Look Out! Coming Through!
My midlife crisis act of rebellion is a red, pedal assist, roadster bicycle I call, Lacky. She has fat tires and a wide enough seat to support my bulbous ass, which widens and contracts depending on the season. “Pedal assist” is not the same as, “motorized.” But it is, “cheating.” Just a little extra umph as I climb hills.
This is the natural progression in my recent evolution. Bicycles were a particular fear of my 1970s Disco Daddy, a giant mass of contradiction. Subways at eight-years-old were fine; two kids flying solo or left alone — not a problem; petty thievery wasn’t too much of an issue either, as long as no one rode a getaway bike. He felt differently about those.
I was worried about being hit by cars, about being lost in department stores, middle of the night fires in my tenth floor bedroom with no fire escape, or arriving at the cash register while my mother went to grab that one more thing. But not bicycles.
At seven I had an uncle who bought me one without Dad’s consent. It had a pink and purple striped banana seat with metallic silver tassels at the handlebars and a white painted basket out front. I loved being my own moving sidewalk, able to arrive at someone else’s house in minutes.
“People die on those,” Dad said. “Walk.”
Though I raged about it, I almost believed that if my father, ruler of my universe, thought so, there could be something to it.
I’ve been probing to see where my own bullshit originates, and whether it is truly mine or inherited. It’s an exercise in making different choices in order to see if they feel as grave as I’m assuming. After a lifetime of kid hating olives, they have proven to be adult delicious when I tried them again all those years later.
Now, I’m biking.
This suburban refugee gets to save the environment and adjust to the dirt. I’m going to wind up there sooner than I’m hoping anyway. It’s a new way to keep feeling alive, less dangerous than skydiving and more productive than my endless rumination.
I wanted my boys to ride. Mostly so they could help with the drip, drip torture of endless carpooling. I started them early, pretending I was brave, on our block with five houses. At first I only let them ride to the corner, then tool about our car scarce community, my father’s one fear loud inside my head. When their bitching about my neuroses grew louder than that, they got permission to head outside the neighborhood.
My older guy was a pro. After that first steady shove, he rode as if someone were chasing him. I will be trailing after him for some time, trying to catch a glimpse as he heads to far flung places I can’t always follow. Like the midwest. Or Seattle.
My younger one is more reticent, but willing to get on a bike for a destination. Or a friend. He’ll be the one making lots of noise to stave off the fear I pray I haven’t been the one to instill.
Massachusetts is the most cycle friendly state in the country so I chinstrap my headgear and swing my thigh over, steeling myself against my inevitably steep remembering curve. To hell with the lifetime of scary accident images dancing in my head. This going to be just like riding a bike!
- Fierce determination. Check.
- Helmet. Half committed to, but check.
- Little mechanical bell next to the battery gauge. Pling. Pling. Check!
- Not biker’s pants in this lifetime for me, but not a wide enough pant to get caught in the wheel either. Check.
It’s shaky when I mount, and I know shockingly little about bikes without foot brakes. I took a header on a scooter in Bermuda because I didn’t know you just didn’t squeeze both brakes at once. The right first I repeat on a loop. Ok, I’m up. It sways. It ain’t pretty, but we are in motion.
I might have felt self conscious about how ridiculous my lime green helmet and fuchsia leggings look on the same package, but that time has been relegated to those sweet days when any television had only one, absolutely understandable remote.
My balance wobbles as it will, but I position the pedals just so and am riding parallel to the mountains. As long as I don’t stop or turn around, this should work. I hold back on the motor when it’s feasible, preferring my own power. Unless it’s uphill. Or no one’s looking.
The phenomenal, Manhan Rail Trail is somewhere close and behind my new house. The neighbor said, one left, two rights… or the other way around? It doesn’t matter, the GPS or my husband are happily there, chirping cheerful voice assistance into my ear.
My friend with a chronic disease out rode me two towns over, but slow and steady is my thing and she didn’t seem to mind. I rode the trail to get to lunch with one of my favorite people and also to stop by the brewery for a few. On my own power. And then I rode home. I’m pretty sure that negates all the calories and any carbon skid marks.
Both my boys are home from school in new beds since we left Long Island to come to this small town. I want them to love it here as much as I do, find their own adventures, challenge their values as well as my beliefs along their way. The weather has broken and the bikes are in the garage. We can go out riding together, discovering new stops along the way. With the assist, I might even keep up.
If you are out and about around the bike path and you see a mismatched crazy woman on a jolly rancher red bike, just give a wave. I’ll let out a happy little pling pling to guide you on your way.
