Life Lessons from an Old Mountain Bike

Nancy Triggiani Books

Pedaling my tiny two-wheeler in circles around a tree in my urban backyard, I dreamed of a bike made for mud. When the skinny tires got caught in a rut, my 7-year-old mind didn’t understand why a bike couldn’t just ride through it.

From the moment I got my first tricycle as a toddler, I was hooked on bikes. Little did I know, bikes would teach me valuable life lessons. After the tricycle, I grew into a Schwinn Pixie, the one I rode around the tree like a merry-go-round. I soon sprouted into a Schwinn Stingray and then a Schwinn Varsity 10 speed road bike with drop handlebars. Then something terrible happened. In my late teens, I parked my bike in the garage and there it sat for years. I’d moved on to other things until a friend from my ju-jitsu class asked me to go biking with him.

I rolled the bike out of the garage and hosed it down, blowing off the cobwebs, and pumped air into the flat tires. On our first ride, I noticed the gears weren’t shifting, so I brought it to a local bike shop, where I was told it wasn’t worth repairing. The bike shop owner introduced me to a new kind of bike that had come on the market during my hiatus from riding – the mountain bike! I couldn’t believe it! The bike I had always dreamed of had been invented!

There was nothing to question. I immediately plunked down over $800 on the black and neon green speckled Trek 7000. The bike was fully rigid with no shocks whatsoever. As instructed, I let out some air pressure from the tires and headed for the rocky trails of northern New Jersey, along with my friend, who was also pedaling a newly purchased mountain bike.

I believed in that bike. I believed it could do anything, go anywhere, and ride over everything, and so we did! With my feet clamped in toe clips, we tackled the tough terrain of Ringwood State Park on a regular basis, riding up steep inclines and zipping down the other side, kicking up small rocks that pinged against the aluminum frame.  We pedaled through rock gardens and deep muddy puddles the size of small ponds. Covered in mud, there was nothing we couldn’t do, no place we couldn’t go.

I pedaled without fear, confident in my knobby-wheeled steed. Approaching obstacles, I cranked harder, anticipating only success. Bike and body worked in a finely tuned synchronicity. If my first try failed, I eagerly tried again until surmounting the hurdle. As the bike reacted to the terrain, I reacted to the bike to maintain balance. We were a team! This isn’t to say there weren’t mishaps. My body hit the dirt quite a few times. Racing along a leaf-covered trail in the autumn, the concealed ground below went from hard-packed dirt to loose gravel as I rounded a bend. The rear wheel slid out, dropping the bike out from under me. The momentum sent my body over the bars, soaring through the air Superman-style until gravity took over, landing me with a belly flop on the rocks. Dusting myself off, I walked back to my bike lying on its side with the rear wheel still spinning, picked it up, and pedaled on, announcing to my riding partner, “You haven’t been mountain biking until you’ve become part of the mountain”!

Sometimes my expectations defied the natural laws of physics, such as when I tried to ride up the equivalent of a dirt half pipe, created by Mother Nature, herself. From a running start, I was determined to reach the top. My last attempt sent me inches from the summit, where I became the victim of gravity. The bike stalled, flopping on its side. I landed face down alongside. Tightly grasping the frame with one hand, I dug my other hand in the dirt, and slid on my belly back down to the bottom. The friction tore a massive hole in my bike glove, the only causality of the day. Read more

Ice Skates and Oranges, Memories of Christmases Past

Nancy Triggiani Books

“He came”! He came”! I can still hear my not-so-dainty bare feet thumping, as I ran towards the Christmas tree. Glowing with warm colored lights, glittering tinsel, and sparkling handblown glass ornaments, it was magical! Excited to see the toys below, I dashed into the kitchen to make sure the cookies left on the table for Santa had been eaten. The remains of a bitten cookie and crumbs was all the evidence I needed, confirming that it really was Santa who had placed the gifts beneath the tree.

Poking my head into my parent’s bedroom, I repeated, “He came”! Clarifying, “Santa was here”! I roused them from what certainly must have been a long, uninterrupted, restful Christmas Eve’s sleep. Mom put on her robe as Dad grabbed his camera. The three of us, up shortly before the sun, walked towards the living room, illuminated by the rack of lights atop Dad’s movie camera.

First, I dashed to get my Christmas stocking, hung, not from the mantle, as our Paterson, New Jersey home had no fireplace, but rather from the large key in the cabinet door of the grandfather’s clock. A wintery off-white stocking, adorned with glitter and sequins, was stuffed with little toys, treats, and a candy cane sticking out the top. At the very bottom, nestled in the toe, the very last thing to pull out, sat an orange. Every year there were different toys beneath the tree and different goodies in the stocking, but there was always an orange at the bottom.

