Barry Free and I when I extended my Army enlistment for the last time.
Today I went to the doctor for a routine visit. It was an hour before the snow started. I rode to the office, wearing clothes for a ride at a temperature around freezing. Just after I arrived, about my age woman sat opposite me. She asked me how far I rode. Then she said before she retired she worked in East Petersburg and had a co-worker who rode to work every day from Lebanon, 20 miles north of their office.
"He rode rain, shine, cold, heat, whatever," she said. "Once his wife came and picked him up because it snowed during the day. Once. In more than 20 years. I can't remember his name. I...."
"Barry," I said. "Barry Free."
"Right, that's him."
I told her I had ridden with Barry many times over the past three decades. And that Barry was the best racer I knew personally--he was twice the Masters National Road Racing Champion.
"Really?" she said. "I knew he rode far. I never knew he rode fast. I never knew he raced."
I told her some of his career highlights and that even though Barry is a full decade older than me, I was never happier than five years ago when I beat him by a few seconds in a time trial. We were not actually racing each other, different age groups, but my time was a few seconds better. That never happened before. I was happier with knowing I could be faster than Barry than I was my place in the race. Barry was 72 years old then.
Bicycle racers as a group are as humble as senators at a fund-raising event. Barry is different, and now I knew how different. A co-worker in the same office not only did not know he was a champion, she did not even know he raced.
Barry no longer races, but at 77 years old, he is still riding. In a world where humility is more rare than Dairy Queen stores in the Sahara Desert, Barry is the real deal. I hope we can ride again when the snow melts and old guys like us get the vaccine.
