Adventures in Hotel Huffys

Let's face it: as cyclists, we're constantly sizing up other cyclists (and their bikes) and categorizing them. There's the newbie commuter in street clothes on a big-box "mountain" bike, the wanna-be pro racer who rides to work in full team kit, the homeless guy towing all his belongings and a bag of cans in a homemade trailer, the social/fitness riders riding three up on mid-level road bikes, etc. Then there's the ultimate sizer-upper of all, the Bike Snob.

It's human nature to scope out other people and establish where you fit into the hierarchy. I graduated to clipless pedals quite some time ago, now ride a fairly nice bike, and even own a team kit (although I refrain from wearing it on simple errand-running missions), I think I fit into a category of relatively nondescript cyclists seen in cities across the nation.

Due to the nature of my job--I spend three nights every week in hotels (a different hotel each night) and traveling with a bike is not a viable option--when I get the opportunity to ride a bike provided by the hotel, I take it. A bike greatly expands the territory available to explore and gives me an outdoor exercise alternative to running.

Invariably, hotel owned bikes are heavy and of poor to mediocre quality, often having come from big-box retailers and even more often not receiving any regular maintenance. On a good day, the tires are hard and the chain is freshly coated in WD40. I seldom have room to pack a helmet and cycling clothes and so end up tootling out of the hotel parking lot in whatever workout clothes I ferreted out of my rollerbag--usually a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt or running top, a sports jacket if it's cool. And the hotel-issued helmet which almost never fits properly despite being of the "one-size-fits-all" variety. Dorked out to the max.

When I ride, I usually give a nod or a wave to fellow riders. But dressed as such, I try to remember that my exterior does not reveal my inner cyclist. I am not in the club. The kit-clad roadies have me squarely pegged in the "newbie commuter" hole and even though I could drop most of them on a good long climb, I'll get no respect with my current appearance. So I keep my head down and pedal on by.

I've even been known to take questionable hotel bikes on mildly inappropriate adventures. In Spokane I discovered a park with dirt trails just off the Centennial Trail. I quickly accepted that the rugged singletrack was beyond the performance of the machine I was riding, but that didn't stop me from riding to the top of a steep, rough, dirt road. The combination of suspect brakes and the too-wide seat that prevented me from shifting my weight back made the descent quite an adventure.

The rusty clunker from the Travelodge in Sidney, BC, carried me to the top of a small mountain where I locked it up to run on the summit trails. In Medford, I once took the three-speed city cruiser on a rolling, 14-mile round-trip journey to Jacksonville.

Moral of the story: all Huffy riders are not as they seem.