I never knew why Santa always put an orange in my stocking, and looking back, I wonder why I never asked. Nonetheless, a Christmas stocking would never be complete without an orange. Only recently did I start investigating the reasons behind this. As it turns out, there are several origins of the Christmas orange.

Traveling back in time to the 4th century AD, legend has it that a very poor man with three daughters didn’t have enough money for their dowries. Hearing of this, St. Nicholas dropped three round pieces of gold down their chimney, and they landed in the girl’s stockings drying below. The round orange with its goldish hue, came to symbolize the balls of gold given by St. Nicholas.

Fast forwarding to the 1800s, oranges, native to warm climates, were exotic and rare in colder regions. The slow modes of transportation of the era meant oranges came with a hefty price tag. Only the rich could afford this sweet citrus fruit, so gifting an orange was regarded as giving someone a luxury item.

During the Depression and the lean years that followed, people didn’t have money to spend on gifts. Many struggled just to put food on their table and oranges were regarded as an extra special treat. Without the financial ability to put gifts and toys under the tree, an orange, sometimes accompanied by nuts, was placed in a Christmas stocking.

Only now, as an adult, do I understand why my parents, tired from secretly playing Santa, happily watched and filmed me pulling out the orange they had placed in the toe of my Christmas stocking.

Along with an orange, there was one other thing I got every year for Christmas – ice skates! From the first year that I graduated to single blade skates, up until my preteens, there was always a box of new ice skates for my bigger, growing feet under the tree. Tucked in the box was a pair of wool socks – skating socks – to keep my feet warm. Read more

For the Love of Leaves

Nancy Triggiani Books

 

The outside air temperature had already reached 70 degrees at 10 o’clock in the morning. I had to check the calendar twice to convince myself it really was November 1st. This time of year, I was supposed to be putting on long pants and a windbreaker for a morning bike ride, not shorts and a T-shirt. So, I dug out my summer biking clothes and began leisurely dressing, thinking about the warm, sunny bike ride I was about to embark on.

My pleasant daydream was shattered by a sudden burst of noise. A truckload of subrban lawn warriors had pulled up to the house next door. Despite the summer feel, it was autumn and there were leaves to attack, blow, and eliminate. With heavy leaf blowers strapped to their backs, a couple of warriors climbed a tall ladder to the roof and began blasting the leaves. Down below, an army of men, being showered in fluttering red, orange, and gold foliage, assaulted the land-based leaves with their fume-spewing leaf blowers. One of the troops rode a gas-propelled giant fan – a riding leaf blower – blasting huge mounds of leaves at once. The noise was deafening.

Hurrying outside, I hopped on my bike and pedaled away, hoping to outrun the brain-rattling cacophony of two-stroke engines. Leaf blowers often exceed 100 decibels, similar to a commercial jet taking off, but not quite as loud as the blast of a rocket lift off. The noise diminished as I rode down the street, but when I rounded the corner, I was confronted by another large group of men armed with loud lawn weapons. Accelerating, I left them in my wake, only to be faced with army after leaf blowing army; there was no escaping the noise and choking fumes. I rode for an hour, at times passing land forces so loud that my teeth rattled inside my head. Well, isn’t it worth it – the hours of brain-shaking noise and noxious fumes – to have those manicured, bright green, chemically treated, leafless lawns?

Leaves are essential for a healthy environment. They provide a habitat for ladybugs, fireflies, and other creatures, perpetuate pollination, and provide nutrients for the soil. Instead, suburban homeowners somehow think it’s better to strip the earth of nature’s nutritious, insulating leaf blanket and then add poisonous lawn chemicals to maintain that bright green spring look to their grass …. in November! Little flags are then planted along the property’s perimeter, warning people to keep their children and pets off the chemically laden lawn. Perhaps they should consider Astroturf! Read more

New Bike Reveal

Nancy Triggiani Life's Reflections

My new bike search began with my fingertips furiously typing the names of different bike manufacturers in a Google search: Specialized, Giant, Kona, Trek, and more. I studied geometries, suspension, and components, and watched different bikes zipping along trails in YouTube videos.

After a couple more weeks of pedaling my old Giant NRS 1 around Rockland Lake, I was getting eager to hit the trails on a new bike. What happened next, which lead me to the bike of my dreams, is revealed in the letter I wrote to the district manager of Trek. It was quite a series of events, and nothing says it better than what I wrote to Trek!

