On The Fly

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

In this episode, a return to the struggle. There comes a point in life when many people decide they've earned a machine to do the hard work for them. Some celebrate retirement with a bright red Corvette—the old ads called it "The American Dream Machine." Others opt for a Harley-Davidson, because apparently retirement isn't official until you've purchased enough chrome to be visible from space. Me? I bought a bicycle. Not an e-bike. Not one with enough battery power to serve as its own charging station. Just a bicycle. People have asked me why. Bicycles have always kept me young. The exercise is good for the body, and the quiet is good for the mind. Unlike a sports car, nobody expects you to explain why a retired guy suddenly needs to go from zero to sixty in four seconds. Before the e-bike crowd starts sharpening their keyboards, let me confess something: there were several moments on today's ride when I would've gladly accepted a small electric motor—mayb...

In this episode, the interactive obstacle course of the San Marcos bike path. (Sunday, April 12, 2026) It started out as a beautiful day for a ride—our usual 30-mile Sunday trek to Escondido. The weather was moody, with brooding dark clouds threatening rain, but the streets were mostly empty. The traffic was light, and the bike paths were eerily quiet. It gave off the distinct, yet entirely false, illusion of a peaceful sanctuary. We were headed home, and I had settled into a smooth, hypnotic cadence on the path across from Palomar College in San Marcos. I was listening to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, minding my own business, and dressed to be seen. Between my colorful jersey and my cherry-red vest, I was illuminated like a human traffic cone. You could spot me from low Earth orbit. Apparently, that wasn't visible enough. Up ahead, I spotted another cyclist. He was cruising along in a state of pure, unhelmeted zen—completely unburdened by the earthly concepts of peripheral vision ...

In this episode - Happy Birthday Rodger . . . Today in history marks a memorable day for our family. On May 5, 1962, my Lil' brother Rodger was born (he's not so little anymore). Growing up, we were a close-knit family. Every morning, breakfast together, and dinner around the table each evening. Mom insisted. We spent weekends romping around Grandma's yard in the country. It was the 1960s, a great time to be a kid. Recently, after attending a Celebration of Life , I thought, why don't we take time more often to celebrate someone's life while they're still with us? Do w e need to be slapped by the abrupt loss of a loved one to stop, take time out of our hectic lives, and show love, appreciation, and respect to a friend or relative? And to openly share special memories of that person with others. Well, not me; this podcast is designed to inspire a 60th birthday celebration of stories for Rodger Allen Ball. Allow me to start with a couple of treasured memories I ...

Patrick Ball with Lori's Trek Madone Today marks another year of my holiday on earth, over half-a-century, (exactly 20,819 days old) sounds ominous doesn’t it. What can one say about this accomplishment? Let’s examine days remembered. As a young boy, say, six or seven years old, when we met any of my grandfathers (on my fathers side) friends attending a field trial (at the fox hunters camp), a hunting trip, softball game, a trip to the county fair, or just a visit to the barber shop all I remember thinking was, “ Boy this ole’ guy sure is old .” As kids we didn’t exactly have a respectful command of the english language, did we? Then you mature, and reach the teen years, now it’s “Who is - this - ole’ geezer?”  What do small children think when they meet an elderly person? “Wow! Look at those thick bushy eyebrows, big ears, wrinkled skin, that oversize nose,” or maybe it’s the wooly hair that sprouts from these body parts, or all the above. My grandfather had one of thos...

Patrick Ball 1962 My kid days were filled with experiences, like learning to ride a bicycle, that decorate my thoughts akin to the excitement of colorfully wrapped Christmas gifts. As another birthday approaches, I realize now that growing up in Cuba, Illinois was going to happen with no particular thought or effort on my part. As an insatiably curious child, I stumbled through those early years not really paying attention to where we lived just accepting the fact - as I look back, appreciating the fact - we lived in a small midwestern town. I slid down the chute on the 229th day of the year, August 16, 1956. It was a Thursday in Angouleme, France. My father was an MP in the U.S. Army, from rural Illinois, and within three years he moved the family back to Cuba. One of my most vivid early memories was the challenge and freedom of that first bicycle. It was a red, single speed 26 inch Sears bicycle. No training wheels, just hop on and away you go . . . well, it was not qui...

“The climb gets harder - its a steady 10 mile climb before we reach the top, then its downhill all the way back to the car,” said Margaret De Young.  “Don’t tell me that right now!” - as I struggled to maintain a steady six-mile an hour pace climbing out of the Lake Meade basin in Las Vegas Nevada. If you think you’re in shape let Margaret and J.T. set you straight! It had been over a year since seeing Margaret and her partner J.T. My first free weekend in Las Vegas would be touring the mountainous landscape on J.T.’s Trek road bike that he had so carefully outfitted for me that Saturday morning of our first ride. Sixty-four miles over two days, “a casual weekends ride”, not so fast . . . The story begins on Saturday March, 3, 2012, we agreed to meet at 10:00 a.m. to just take a bicycle ride around their neighborhood in Vegas. That first ride turned into a 25.8-mile undertaking with an elevation gain of about 958 feet. Five miles out we started our ascent - that cl...