Downhill
I haven't really ridden a bicycle in almost twenty years. The qualifier is in that statement because there have been a couple of opportunities to spend some insignificant time pedalling. A few years ago, my husband joined me on some long walks in the state park, me on foot and him on his bicycle. The bike was gentler on feet and joints, and I did take a turn in order to demonstrate that I am too short to use his bicycle. But that sort of thing is not what I would consider really riding.
Despite the lull, there was a time when being on a bike was as much a part of my life as swimming, running barefoot up and down the lakeshore, or sitting in the branches of a mulberry tree. Before that phase, there are memories of learning to ride, of standing in the driveway with tear-streaked cheeks, kicking my bike. My knees and palms were bloody and crusted with dirt and tiny stones. Our home at that time offered only grass, dirt and gravel for riding surfaces, and none of them were stable enough at the slow pace a learner requires. The bike had thrown me for the last time that day. But, soon enough, riding became as natural as breathing.
My favourite bike through the years was a low, simple model with paint that faded from yellow to green, front to back. It was sturdy but maneuverable, pedalled smoothly and just seemed right and comfortable for who I was at the time. It wasn't fancy at all. There was just one gear, and I don't think it even had a kickstand- either that or it may have been rusted unusable. I'd just swoop through the yard at dusk, hop off, and lean it on the fence. Like everything in my family, bicycles were passed down through the sisters, but I don't remember this one ever belonging to my older sister. It was second hand, of course, but somehow I managed to be the first in line as far as my family went. Maybe that was part of the appeal. At any rate, many long hours were spent on that bike, either riding alone or with my sisters or the neighborhood kids.
Anyone who has had such an attachment knows that your bike becomes your trusty steed, a constant companion. And anyone who has had such a trusty steed knows that you will try things on your bike, stupid things you haven't really thought through completely. I'd try all sorts of feats, jumps and tight turns, speeding past the porch to see how close I could get without crashing, charging down steep hills. Some were dares, but most of the time it was just to test the limits - how fast, how far, how much control.
There is a point when you're hurtling down a hill on your bike with the wind in your face and your hair streaming behind you like a pennant that fear and excitement are equally balanced. Your grip has fused painfully to the handlebars, and your legs are spinning crazy circles just to keep up with the revolutions of the pedals. And you know you should have given this a little more thought before starting down the slope or at least picked a soft place to crash. It's steeper than it looked from the top (it's always steeper,) and you're not certain you can do this, but the wheels are in motion. All you can do is take each moment as it comes, adapt the best you can, and enjoy the magic of gravity. You might wipe out or you might make it through triumphant, but either way, you're in it to the end, so you might as well ride.
Despite the lull, there was a time when being on a bike was as much a part of my life as swimming, running barefoot up and down the lakeshore, or sitting in the branches of a mulberry tree. Before that phase, there are memories of learning to ride, of standing in the driveway with tear-streaked cheeks, kicking my bike. My knees and palms were bloody and crusted with dirt and tiny stones. Our home at that time offered only grass, dirt and gravel for riding surfaces, and none of them were stable enough at the slow pace a learner requires. The bike had thrown me for the last time that day. But, soon enough, riding became as natural as breathing.
My favourite bike through the years was a low, simple model with paint that faded from yellow to green, front to back. It was sturdy but maneuverable, pedalled smoothly and just seemed right and comfortable for who I was at the time. It wasn't fancy at all. There was just one gear, and I don't think it even had a kickstand- either that or it may have been rusted unusable. I'd just swoop through the yard at dusk, hop off, and lean it on the fence. Like everything in my family, bicycles were passed down through the sisters, but I don't remember this one ever belonging to my older sister. It was second hand, of course, but somehow I managed to be the first in line as far as my family went. Maybe that was part of the appeal. At any rate, many long hours were spent on that bike, either riding alone or with my sisters or the neighborhood kids.
Anyone who has had such an attachment knows that your bike becomes your trusty steed, a constant companion. And anyone who has had such a trusty steed knows that you will try things on your bike, stupid things you haven't really thought through completely. I'd try all sorts of feats, jumps and tight turns, speeding past the porch to see how close I could get without crashing, charging down steep hills. Some were dares, but most of the time it was just to test the limits - how fast, how far, how much control.
There is a point when you're hurtling down a hill on your bike with the wind in your face and your hair streaming behind you like a pennant that fear and excitement are equally balanced. Your grip has fused painfully to the handlebars, and your legs are spinning crazy circles just to keep up with the revolutions of the pedals. And you know you should have given this a little more thought before starting down the slope or at least picked a soft place to crash. It's steeper than it looked from the top (it's always steeper,) and you're not certain you can do this, but the wheels are in motion. All you can do is take each moment as it comes, adapt the best you can, and enjoy the magic of gravity. You might wipe out or you might make it through triumphant, but either way, you're in it to the end, so you might as well ride.
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