“December 5, 2022

Dear John Burke,

Compelled by the stellar customer service I received while purchasing a new bike from Trek  Bicycle – Closter in Bergen County, New Jersey, I felt a strong need to convey my experience to you. I write this not only as a life-long mountain biker and consumer, but also as a business owner. My husband and I own Westwood Music Studios, a private music school located only five miles from the Trek store, so we share the same customer base, and I fully understand the dynamics of doing business in the area.

It is important to first give you a brief synopsis of my cycling background, as it has great significance to Trek, the bike industry, and my recent experience. My first mountain bike, purchased in 1989, was a Trek 7000, fully rigid bike. At the time, I thought it was the greatest thing ever created, and that together, my bike and I were invincible – able to ride over anything and anywhere, and so we did! We did …. until my beloved Trek 7000 was stolen from my home. Fortunately, the police found the bike unscathed, arrested the thief, and returned it to me. Yes, my Trek came back to me, so I named it, Boomerang! After years of grinding and pounding through the rough, rocky terrain of northern New Jersey, Boomerang was grinding to a halt. When discussing marriage with my future husband, who I had introduced to mountain biking, he asked if I wanted a diamond engagement ring, to which I replied, “No, I’d prefer a new mountain bike.” Read more

David, A Misunderstood Masterpiece

Nancy Triggiani Books

All roads lead to Rome, now a figurative expression, was once quite literal. Beginning around 300 BC, the Roman Empire started constructing a vast network of roads radiating from the great city. During the height of Rome’s reign, there were over 250,000 miles of roads connecting the city to the outreaches of the empire throughout Europe and as far away as western Asia. The Roman roads intertwined throughout the land, forming a web that carried everyday citizens, the military, and political officials to outlying regions, and served as trade routes for the exchange of goods, knowledge, culture, and language.

With the collapse of the Roman Empire, Europe and much of the world fell into a period of stagnation, known as the Dark Ages. Exploration, scientific discovery, and economics fell into decline, as did cultural, artistic, and intellectual achievements. The darkest of this dark period was the Bubonic plague, the global pandemic originating in Asia that entered Europe through shipping ports in Italy. Ravaging Western Eurasia and North Africa, the Bubonic Plaque caused an estimated 75-200 million deaths, wiping out a third of the population between the years 1346 and 1352.

From this darkness, there emerged a great light, a revival of art, literature, language, science, and exploration. This new age, known as the Renaissance, was ushered in by a scholar and poet from a village near Florence, Italy, Francesco Petrarca, more commonly known by his anglicized name, Petrarch. One of the most influential figures during the Renaissance, and one of the greatest artists of all time, was another Florentine, Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, or more simply, Michelangelo!

Most famous for his frescoes on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling, Michelangelo was also a great sculptor and the creator of the Pietá, depicting the death of Christ, and the statue of David, now residing in Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence, Italy. A beloved symbol of Florence, the marble masterpiece is also an icon of the Renaissance. Standing 17 feet tall, it took Michelangelo over 3 years, beginning in 1501, to carve the image of the nude teenage male figure, intended to embody the independent spirit of the Republic of Florence.

Suddenly, in 2023 in America, this great work of one of the world’s most brilliant and revered artists is being labeled as pornography. The Statue of David, as viewed through the eyes of ignorance, is seen as porn, unsuitable for the eyes of children in middle school. The cries of outraged parents resulted in the firing of a school principal, who allowed an art teacher to give a 6th grade class a lesson on Renaissance art, featuring Michelangelo’s David. Read more

My Life on Two Wheels – The Evolution of a Mountain Biker

Nancy Triggiani Life's Reflections

My life on two wheels began with three, a tricycle that I rode in circles and zig zagged through my small urban yard. With the passing months, which were like years to a toddler, I ventured longer distances, pedaling up and down the long, narrow alleyway between my house and the neighbor’s. The cement corridor was barely wide enough for the tiny trike’s three-point turn. Up and down and more tours of the backyard, I was getting adventurous but wanted more. At the end of the alleyway, one large step leading down to the sidewalk marked the absolute boundary, the line I dare not cross. Pedaling back to the yard, I was boxed in by wire fences separating the properties. The neighbor’s yard on the alley side, a double lot property with a grassy yard and a boy a couple of years older than me, was especially appealing. If only I could break through that fence!

