It's interesting, isn't it, how the things you remember from childhood sear the insides of your brain well into adulthood, but when spoken aloud to a friend or stranger, those things never sound as dramatic as they felt at the time? As you try to convey your past trauma to a listening ear, you wonder why their faces don't reflect the horror of your story, so to elicit a stronger reaction you begin to use more and more drastic descriptors, until you realize that the story you are telling no longer in any way reflects reality, or truth, but you soldier on because what is important is that the person you are telling your story to realizes that YOU HAVE SUFFERED.
That is how it generally goes with my childhood stories of woe, especially the one about the time I failed to learn how to ride a bike until the ripe old age of 8, or was it 9? All drama aside, my brand new adopted family thought it was very strange that I did not know how to ride a bicycle. Though the details of how I actually learned to ride are hazy, I remember a couple of key points. One, I was significantly older than my twin was when he learned, and two, I learned that MOST children learn at the age of 6, so clearly I was well behind the curve. That said, my parents set out to teach me with determination.
Learn I did, and thankful I was, when that yellow and red banana bike carried me solidly down the block and back again without the aid of training wheels or Dad's arms pushing me along. I could now be just like everyone else. When, at some short time later, I was given the lovely yet used 3-speed bicycle as my very own, I was pleased and honored. I was shown how to adjust the speeds and sent on my merry way for an inaugural ride around the block.
Pedaling was hard, though. I pressed down with my legs and still did not move very fast or go very far. I lived on one of those blocks that no matter which direction around it you biked you would have to go uphill at least once, and that first trip around was really exhausting. Different, I remembered, from the banana bike I learned to ride on. I actually stopped to catch my breath several times when I was on the other side of the block, but not before glancing around in fear. If my brothers saw me I would not hear the end of it. When I came around the corner and insight of the family again, I pushed on, with every muscle in my legs straining, and I was determined to not let them see me struggle.
I suspected there was something wrong with my bike, and I said as much to my parents but I was dismissed immediately. "She's just unused to riding, is all," they said.
We went out on a family bike ride and the whole time I struggled and puffed and pushed and still could not keep up with them. I felt humiliated and ashamed and unfit. I think I may have suggested again that there was something wrong with my bike, but I was dismissed and ignored. It got so I did not want to ride any more. I was told that I was lazy and the general consensus seemed to be that there was something wrong with me since I did not like to go outside and play and ride like everyone else in the family.
Finally, a couple of years later, someone else tried riding my bike and realized that it was broken. Had been broken the whole time.
Then, for my 12th birthday, I got a brand new red 10-speed, I jumped on it with glee and instantly became the world's most avid cyclist. I went everywhere, fast, and I loved it. I became defined by my bicycle. We went on a 50-mile bike trip once, and I was so proud. She came with me to college and we spent many a lovely year together, that is, until some thieves decided to have their way with her. They were not successful in stealing her because they couldn't bust the lock, but they vandalized and tore her apart. I was devastated. For graduation later that year, my parents kindly donated my Mom's old bike. I never told them this, but I refused to ride her at first. I was too loyal to my red beauty, though she'd been months in the grave.
But soon pride turned into acceptance, and need pushed me back on the bike seat. I was again biking everywhere. Fast. It got so I was biking downtown CHICAGO to and from my job at the restaurant. Even on Saturday nights when the drunks were out. Now that I am typing this, I realize what happened next was bound to happen. I lost my fear. I became comfortable. Then I was hit by a car while biking. Luckily for me it was not serious. A big bunch of bruises and a bent bike frame is what happened. I think the young lady and mother who caused the accident probably ended up suffering PTSD given how traumatized they seemed after it happened. I guess I would be too if I were behind the wheel of something that essentially is also a murder weapon. But gosh, all this was in 2002 or 3. It's literally been that long since I have owned a working bike.
Certain things kept me from moving forward, from buying a bike. Sometimes it was money, sometimes seasons, timing....but mostly I think it was fear. Not the fear of dying or something like that, but fear that I would find something had changed, been lost. You see, for me, biking, being able to ride, is like my own personal victory from childhood. It was the shame I overcame in order to learn to ride at a "late" age, it was the validation and vindication I received when it was realized that I was not too weak or lazy to ride, that my bike was simply broken. It was my escape and it was the part of my identity that taught me I had more ability and capacity than I thought I had. And in adulthood, it still stood for freedom..being able to ride.
So I guess I was afraid of having lost myself, ironically, by not moving forward, buying a bike, I did lose myself. But now, I am found again.
Monica is my beautiful, used, Trek road bike. She goes with me places. She let's me fly again! I am so grateful to have her in my life. We came together late summer/early fall of 2013, when I began to write this post. I had to give her a winter hibernation, but today was our first 2014 trip together and it was lovely. Tomorrow I think I will bike to the forest. I am so happy.
