Joy and Bicycles
In the early days of shelter in place some kids were riding bikes and scooters up and down the road in my complex. I was startled by the noise – not angered, just not used to because not many, if any, kids live here. I suppose they were temporary, likely residents in pandemic. I worried that the boy on the scooter didn’t have a helmet. But it’s been a long while since I was a kid and decided to be happy for them on this breezy brilliant sunny and relatively low humidity day.
One of the saddest stories I know is my dad never learned to ride a bicycle. But he always made sure I had one. My mom helped me learn to ride, running alongside of me, holding onto the back of the seat so I wouldn’t topple on my first spin without training wheels.
I remember all my bicycles and have had some beauties. A Raleigh Winkie, which is a hand-brake three-wheeler, a Mustang with high handlebars and a banana seat, a Raleigh Twenty folding bike, which I took with me when I moved to Hawaii for a spell. A Bianchi ten speed, all the rage in the 70s, then a Specialized (that’s a brand) Hard Rock mountain bike, girl version with city tires, which I brought with me when I moved to Atlanta. In Atlanta I bought the most brilliant blue Trek road bike for my adventures in triathlons. Somehow I had become an “athlete” – remarkable given that I used to consider it a workout if I rode past the Dairy Queen without stopping. Foregoing soft serve dipped in chocolate? A sporty accomplishment.
The Trek was far superior to me – I wasn’t worthy of its glide and speed. During one event, I was carefully and very slowly navigating the crowded chaos of racers heading out to the road, got distracted by a guy yelling at everybody to slow down, and being wet because the cycling part comes after a swim, my hands slipped. I gripped the brakes and went over the handlebars. Slipped, gripped, and flipped. Ambulance and everything. My friend-slash-trainer later told me, “I taught you how to fall and it wasn’t face first.” This was a precursor to my mother’s comment, “You sure made a mess of your face.” The bad news? I could never do another triathlon. The good news, I would never have to do another triathlon. Dairy Queen anyone?
Some time after this incident, on my way to see a friend, I spotted a bicycle store. With my hip replacement and one dislocation in the books, cycling on my exquisite blue Trek was impossible and I have this compulsion, in honor of my dad, to always have a bike. There is this new flat-foot technology that makes it safer to mount and dismount without risking another dislocation. When I reported to another friend that I’m getting a spectacular orange bike she wondered, “Have you lost your mind? Why the heck are you spending money on that.”
“I’m not spending money, I’m investing in my future.”
That bike, although gorgeous, is a little slow-going. When cruising up a slight hill my Apple Watch asks if I’ve ended the workout. And, unfortunately, I associate it with my second hip dislocation, which happened while I was crouched down putting air in the tires before a happily-anticipated ride. I got up and went right back down again. It took me over an hour to travel eight feet across the floor to reach my phone. Ouch.
Last summer I got a bike for the cottage – a Specialized Roll, low entry, ground control (equivalent to flat-foot) model. My rides were bliss and I inspired friends to come along with me. In the fall I got a Specialized Como, a pedal-assist version of the Roll. Atlanta is hilly – with the battery embedded in the bike’s frame, I can go what feels like forever without overexerting, overheating, and killing myself. My world record is 28 miles (from Brookhaven adjacent all the way up to Norcross). I’ve gone out even on weekdays! Experiencing Atlanta without traffic is something unexpected and wonderful
Nobody ever said I couldn’t ride my bike during shelter in place. So outside of place I go and, while I ride, reminisce, feel grateful, feel the wind, and see things differently.
This brings me joy.