Before long, my knees were coming up to my chin when pedaling the tiny three-wheeler. It was time for a big girl’s bike, a bike with only two wheels, well, two plus another two miniature wheels mounted to the rear axle – training wheels. For my inaugural ride, my father wheeled the pink and white Schwinn Pixie down the alleyway, crossing the forbidden threshold, the big step down to the sidewalk. I was free – sort of. Instructing me in the physics of motion in four-year-old terms, my father trotted behind me as I pedaled up and down the sidewalk, sometimes leaning to the left, and other times tipping to the right, giving each training wheel its chance to prop me back up. The faster I went, the more I stayed up on two wheels. Soon I was zipping along with my handlebar streamers fluttering in the breeze.

My big rite of passage came a short while later when, with screwdriver in hand, my father removed the training wheels. I was on my own, free to ride up and down the sidewalk …. but no further. Rounding a corner on our block, where I’d be out of sight of my mother’s watchful eyes, was forbidden. After all, these were the city streets of Paterson, New Jersey, not country lanes. On occasion, my father would take me to the schoolyard on the next block where I could ride in the enormous concrete yard surrounding the red brick building, a building I would not enter for another year when I would start kindergarten. The schoolyard, enclosed with a green wrought iron fence topped with spikes that seemed to pierce the clouds, kept me safe – safe and confined within its perimeter. Read more

Zucchini Flowers and Concrete

Nancy Triggiani Life's Reflections


Zucchini flowers! Standing in the train station in Naples, Italy, with a large suitcase at his side, a friend recorded an audio message to me, while waiting for the train home to Vienna, Austria. He explained the contents of the suitcase represented the things he most loved about the land of his ancestors: sausage, zucchini flowers, buffalo mozzarella, and boutique shop items, all evoking a sense of nostalgia. Upon hearing zucchini flowers, excitement and nostalgic feelings raced through me. I barely listened when he recited the names of the other items; all I could think about were the zucchini flowers.

Growing up in the industrial city of Paterson, New Jersey, known for its silk mills, I was surrounded by densely stacked houses and concrete, not exactly a place you’d expect to find zucchini flowers growing. The houses on my block were mostly the same, two-family homes with tiny backyards, separated by narrow alleyways. However, there was something different about the house directly across the street where my childhood friend, Fran lived. Lifting the latch of the green wrought iron gate, I often hiked up the eight steep cement steps to her front yard, and then up another set of six, leading to the front porch, where I rang the bell, eagerly awaiting my young friend to answer. The resonating ring was typically followed by the call of a middle-aged woman with a thick Italian accent. “Franz-a! Nenzi is here”! Such is how Rosina pronounced our names, Fran and Nancy.

Fran ran to greet me in a dress with the big bow in her hair bopping to the rhythm of her feet, clad in little leather shoes and lace socks. There I stood in shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and most likely, a scab on my knee, frequently sustained when running around and rough housing with the boys. We were as different as night and day but, when not playing football with the boys or riding bikes, I liked spending time with Fran, playing with dolls, although mine were Teddy Bears and stuffed dogs. Read more

When Mountain Biking was …. Mountain Biking

Nancy Triggiani Life's Reflections

“Yes! That’s for me”! I didn’t have to think twice when the salesman at the bike shop showed me a mountain bike for the first time. Standing before the knobby-tired dream-come-true, images of me as a young girl, trying to pedal my tiny-tired Schwinn through the dirt in my back yard leaped to the forefront of my mind. Clear as a bell, I recalled my childhood wish that a bike would be invented to ride over rocks and through mud, as my little Schwinn succumbed to the terrain. “I’ll take it”! I announced. Adding a helmet and bike rack to the bill, I happily forked over my hard-earned cash, as a bike shop employee attached the rack to the back of my car. Next, my new prized possession, a Trek 7000, fully rigid mountain bike was mounted to the rack and I was off to a new life.

The year was 1989 and I was a young adult albeit still the same mud-loving, rough and tumble Tom Boy as when I desperately tried pedaling my Schwinn around the yard. I had no idea what mountain biking was truly all about, except that it meant I could finally ride a bike over virtually anything nature threw my way. After convincing a friend to plunk down his cash on a mountain bike, he and I ventured into the woods of the hilly, rocky topography of northern New Jersey. With my long ponytail dangling out the back of my helmet, I raced up my first trail. 

A competitive judo player since the age of twelve, I was in top shape, ready to combat any mountain and all of its rocks and roots. Zipping along the trails, our rides always began with a steep climb that seemed to go on indefinitely until we were rewarded with scenic views, snappy single tracks, and white-knuckled descents. The sound of rocks, spun free by the knobby tires and sent pinging against the bike frame, was music to my ears.

