Shaffer: At 86, Raleigh man's still got mettle to pedal

RALEIGH -- Five days a week, Francis "Mac" McRackan swings an 86-year-old leg over the crossbar of his red Specialized, pushes an 86-year-old foot down on the pedal and scoots his 86-year-old body down the Crabtree Creek greenway - 10 proud miles at a time.

His hearing aid whistles in the wind, so he takes it off and plays Big Band cassettes on his Sony Walkman.

He doesn't like to get wet, so he slows almost to a stop when he reaches a puddle.

But in a few weeks, the handlebar-mounted odometer on Mac's bike will hit 22,000 miles, or almost the distance around the Earth's equator.

"This is my third helmet," he explains. "I've busted two helmets. I've been bruised up a bit."

Not to hammer on this, but Mac is 86 - born in 1925, the year of the Scopes Trial, "The Great Gatsby" and the dedication of Mount Rushmore.

By the time my grandfathers reached that age, they were memories. My Grandpa Shaffer, sad to say, never performed any exercise more strenuous than a 12-ounce curl.

So it's a thrill to ride behind an octogenarian who can speed through 10 miles, taking the hills without standing up, and still catch lunch at Hardee's with his friend, Wendell.

What makes you ride every day, Mac?

"I don't know," he says, smiling.

Mac recalls the day his Specialized logged its first mile - June 15, 2004, when he was a boyish 78.

Since then, he's documented each trip by hand in a journal, a backup in case the odometer's batteries had conked out. At the end of each trip, his cat Patty sits waiting for him in the yard, following him back inside.

Not long ago, Mac survived a collision with another rider, a wreck that sent him sprawling on the asphalt, scraping an elbow badly enough to get infected.

Another time, he bounced back from the tumble he took after trying an off-road detour and slamming into a large, exposed root.

"Bruised my bottom," Mac says gruffly.

"Got a hematoma."

Widowed in 2002, long retired from his job at the Bell System, Mac has trouble finding riders his age. Not long ago, a companion riding just behind him fell off her bike and broke her pelvis. She was just 71 at the time.

So most often, he rides alone. On Wednesdays and Fridays, a much-younger neighbor, Christy Spain, joins him on the ride from Wood ridge Drive to Shelley Lake.

Once, he rode on the same day he'd had five fillings removed, eager as always.

"He usually smokes me," she says, pedaling a few lengths behind. "I told him he shouldn't wear his Walkman when he rides because he can't hear anything. He told me, 'I couldn't hear anything anyway.' "

The greenway follows the creek as it ripples through a thick forest, crossing over several wooden bridges. Mostly, the only time you can hear the busy city around it is when the trail pops up behind Crabtree Valley Mall, then dips back under Glenwood Avenue.

Riding there in warmer weather, you can spot turtles, herons - even deer.

Mac doesn't like to ride when it's colder than 44 degrees, and on our trip he wears a stocking cap under his Schwinn helmet, a pair of mittened hands on the handlebars.

He pauses briefly at Shelley Lake, the halfway point of his trip, and pops a peppermint in his mouth for a sugar boost.

Then he pushes down on the pedal and heads home.

Wendell is waiting at Hardee's.