Relearning a skill amid the pandemic
I have a bicycle, which has hung, unused, from the ceiling of our garage practically since the day I bought it. Judging from the layer of dust, that day may or may not have been in this millennium. It’s been hanging there for so many years that I no longer see it as I pull my car into the garage. Which would explain how I manage to hit my head on it every time I walk by it. So I guess it does serve a purpose.
Then the other day a few women gathered at my nextdoor neighbor’s house for a bike ride and asked if I wanted to join them. There were a couple of awkward seconds when I thought about all the things that could go wrong if I said yes, including whether, after enjoying years of gravity-free existence, the bike’s tires would crumble to rubberized dust the minute I sat on them. But awkward moments and me are not exactly strangers, so I don’t think my friends thought anything of it.
I was pretty sure, though, that they weren’t going to want to wait several hours while I cleaned off my bike and tried to remember how to ride it. So I told them I was getting ready to hold a memorial service for my sourdough starter discard, but would be happy to join them the next time.
That was a lie, of course — both the memorial service and the happy-to-jointhem-next-time parts. Still, I wondered if I should practice riding my bike in case they asked me again, since the sourdough starter discard thing really seemed like a one-time get-out-of-jail-free card.
And I wondered why I was so afraid of riding a bike in the first place. After all, there’s the expression “it’s just like riding a bike” to describe a skill that, once learned, is easy to pick up again. But what if a more accurate expression of a skill that’s likely to come back easily and naturally is “it’s just like falling off a bike”? There were so many things to worry about.
Riding my bike had been easy and fun when I was a kid. It had meant freedom and a chance to see the world, or at least as much of Glens Falls as I felt like exploring, on my own. Maybe that freedom is one of the reasons cycling has enjoyed a comeback during the COVID-19 quarantine. Plus, bike riding evokes memories of simpler times, even if they weren’t really simple. We all
could use a big dose of simpler times right now.
Along with a feeling of independence there was the sense of belonging that came with pedaling a set of wheels that sported monkey handlebars, a banana seat, and bubblegum cards in the spokes. And my bike was incredibly useful in making clandestine trips to Stafford’s Market, where I’d spend whatever coins I’d scraped together on as many Pixy Stix as I could hold and consume on the return trip home. Although the return trip was usually a sugar and red dye #2 induced blur.
When I finally took my bike down, I was dismayed to see that there were gears on both handles and I had no idea how to use them. Back in the day, my bike had two gears: pedaling as hard as I could, and dragging the toes of my sneakers along the ground to slow down, which was my mother’s personal favorite. The bike manufacturer’s website said, “with a little practice, changing gears can be as intuitive as pedaling,” which inspired slightly more confidence than if they’d said it was as intuitive as falling off a bike.
At least I had a helmet. No one wore a bike helmet when I was a kid, because we had bigger things to worry about than head injuries — like whether The Partridge Family was going to release a new album or whether we could memorize the Big Mac ingredient list backward. Until I tried to put the helmet on, I’d thought the scariest part would be getting on the bike and starting to pedal. Now I had to worry if the helmet’s buckle would pinch one of my chins.
It was shaky and slow going at first. Frequent gear shifting helped, especially when going over anthills, as well as recognizing the strange meteorological phenomenon in my neighborhood that always had me pedaling into the wind no matter which direction I was traveling. I hadn’t harbored any illusions of looking like I was competing in the Tour de France. I just hoped to look as good as Miss Gulch in “The Wizard of Oz.” Eventually I returned to my driveway, tired, happy I’d relearned a skill, and jonesing for a Pixy Stix.