Propelled by the confidence that my Trek could roll over and eat up anything thrown in front of it, we were unstoppable – invincible! With my feet secured to the pedals in toe clips, I took on anything, including a few things that weren’t exactly meant for a 1989 vintage, rigid mountain bike that sent me sailing OTB – over the bars – or smack down in the dirt more than a few times. One such time was when pedaling through a winding trail that opened into a wide, flat region of the forest. Off to the right was a steep cliff, rising sharply up about twenty feet. It was pure dirt and resembled half of a half pipe looming above the flatlands. Getting a running start, I pedaled furiously, convinced I could make it to the top ledge. Several failed attempts didn’t deter me but on my final try, I nearly made it up and over when my bike slide out from under me, and with one hand on the top tube and the other digging into the dirt, we slid, face down, to the bottom. The result was a bruised ego and a totally torn to shreds biking glove. Read more

Pandemics and Pies: What They Teach Us About Life

Nancy Triggiani Life's Reflections

When the coronavirus pandemic first began weaving its way through American society, it sent people scurrying to the supermarkets, filling their carts with everything they needed and didn’t need in preparation for a life of quarantine, locked down and hunkered down for an undetermined period of time. At the checkout counter, behind roll after roll after roll of toilet paper swiftly gliding down the conveyor, sat bags of flour. It wasn’t long before the only flour left on store shelves was the white powdery residue that had spilled out, marking where they once stood. People sought comfort in returning to the basics of baking. Soon kitchens across the country were wafting of fresh baked breads, cookies, and pies, harkening back to simpler times.

It was the work of a microscopic organism that forced people from the bustling streets and over-scheduled schedules to shelter in place, to slow down, spend time with family, relax, stay in touch with friends on Facebook, WhatsApp, and Instagram, google recipes, and to breathe, breathe in the aromas emanating from their ovens. A wave of soothing calmness soon washed throughout the land.

Recipes calling for nature’s own ingredients: apples, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, vanilla, honey, lemon, butter, and of course, flour, burst with flavor, tantalizing pallets, filling stomachs, and satisfying souls. Minus the additives and fillers, excessive sugar, and hair-raising doses of sodium, the all-natural, home baked recipes not only tasted good but didn’t threaten one’s health. Relying on old trusted recipes and sometimes altering them with a little of this and a little of that from pantry shelves, gave birth to new variations and new flavors. Perhaps there’s a deeper underlying lesson in this. Maybe we can learn something from that simple apple pie recipe and experimenting with it. Read more

A Letter to My Sister

Nancy Triggiani Life's Reflections

Born one and a half years before me, you got to do everything first, well, almost everything. You crawled, took your first steps, celebrated your first birthday, said your first word – I think it was Dada, and even sat on Santa’s lap, all before I popped my head out into the world.

Music is in our blood

I always looked to you to see what was coming next in my life. I saw your hair turn from golden blonde to a dark brown, as did mine, except yours was darker but we both had wavy curls. When your first day of school arrived, you were ready to take on the academic world, wearing a maroon dress with a white lace collar, Mary Jane shoes, and white anklet socks with lace  around the tops. With shoulder-length wavy hair carefully combed in place and clutching a tiny bookbag, empty except for a pencil and an eraser in the shape of a dog, you marched out the front door hand-in-hand with Mom, as Dad took picture after picture. Dad and I trailed behind Mom, leading the way – a whole half a block – to the two-story red brick elementary school. Running up the school steps, you whirled around, posing for Dad, whose finger sent the shutter rapidly clicking. I wished I was running up the steps that day – I wanted to go to school with all the big kids, too. Instead, I went home, gathered my teddy bears and stuffed doggies, arranged them on the floor of our bedroom, plopped myself in front of them, and with crayons I wrote A B C and 1 2 3 on a piece of paper and began teaching my class. My turn did come one year later when, wearing a blue dress, I ran up those same steps, spun a revolution and posed for our photographer father.

He wasn’t a professional photographer but it was his passion, just like it was for his father, our most beloved grandfather. We all lived together in a two-family house with a small backyard in a major city on the east coast. Grandma and Grandpa lived on the second floor and we’d often see them smiling down upon us from their large kitchen window, as we ran around playing or splashed in our tiny pool. I tended to run faster and tumble harder, the first hint of our slight differences among our commonalities. During the warmer months, our grandparents would sit in the yard with us – that was always a special treat! Grandpa always wore his brimmed hat, beneath which his eyes twinkled and his smile radiated warmth. Read more