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.
Despite the barriers, my passion for pedaling was increasing. There was an area of grass with a small tree in the center of my yard that I’d ride around and around. When the thin tires caught a rock or got stuck in the mud, I dreamed of one day having a special kind of bike that could easily ride over dirt, mud, and rocks. As my love of biking grew, so did I. When I reached the ripe old age of eight, I was ecstatic to find a new bike standing next to the Christmas tree – a blue Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana seat! Older and stronger, I was now allowed to ride around the block, a block jam packed with two family houses, separated by tiny alleyways, much like mine. Around and around I went, imagining I was riding to all ends of the earth. As my legs took me around the same block, repeatedly, my mind took me over mountains, through forests, along the sea, and to foreign lands.
One day, Chuckie, the boy who lived next door, hopped over the little fence, asking me to go bike riding with him and his friend – he had a special place to show me. Granted permission, we took off, around corners, down a few streets, and to the end of a city block where there was a vacant lot with a big dirt hill. Hiking our bikes to the top, one by one, we soared down with our tires kicking up dirt and rocks and smiles wider than the handlebars. Several dirt moguls at the bottom of the hill gave us an extra rollercoaster-like thrill. The eventual construction of a new house ended our joy rides, so it was back to circling the block.
Every summer my mother and I vacationed in Wildwood, a beach town in southern New Jersey. Near our hotel there was a bike rental shop, a small white building, sitting in the middle of a large parking lot with rows of bikes parked out front. Here I selected my ride. As most bike renters steered their two wheels toward the boardwalk where they’d ride from one end to the other, my mother, who was very unsure on a bike, made me stay in the parking lot. Once again, around and around I went.
The earth made two more complete revolutions around the sun and I turned ten. Already over five feet tall, I had outgrown my Sting-Ray, so my father took me to the local bike shop, Guerino’s, operated out of a converted gas station by an Italian immigrant. It was the mecca of bikes – all shapes, sizes, and colors! I was drawn to a blue Schwinn Varsity ten speed with drop handlebars and typical road bike geometry. I finally ventured through the streets of my neighborhood, but how far can one go in a crowded city?
That bike was my main ride into early adulthood, but was ridden less and less throughout the years, until a friend from my ju-jitsu class asked me to go biking with him. Pulling the old Schwinn out of the garage, I cleaned it up and pumped air into its deflated tires. John lived in a suburb twenty-five minutes north of my congested city, so he packed both of us, me and the bike, in his SUV and drove us to his neck of the woods, where we pedaled on long, winding roads for miles. I loved the freedom but soon found myself wrestling with the gears that wouldn’t shift. Frustrated, I took my old steed to a bike shop John had recommended, hoping for a quick repair, but instead, what I got was life changing.
The owner of the bike shop explained my old clunker wasn’t worth repairing, so I asked him to show me some of the new models. Pulling a bike with large knobby tires from the lineup, he began telling how a new breed of bike had been born and gaining in popularity. Designed to traverse rough terrain and roll over rocks, roots and through mud, the mountain bike was all the latest rage in cycling. The mountain bike? The very bike I had dreamed of while circling the tree in my tiny backyard? Unbeknownst to me, during my dormant biking years, my dream had come true! Without hesitation, I exclaimed, “That bike is for me”! and plunked down over $800 in cash, added a bike rack to the bill, strapped the bike to the rack on the back of my car, and was finally on my way to freedom.
Next up was convincing my cycling buddy to invest in a mountain bike so we could head for the hills together. An effortless task, he, plunked down hard-earned cash and we were off! Before I go further into my mountain adventures, it’s important to pause and point out that back then mountain bikes were totally rigid, meaning there was no front shock, let alone a rear shock, which wouldn’t come along until years later. The only shock absorbing feature was reducing the air pressure in the large tires. That along with the gearing of 3 chain rings in the front and 7 rings in the rear cassette, making for a total of 21 speeds, was all that was needed at the time to climb up mountains and ride the rocky trails. The bike I had chosen was a Trek 7000, black with neon green specs, Shimano Deore XT components, rim brakes, and pedals with toe clips and straps to secure your feet to the bike. Together, my Trek and I were unstoppable; we could ride over anything!
And ride I did! I had broken free of circling yards, city blocks, and parking lots, and was soaring through the mountains of northern New Jersey. At times, I was also soaring through the air, straight over the handlebars, the result of jamming my front wheel into an unseen rock or some other miscalculation or mishap. Perhaps my most spectacular crash came while tearing full speed over a leaf-covered trail in the autumn. The ground beneath the fallen foliage had suddenly gone from hard-packed dirt to loose gravel, sending my back wheel spinning out to the side and dropping the bike out from under me. The laws of physics I had first learned about when my father was teaching me to ride a two-wheeler again came into play. I had so much forward momentum that I was propelled over the bars and sent flying through the air like Superman! I landed with a hard, thudding belly flop on the rocky trail. Stunned, I jumped up and walked several feet back to my bike, lying on its side in a leafy bed with the rear wheel still spinning. John, my biking buddy, came to a screeching halt, asking if I was okay. Dusting myself off, I exclaimed, “Yes! You haven’t been mountain biking until you’ve become part of the mountain”! Both bike and I were unscathed, except for my sore midsection and ribs, so we pedaled on. 
