Who forgets how to ride a bike? Isn't there a cliche based on this very thing not happening?
If someone claps your back and chortles, 'just like riding a bike,' that's supposed to be a comfort, right? An assumption that buried knowledge will leap to your rescue, right?
The nice man in The Open Road bike shop gave me a bike to test-ride and sent me outside into the swelter and I stood, jeans melting onto my legs, sandals flapping off my feet, contemplating the bike seat's insurmountable gap between bike seat and ground. I circled the handlebars for about five minutes. When I finally jumped on, I think I may have closed my eyes. Sure enough, that inner knowledge gurgled up; I peddled, and I did not keel over.
I did fall later, though, while taking Bianca for her first real ride. (As I suited up, my roommate snickeringly dubbed my helmet "adorable," and I told her to shove it. Under no circumstances could I be considered adorable in this helmet. But I look alive. In the literal sense. And some, I'm told, find that an attractive attribute.)
Anyway, the fall: all knowledge of gear shifting left me. I lost all momentum and panicked. Realizing too late that my foot alone could not steady me against the concrete, I relaxed, tumbled down onto my hip, rolled a few inches down the hill. The girl walking behind me let out a soft gasp. I bounded up without making any eye contact, beaming a weird smile to try and look competent. I was shaking so hard that I had to walk it a few blocks. All the neighbors watered their lawns intently, sneaking glances when they thought I wasn't looking.
I know I'll figure the bike out, but right now it looms in my room, its menacing shadow haunting me even after I hit the lights.
It's been a summer of this sort of thing. No, not creepy bikes coming alive whilst I sleep. No, the other part, the metaphor in it all. I know, I know, I'm a sucker for a good, obvious metaphor. Still, I think I'll indulge: It's been a summer of leaping, closing my eyes and hoping what I need will rise up in me.
It's been a good, good summer.
Of course, if I end up breaking a leg while trying to meet my next goal (bike to work 3 days a week) this entry will be far less of an inspiration, and the metaphor will definitely lose some oomph. Let's just hope that's not the case.
To expand the metaphor and complete my truly self-centered blogpost, (what other kind is there, really?) here's my list of jumping things, the things I've wanted for a long time but avoided out of fear. Please only read them if you love me alot; otherwise I think they might be pretty boring. I just want to write them down because I'm happy with what I've accomplished.
1. Leading a fitness class at
Elizabeth House. The last thing I'd picture myself doing is leading an aerobics class. But every week, the workout has been filled with laughter (go figure), joy, a little sweat, and a lightness of spirit that simply couldn't come from me.
2. Applying to (and being rejected from ! ) the Advanced Poetry Workshop at UCLA extension. Dusting off my ego and joining a class that would have me. Reading my first poem aloud in workshop. Learning from other poets. Learning to talk about poetry as something valuable in my life.
3. Running a 1/2 marathon. Two years ago, I trained heavily for the Pasadena 1/2, which was "smoked-out" by wildfires. I was horribly disappointed, and frustrated, and I really never believed I'd train and run another, but I did. My shiny medal is hanging above my desk as I type. It was an absolute blast, in the worst possible sense of that word. Quite impossible to describe--just do one.
4. Choosing to go to therapy. Talk about a jump-on-that-bike moment, admitting I can't handle the pressure of my Dad's illness on my own and seeking out help was the hardest leap I've ever taken. After a summer of wrestling and praying and observing and being really patient with myself, I feel...well, no, not healed, but healing. I feel healing.
