 Bicycle
Mayhem
Whenever I jump on my bicycle I get a thrill
of freedom. It’s so simple.
It wasn’t always simple
for me. I was late to get the hang of it – maybe 8. My brother
(3 years younger) got his two-wheeler while I was still content with my
oversized tricycle. I was shamed into figuring it out for myself, on his
bike, when no one was around to see.
We lived in a quiet residential neighborhood
in north St. Louis, where the sidewalks were broad and the blocks were
big and square. Riding a bicycle “around the block” was an
expedition for a child. I was just getting the knack of handling my
brother’s bike when I set off down the street one late afternoon before
dinner. As I neared the corner, a women – red hair and business
clothes – crossed my path.
 I
ran right into her. Knocked her down.
The details of the impact are lost – I
don’t think I knew even then what really happened, although a crime
scene analyst might find fault with both my steering and brake work. All
I remember is that suddenly the woman was sprawled on the sidewalk,
angry as hell. She screamed at me while she picked herself up and
straightened her clothing. I must have mumbled my apologies. “You’re
SORRY??!! I’m sorry! You’re sorry! We’re ALL SORRY!” she
screeched as she marched away.
Shaking, I continued with new caution around
the big block. There I was, the pretty-near perfect (if athletically
challenged) child, now a criminal. Not that I wasn’t regularly capable
of thumping my brother or teasing the cousin who lived upstairs, but
this was BIG. I faced my parents over dinner with a newfound sense of
guilt, opting for the cover-up. Why disillusion them about me?
Maybe slow-won skills bring the most joy. It
wasn’t long after the incident that I was given my cousin’s
refurbished English racer, a very adult bike with three speeds. I
was suddenly more liberated than any of my friends, who either didn’t
have bikes or, if they did, still had “child” bikes. I could go
farther and faster than anyone. I could explore. This physical joy, this
independence from motorized vehicles has colored my lifelong cycling experience
much more than the trauma of knocking someone down – maybe part of the
joy is in gaining enough mastery to be in control and to know that I
could ride my current 12-mile route every day for a decade and never knock
another red-haired woman on her ass.
July 23, 2000 |