To preface this story: I’m fine. I have a bunch of scratches and bruises, but I’m fine. Great, even. Happy!
I just started biking and I’m pretty bad at it. Other people would have to actually try to be as bad at biking as I naturally am. But I love it. I tried all of the other outdoorsy cardio: running, yoga, those freaks that do pull ups on a rusty bar in the park, etc. Nothing makes me happy like biking does. Most things make me panicked and then sad.
Again, though, I am genuinely terrible at biking. I actually forgot how to ride a bicycle, thus disproving the old adage with my sheer existence. When I was little, I could ride a bike. And then I never did, and I forgot how to until junior year of high school. And then I got a bike two years ago, and never really rode it until now. It’s been a tumultuous relationship, and we’ll probably be on-again-off-again for a long time. But a huge triumph has made me feel much closer to this pastime (dare I call it a hobby). It finally, finally happened: I fell.
I went for a short, wobbly bike ride in my local park at night. I forgot how exceptionally dark night time is. The entire ride consisted of clenched teeth and gripping the handlebars so tight that my fingers quickly turned pale and my elbows grew sore. I can’t see s**t, I thought, among other curse words, I’m going to fall, I’m going to fall and die in these pitch dark woods, dear God, I’m going to fall.
And I thought these thoughts, gripping those handlebars, clenching my teeth, all the way through the park and all the way back home. I parked my bike neatly against the side of my home and let out a hoarse breath of relief. As I dismounted, I thought to myself, I did it. Look at me! I did i-
I have no idea what I tripped on. Probably the air, or my own toes. But as soon as my foot grazed the pavement, it flew backwards from under me and I went toppling over onto my bike, into the side of a house. Bikes aren’t flat, you know. A pedal plunged into my ribcage, a tire mark etched into my thigh. My shins were scratched up and down. A welt bubbled up on top of my knee.
It hurt a bit. Then I got up, dusted off, inspected my bike, and went home. I didn’t think about it again, except when I got back on my bike and noticed how lax my arms felt, how I didn’t clutch the handlebars for dear life. Experiencing that moronic moment — I fell on the bike, but not even while riding it! — has exposed me to the survivability of falling. Now I’m cautious, but I’m not afraid. Who knew injury could be so freeing? I encourage you to try it.
Actually no, no I don’t. Don’t try it. The point still stands, though. I am so happy that I fell. Now I can enjoy the breeze on my arms, without fearing that it will nudge me off of balance. Now I can turn more fluidly, maneuver around obstacles more confidently. Biking is falling. It’s safer to accept it, prepare for it, and work to minimize it, than to buy into the dangers of rigid, white-knuckled denialism. That’s how you fall into a house while standing.
You know what they say about tensing up.
