It’s Just Like Riding a Bike
When I was five years old my mother enrolled my brother, Alan, and I in Karate lessons. I used to get knocked down all the time because I was so small, but as a kindergartener I was extremely fierce. Every time I landed on my butt I hopped right back up again and went into attack mode.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to that little girl. It seems like I spend most of my days dwelling on past failures and skirting future risks. Yet, recent experiences have made me realize that we never truly escape our former identities – our talents, traits, insecurities and flaws resurface on a consistent basis.
. . . . . . . . .
Prior to this summer I had not ridden a bicycle since I got my driver’s license in 1992. With the school year coming to a close and a great deal of free time on my hands, I started to notice things that had never caught my eye before, such as people in colorful shirts riding around on bikes and having fun. I wasn’t sure if I even remembered how to ride a bike but of one thing I was certain: I could not tolerate people having fun and throwing it in my face like that.
I was really nervous about attempting my first “born again” bike excursion. What if I didn’t remember how to ride? What can you say about a 29-year-old woman who does not know how to ride a bike? In my mind’s eye all I could picture was my grown self on a pink Huffy with training wheels, teeth clenched, wobbling around the parking lot at two miles per hour. It would be a complete psycho-social regression, like re-learning to tie my shoes or peeing for the first time on the “big potty.”
For weeks I kept pestering my friend, Jessica, to let me try her bike before I bought my own, but she was really busy and refused to let me borrow it when she wasn’t home. “Why can’t I just borrow your house key and ride around for ten minutes when you’re not there?” I asked. “Because, I want to be able to watch your first, awkward ride so that I can laugh hysterically and clutch my sides with glee,” she explained.
Finally, we arranged a time for me to try her bike. Though I had to lower the seat about 12 inches in order to get on and had completely forgotten how to do a U-turn, I did in fact remember how to ride. And Jessica (who did not laugh - very much) seemed rather proud of me.
Inspired, I promptly went to Target to purchase my own bike. A very informed salesperson explained to me that the Schwinn Ranger 2.6 was indeed the bike for me because, as she pointed out, it had two wheels.
I named my bike “Bikey, the Bikiest of Bikes” but started calling her “Bikey” for short.
We became fast friends, first by just tooling around the neighborhood, then by tackling rugged, 20-mile treks. The woman who initially feared the small dip of a sidewalk gutter was now crashing through mud-soaked, rocky trails with reckless abandon.
Inevitably, the day came when I lost control while sailing downhill and crashed head-first onto the trail. It took a second to acknowledge what had happened and to shake my eyeballs back into their sockets. My head was pounding and the cuts on my hands, arms and legs started to bleed and sting.
I wanted to sit there in the middle of the trail and cry. Not just because I was hurt, but because I had taken a risk – decided to try a new hobby, swallow my shame, re-learn an old skill - and now the pavement had defeated me.
Then I had a little flashback. I remembered that tiny slip of a girl who bounced back every time she got knocked down in Karate. Aretha Franklin’s voice started pumping through the iPod. “Freedom!” she sang, over and over again. So, without shedding a tear, I picked myself up, fixed Bikey’s chain, and picked her up as well. After dislodging a hunk of skin from my handlebars and washing out my wounds as best I could with my water bottle, I had no choice but to press on. It was a long eight miles home.
I tried to put a cheerful, recreational smile on my face but a woman on a bike who is coated in mud and has blood dripping into her sock looks rather suspicious. Despite their concerned looks, no one stopped to ask if I was all right. I didn’t really care. Actually, I felt kind of joyous. Until that day I had always carried this nagging fear of crashing my bike. Now I had crashed and I was fine. More importantly, I still wanted to ride.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to that little girl. It seems like I spend most of my days dwelling on past failures and skirting future risks. Yet, recent experiences have made me realize that we never truly escape our former identities – our talents, traits, insecurities and flaws resurface on a consistent basis.
. . . . . . . . .
