A Bike Ride Through Acceptanceville

As an avid bicyclist, one of the things I looked forward to most about moving to North Idaho was the prospect of riding on country roads with little traffic.

First came unpacking. After delving through the Precambrian layer of necessities, I unearthed my bicycling gear.

After a quick check of the bike, I gave it a squirt of oil, threw a leg over the saddle and headed out.

I had stopped a cyclist in our neighborhood a few days earlier, so I knew that heading west of town would take me out across the prairie. I turned into a slight wind and settled on a pace I hoped to maintain for an hour. Houses quickly became sparse, then gave way to farms as the road imperceptibly narrowed and the shoulders disappeared.

As I rode, comparisons to my former riding haunts struck me. I’d had a regular route along a Pacific Ocean beach that provided the sound of surf and the smell of the sea as the miles clicked off. Another epic ride ran the other way down the coast, wound up an interminably long hill, and circled around a peninsula that jutted out into the ocean. The views only got better as I ground up the hill.

Now, as I rode through the prairie without a soul in sight, I remembered that the beach route had only been manageable early in the mornings before the crowds brought the entire bike path to a crawl. Then, one town stationed police officers with radar guns - yes, on the bike path. Others followed.

I also recalled how the path often was so strewn with glass on Mondays after the beach parties that I had to wait for it to be cleaned before riding - sometimes until Tuesday or Wednesday.

Out on the prairie, I shifted down at my turnaround point, and noticed a farmer out breaking his fields with rows of shiny discs. While the tractor thumped out a steady beat, he turned a corner and began working on the edge closest to the road. On impulse, I stopped to watch at a point the tractor would pass right by me.

Distracted by the impossibly black dirt the discs were curling into perfect rows, I looked up at the last second to meet the farmer’s eyes, and suddenly felt sheepish standing there, all decked out in purple and lime green cycling gear. He probably would rumble stoically past in silent protest to this obvious transplant and the changes my ilk were bringing to his way of life. But my gloved hand twitched up in a tentative wave. Then a wide smile broke over his face and he threw up an arm, turning in his seat again to watch his gear out the back window of the tractor cab. I smiled back, feeling a surge of relief and chastising myself for assuming the worst.

The tractor receded in the distance but his smile didn’t. Far more than most in this community, his way of life is threatened by new arrivals and the development we bring. Standing by his field in bright cycling gear, I had inadvertently been as obvious about my newness as possible, yet he had accepted me without hesitation.

Pedaling home across the prairie, I knew that I had not expected to deal with crowds, radar wielding police officers, or gangs that would try to steal a bike out from under me here.

Actually, the only concern I’d had before arriving was being accepted by the people who gave this place its community. Now, as the road scrolled past my wheels, this concern joined my mental pile of discards.

Unfortunately, I had to add another item to my list of things not to tell out-of-staters about - great Idaho riding. After all, you never can be too careful …

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