Classic bicycles, and newer craftsman built bicycles that continue the tradition, drew their keepers, restorers, painters, builders, riders, and fans to Leesburg, Virginia for the 12th edition of Le Cirque du Cyclisme this past weekend.  Ostensibly, Wayne and MJ were the hosts, Tom was the ride captain, and Dave, Jan, Peter, and Keith were the speakers, but the bicycles were the stars and the hotel lobby and hallways were full of them; the roads were too, because bicycles, though they love to be admired, talked about, and photographed, most enjoy being ridden by men and women with skill and legs.

    Nina and I each loaded a bicycle into the VW for the trip and headed to Williamsburg to celebrate Mom and Dad’s 59th anniversary a day late and Dad’s 82nd birthday a day early.  Then, right after breakfast on Friday morning, we climbed back into the bicycle hauler and made the horrendous drive up to Leesburg, which is some miles west of Washington DC.  It was raining -- hard -- and there was traffic -- thick -- and though they had canceled road construction in honor of the bad weather, they left all their mess out to further confound the flow of traffic -- which often stopped.

    When we paid the last of the tolls and rolled out of interstate traffic and into Leesburg traffic, I’d about had it and was muttering that there can’t be a job so interesting that I would live near DC to take it.  I loathed the people in their motor vehicles and felt horribly sorry for them at the same time.  

    Nina and I checked into Le Cirque and the hotel, found a couple of spaces for our bicycles in the lobby, and went down the street for a cupa.  Then, since it was just pouring and the traffic was a mess, we drove into historic Leesburg where we parked in the courthouse parking lot and made a walking tour of the town under our umbrellas.  

    At a museum, I read this quote from Nicholas Cresswell, an Englishman who found himself stuck in Leesburg for several years when the Revolutionary war broke out.

    Nick wrote in his diary, “The people here are much bigoted by their own ways.”

    Bingo, I related.  “We’re never coming back,” is what I told Nina when someone in a Suburban skidded to a stop behind us, as we backed out of our parking space, and leaned on his horn.  

    “We’re still in the parking lot.  Aren’t we, Nina?” I asked.  

    “Yes, you didn’t do anything wrong. That guy must be cutting through the parking lot because of all the traffic on the street.”

    We drove back to the hotel and did what you’re supposed to do with a car: we parked it, locked it, and left it.  A Leesburg resident, who was a contemporary of Nicholas Cresswell, said that Nick stayed drunk sometimes for days at a time.  Inside the hotel, there were even more bicycles than when we left for our tour.  When I saw them, I was all better.  Think of the hangovers Nick might have saved himself if they’d invented bicycles a 125 years earlier.

    The rest of the weekend is a blur, but my favorite part, as was the case last year, was the Saturday morning ride followed closely by the camaraderie, the show on Sunday, and all the great stories from all the people who have cared a lot about bicycles for a very long time.

    The oddest question I heard all weekend came from a local cyclist as six of us blew past him on the way back into Leesburg.  He shouted, “Do you ride classic bikes on purpose?”