Prior to this summer I had not ridden a bicycle since I got my driver’s license in 1992. With the school year coming to a close and a great deal of free time on my hands, I started to notice things that had never caught my eye before, such as people in colorful shirts riding around on bikes and having fun. I wasn’t sure if I even remembered how to ride a bike but of one thing I was certain: I could not tolerate people having fun and throwing it in my face like that.
I was really nervous about attempting my first “born again” bike excursion. What if I didn’t remember how to ride? What can you say about a 29-year-old woman who does not know how to ride a bike? In my mind’s eye all I could picture was my grown self on a pink Huffy with training wheels, teeth clenched, wobbling around the parking lot at two miles per hour. It would be a complete psycho-social regression, like re-learning to tie my shoes or peeing for the first time on the “big potty.”
For weeks I kept pestering my friend, Jessica, to let me try her bike before I bought my own, but she was really busy and refused to let me borrow it when she wasn’t home. “Why can’t I just borrow your house key and ride around for ten minutes when you’re not there?” I asked. “Because, I want to be able to watch your first, awkward ride so that I can laugh hysterically and clutch my sides with glee,” she explained.
Finally, we arranged a time for me to try her bike. Though I had to lower the seat about 12 inches in order to get on and had completely forgotten how to do a U-turn, I did in fact remember how to ride. And Jessica (who did not laugh - very much) seemed rather proud of me.
Inspired, I promptly went to Target to purchase my own bike. A very informed salesperson explained to me that the Schwinn Ranger 2.6 was indeed the bike for me because, as she pointed out, it had two wheels.
I named my bike “Bikey, the Bikiest of Bikes” but started calling her “Bikey” for short.
We became fast friends, first by just tooling around the neighborhood, then by tackling rugged, 20-mile treks. The woman who initially feared the small dip of a sidewalk gutter was now crashing through mud-soaked, rocky trails with reckless abandon.
Inevitably, the day came when I lost control while sailing downhill and crashed head-first onto the trail. It took a second to acknowledge what had happened and to shake my eyeballs back into their sockets. My head was pounding and the cuts on my hands, arms and legs started to bleed and sting.
I wanted to sit there in the middle of the trail and cry. Not just because I was hurt, but because I had taken a risk – decided to try a new hobby, swallow my shame, re-learn an old skill - and now the pavement had defeated me.
Then I had a little flashback. I remembered that tiny slip of a girl who bounced back every time she got knocked down in Karate. Aretha Franklin’s voice started pumping through the iPod. “Freedom!” she sang, over and over again. So, without shedding a tear, I picked myself up, fixed Bikey’s chain, and picked her up as well. After dislodging a hunk of skin from my handlebars and washing out my wounds as best I could with my water bottle, I had no choice but to press on. It was a long eight miles home.
I tried to put a cheerful, recreational smile on my face but a woman on a bike who is coated in mud and has blood dripping into her sock looks rather suspicious. Despite their concerned looks, no one stopped to ask if I was all right. I didn’t really care. Actually, I felt kind of joyous. Until that day I had always carried this nagging fear of crashing my bike. Now I had crashed and I was fine. More importantly, I still wanted to ride.
. . . . . . . . . .
Though I don’t have many regrets about the past, I do regret spending so much time being scared of crashing, in many different areas of my life. As I sit here typing, I am forced to re-read a Bible verse that I have taped to my computer screen: “We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” (Romans 5:3-4).
Like it or not, that’s how things work – exactly in that order: suffering, perseverance, character, and then hope. Every day I’m learning a little bit more about what that sequence looks like. The picture is a little hazy, but I think it has something to do with hitting the dirt face first. Dusting off. Bleeding a little, but still making it home.
posted by Alice | 8:53 PM
1 Comments:
You make me sound so evil! It isn't my fault I was raised by bike snobs--and I was proud of you for riding my bike, flat tires and all, that first go round. I am also proud of you for taking risks, even when the crash part stings a little. It inspires me to be a little reckless too. Where would Romeo be if he had decided the garden wall was too tall? Well, alive, I guess, but we would be lacking a great story, which is really what we should be after isn't it?
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