteries.

The bicycle senses how hard the rider is pushing on the pedal, and if that force exceeds a certain limit, the motor adds a boost to make it easier to climb a hill or ride into the wind. The rider still has to pedal, but not as hard.

With a button, the biker selects a level to tell the e-peabrain in the bicycle just how hard they want to push on the pedals.

We’ve all known it was just a matter of time before one of us fell from grace and bought one of these new contraptions.

We head off on our ride after examining Routemeister's new e-assist bike and taking orders from him about our destination. There, in another town, we’ll eat breakfast, drink coffee and tell lies before heading home again.

The first couple of miles run parallel to the river. No hills. As usual, we ride two-by-two and chat as we ride, enjoying the companionship.

Then we start climbing.

Having ridden together for many years, we ride at the same pace. Not anymore.

Routemeister shoots ahead, cresting the hill 100 yards ahead of the rest of us except for Goliath who is a powerful rider. He manages to stay close to Routemeister.

L.P. Fattire and I trudge along behind. Three more miles, and we come to an intersection. Routemeister and Goliath are no longer in sight. We turn right, knowing it will take us to our destination.

Four miles later, my cellphone rings in my pocket. I stop and answer. It is Routemeister.

"Where are you guys?" he says.

I tell him.

"You were supposed to go straight," he says. "We’ve been sitting here on our bikes waiting for you."

"And we were supposed to know that — how?" I reply.

Separated, we wind our way forward. By and by, L.P. and I using our rearview mirrors spot Routemeister coming up behind us with Goliath a couple of hundred yards behind him. We are climbing a hill and Routemeister zooms past us, pedaling easily. Goliath, panting, slows to our speed.

We arrive at the restaurant where Routemeister is sitting on a bench, his helmet on his lap. He appears to be asleep, but mutters something about what a bunch of lazy laggards we are.

I go to the door of the restaurant and discover a sign: "Closed Today."

Great.

The nearest restaurant is 2 miles uphill. We hop on our bikes and grunt our way there. Inside, Routemeister is finishing his first cup of coffee, patiently waiting for us.

"Slowpokes," he says.

An hour and a half later, we are back at the clock tower, hot and breathing heavily from our ride back. Except for Routemeister, who is again waiting for us, cool as a cucumber.

"It was nice spending time with you today," I say to him. "In the restaurant."

"You just need to ride faster," he says.

Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.