I met Hal in the 1980s when I was assigned to work on the other side of the Park Workstand from him at The Peddler Bike Shop in Memphis. We couldn’t have been more different. He was quiet, low-key, methodical and, perhaps most of all, gentle. He stands half a head taller than me without ever being imposing. I was noisy, prone to passion and inconsistent. And yet, we became fast friends. He taught me more about being a good bike mechanic than anyone else I know, and I write that as someone who has earned multiple certifications. Even after I moved away, I asked him to be my best man at my first wedding.
Hal and I have also ridden thousands of miles together.
He has remained in Memphis all these years, most of them spent at The Peddler, which he bought shortly after I moved away. We’ve remained in touch through kids, a couple of divorces, nasty career knocks. It’s one of those connections that comes along only a handful of times in a life, judging from my own.
I think of Hal as a friend, not a cycling friend, though the main currency of our friendship has been riding. Getting together for a ride has been our primary way to hang out. I’ve known the guy for more than 30 years and have ridden with him in five different states—on road, mountain and gravel bikes.
I couldn’t tell you what we discussed on our last ride. We told stories. We caught up. The things you do when you see a friend for the first time in months. Somewhere in all those years, we’ve discussed the lows of our lives with candor—there aren’t many things that can unite two friends the way a breakup or divorce can, especially if the splits are recent history.
I’ve shared all sorts of activities with friends: long road trips, playing in a band, critiquing work in a writer’s group, hiking, wine tasting and, of course, riding bikes. Nothing else has eased conversation the way cycling has.
My pet theory is that with cycling, because the riders are facing in the same direction, not looking at each other, not under the spotlight of another’s gaze, loosens our tongues; we needn’t fear the reproachful frown or roll of the eyes. But that’s not all. I think the shared effort keeps us honest.
It’s hard to hide the truth when you’re sweating.