Every weekend we took to the woods until one fateful Sunday when it all came to a grinding halt. I had gotten up early to prepare for a sunny autumn ride but when I went to retrieve my mountain bike from its place in the foyer, which was inside our house and opened into the living room, much to my horror, it was gone! Instinctively, I thought my father, who was already up and out of the house to meet friends for coffee, had moved it. I searched everywhere, coming up empty. Scanning the living room, I noticed the TV had been tampered with and the VCR ripped out; all that remained were the unattached wires. Panic set in. Darting throughout the house in a frightened, dazed state, inspecting for more evidence of what could have transpired, an open dining room window caught my eye. The pieces all came together; someone had broken in through that window, stolen the VCR, and hopped on my new bike as a getaway vehicle. I immediately called the police, giving them a full description of the bike, including the neon green water bottle cage with an equally as neon green water bottle mounted to the frame. Within twenty-four hours the Paterson police spotted someone riding a bike with a neon green water bottle – my bike – in the most crime-ridden section of the city, ground zero for drug dealers and shootings. The thief was apprehended and sent to prison and my precious bike was returned to me, earning the name, Boomerang.
Up until that point, I had been living with my father in my childhood home, the one with the alleyway I used to ride my tricycle up and down, and the tree I circled on my first two-wheeler, dreaming of the yet-to-be-invented mountain bike. However, when I read the police report and learned that the burglar, who had robbed my precious bike, was a thirty-year-old career criminal, who had broken into my house with a seventeen-inch knife in the middle of the night while I slept, I knew it was time to take Boomerang and my other possessions and move out. It was a hard decision because I had been living at home with my father since the sudden passing of my mother when I was eighteen, but this incident involving my beloved Boomerang was the breaking point. So, I packed my bags, strapped Boomerang to the back of my car and headed north to Bergen County where I got an apartment with a friend from my judo club.
Boomerang and I continued on together for years, climbing rocky mountains and shredding down the other side, primarily in Ringwood State Park, northern New Jersey’s mountain biking mecca. To me, Boomerang could do anything and was the absolute greatest thing on earth! It was during this period that I met my future husband, Vinnie, a professional musician and former athlete. At first, he was apprehensive about mountain biking but when I dragged him to a bike shop, insisting he at least sit on a mountain bike, he became intrigued and, succumbing to my pleading, bought the bike. After a few rough, grueling, first rides, his innate athletic prowess surfaced, and he was soon navigating the trails with ease and agility. Now I knew I could marry him! When we started discussing tying the knot, he asked if I wanted a diamond engagement ring. Having inherited my grandmother’s diamond, which sat idly in a jewelry box, I said, no, adding I would prefer a new mountain bike. Boomerang was simply getting worn out.
Together, Vinnie and I went back to the same bike shop where I had gotten Boomerang, and I picked out my “wedding ring,” a deep red Kona Explosif, sporting the latest technology – a front shock. My Kona came with the Italian-designed Marzocchi front fork and Shimano Deore XT components. Another new feature I opted for were clipless pedals. Commonly called SPD pedals, they had a metal clip that connected to a metal cleat screwed in the soles of your biking shoes, clipping you in, despite the contradictory term of being “clipless.” Mountain biking was going to the next level and taking me along with it.
On the eve of our wedding, I jogged over two miles from the apartment I was sharing with my fiancé to the bike shop, picked up my new bike, and rode it home. While pedaling through the park in Westwood, a young adult male with a sketchy appearance yelled, “Hey! Give me that bike”! What? No! Not again! I tore through the park and onto the main streets at breakneck speed! The next morning, I discovered the cleats for my new special bike shoes were not in the shoebox, so I called the bike shop in a panic. The shop owner informed me he had put the cleats aside for me after realizing they hadn’t made it into the box. Relieved, I said I’d come right over to pick them up. “Aren’t you getting married today”? he asked. Prioritizing, I replied I had a few hours before the wedding, enough time to shoot over for the cleats. “Go get married,” he laughed, “you can get them tomorrow.”
Our wedding was one with nature on the banks of the Hudson River in Peekskill, NY. We exchanged vows in a gazebo, nestled in the grassy shore of Crystal Bay Marina. The reception followed at Crystal Bay’s, second floor catering hall with panoramic views of the mighty river and the Hudson Valley. The morning after, I hurried to the bike shop to rescue my missing cleats, an essential part of our honeymoon, a mountain biking trip in Maine. With the bikes loaded on the roof rack of our Ford Ranger pickup truck, we headed north, stopping first in Cape Cod for a quick ferry ride to pedal around Martha’s Vineyard. From there it was straight up to Maine to ride Cadillac Mountain, fueled by lobster and corn on the cob. Not very technical, the carriage trails of Acadia National Park had unrivaled scenic views and lasting memories.
As newlyweds, mountain biking was on the agenda almost every weekend. Our regular routine included pulling into Park Lot C in Ringwood State Park in northern New Jersey, unloading our bikes, and pedaling up the trailhead. The ride always started with a long, winding, rocky climb with switchbacks we dubbed the “S turn” trail. At the summit we were rewarded with single tracks, rock gardens, scenic lakes, and panoramic views. It was extra fun riding after a soaking rain that had formed little pools of unknown depth along the trails and mud patches to pedal through, adding to the adventure. The end of such a ride culminated in a contest of who was the muddiest, and this mud challenge was taken very seriously!
My red Kona, given the unimaginative name, “Kony,” and I were partners for many years. Mountain biking offered more than outdoor exercise, it was also social. Vinnie and I became friends with another young couple, Tara and Craig, also avid mountain bikers. The four of us rode many dusty, rocky miles together, sharing laughs, several nasty crashes, and post-ride beers. It was a rare find discovering another couple who mountain biked together, being Bergen County is more known for women who prefer manicured nails over rocky trails. Good old hoity-toity suburbia offered very little for the dirt-loving mountain biker.
Less than a year after our wedding we had a new addition to our family, an Akita puppy named, Tomo. Although he would never actually go on the trails with us, when he was five months old, we took him to Vermont in October for a mini mountain biking vacation. Tomo stayed in his comfy crate in our room at the inn with his stuffed toys as mommy and daddy pumped our way up steep climbs through the Green Mountains in Pittsfield, the Killington ski region. While most people preferred gliding down the snow-covered mountains on skis, Vinnie and I cranked up the backside of the mountains, huffing with our thighs bulging and burning. More than halfway up, we decided to take a rest from the arduous climb, laid our bikes down in the leaves, and sat on the side of the trail, surrounded by colorful foliage and chilly air, munching on energy bars and sucking water from our Camelbaks. The tranquility was suddenly broken by a thrashing sound echoing throughout the forest. Initially, I thought it was someone chopping down a tree but then it dawned on me, it was rutting season, and amorous moose didn’t take too kindly to humans romping about their woods on rolling metal objects. I hopped on my bike so fast and raced up the mountain, glancing back to make sure Vinnie was safely following on my tail. Up to the crest and barreling down the other side, I don’t even remember breathing until we got back to the country inn where Tomo waited, wagging his curly tail, happy to see mommy and daddy again. I was extra happy to see him, too, and to have arrived safely without a lovesick moose in hot pursuit.
One day about nine years and many muddy miles later, I brought Kony in for a tune-up, and discovered mountain biking had evolved further with the invention of the rear shock. Bikes with both a front and rear shock were known as full suspension bikes, as compared to the hardtails with only a front shock like my Kona Exlosif. Full suspension bikes professed to be able to traverse over anything and were the wave of the future. I needed to stay in the game. Joining my stable was a black and red Giant NRS C 1, a carbon fiber bike with Fox Racing front and rear shocks, and, of course, Shimano Deore XT components. The carbon fiber frame made it lighter and more shock absorbent, enabling it to navigate rough trails like a nimble little fox, and so came its name, Little Red Fox.
What became even rougher than the rocky trails was life in Bergen County, with all the congestion and arrogant, rude attitudes. After much debate, we picked up and moved to Freeport, Maine, where the mountain biking was not so good. I ended up riding the dirt roads for miles on end, missing the Ringwood trails. Vinnie missed being at the helm of our music school, now being run remotely with a manager on site, so after 3 ½ years we moved back to the Bergen County suburbs, where we got sucked back into the business and off the trails.
Along the most recent leg of my life’s journey, I discovered I was eligible for Italian citizenship through my paternal grandfather, Agostino Triggiani. I gathered all the required documents, apostille seals, and translations and presented them to the Italian Consulate on Park Avenue in New York City. Within a year thereafter I was officially granted Italian citizenship and issued a red European Union Italian passport. This evoked not only thoughts of freedom to spread my wings and live anywhere in the EU, but also images of biking through the Alps and Dolomites. Two trips to Austria lured me to consider the Alpine country as a future home, with its great culture, sense of civility, and cycling paradises. I dream of riding along the Danube, touring Europe by bike, cranking up and down the hills and valleys of villages, pedaling through the Vienna woods, and over the mountains of Salzburg, Innsbruck, and beyond.
Fast forward to the present, I recently cleaned up my Giant NRS C 1, Little Red Fox, and took it in for a tune-up, where, yes, you guessed it, I learned that mountain bikes had evolved and grown even more, and in the literal sense. My 26-inch wheels were now obsolete, replaced by not only 27.5 inch wheels, but more so by the bigger 29 inch wheels – 29ers! I have not yet succumbed to a new purchase, as I am considering my options while back in the saddle and getting my bike legs back. My first rides were several revolutions around a 3.2 mile lake but I tired of that quickly, as it evoked memories or riding in confined circles. I’ve since hit some moderate trails and am dusting off and honing my skills for rougher terrain.
I don’t know where my destiny will take me or on which bike, but the one thing I am certain of is, my new adventures will be on two wheels. Bikes have always led the way, blazing the trails of my life, showing me my path, so I must roll on, and I will roll on, on bigger wheels!
Stay tuned for my new bike reveal!