A Piece of My Mind: The Last Ride
I loved the freedom of riding a bicycle ever since I first learned to balance my balloon-tired Schwinn on the tar roads I grew up with. As a child I could ride as far as the neighborhoods that had pavement and sidewalks and could admire the columned porches and vast green lawns behind the fences. When I was 12, I won a three-speed lightweight bike in a contest. I was over the moon. That bike took me through college, getting me to class on time as I swooped past plodding pedestrians, until in my senior year I left it unlocked for just a few minutes and it was gone.
After I was married my husband and I treated each other to Raleigh three-speeds, as we had only one car. I would pedal across town to the home of a co-worker and we would carpool together; I drove the carpool on alternate weeks, while my husband would either bike or bus to his job.
Our children started them out with bike seats on the back of our bikes, then encouraged them to learn to ride themselves. Once they had mastered their bikes, we took them and the bikes to Yosemite, to San Francisco, to Monterey, and on every bike trail within thirty miles.
Years later. My husband had a fall a few years ago and his knees are going out, but I continued to ride my bicycle, against his advice, on local errands: to the library, to my hairdresser, to the blood bank. “What if you have a crash?” he would ask me. “People are going to read about it in the paper and say “What the heck is a woman that age doing on a bicycle anyway?”
“I’m careful, “ I said. “I’m not going to crash.” And I didn’t, exactly.
I hopped on my bike on a Saturday morning to pick up some bagels from the House of Bagels, about a fifteen-minute ride from my house. A lovely morning – just enough high clouds to keep cool, no traffic. I sailed along the main street on the way to the bagel shop, taking a few detours on loop streets to admire the jacaranda trees in bloom, check out the progress of the construction projects, see if there were any windfall fruits to be picked up. I zoomed into the parking lot by the bagel shop… and my brain froze.
I couldn’t remember how to dismount from the bike.
I had had a little trouble dismounting the last couple of times I had ridden; the most recent time I managed somehow to give my shin a good whack and had raised a faint blue bruise. But I had gotten off this bicycle hundreds of times. The act should have been deep in my muscle memory, something I did without thinking. Now I had to think. To dismount, I only had to do in reverse what I had so easily done getting on: lean on the left pedal, swing my leg up and over the seat and rear wheel, apply the brakes. I circled around the parking lot and tried again. No way. Nothing but icy fear of losing my balance, of falling.
There was a high curb with a railing not far from the bagel shop. I pulled up to that, stopped, and then managed to step up onto the curb, hold onto the railing and haul my leg over the cross bar. Shaken, I walked the bike across the lot to my usual lockup spot next to the bagel shop. “That was weird,” I thought. “That was really weird.”
I bought two bagels, swung onto my bike with no problem, rode home, rode up my driveway… and my brain froze again. I couldn’t do it. I could not swing myself off. My muscle memory had gone dead.
I braked and with some difficulty managed to get my leg over the crossbar without falling over. I trundled my bike into the garage and parked it next to my husband’s bike. which was covered in cobwebs. His tires were so flat the wheel rims touched the ground. I stood looking at it for a few moments.
Then I locked my bike up as usual, went into the house, and emailed the local Bicycle Exchange. I have two bikes to donate. Within two days the bicycles and all associated accessories were gone.
I know this was a good decision. I have several friends who have been injured severely when their bikes slipped out from under them. But I miss the freedom of riding my bike. I miss being able to stop and inspect changes in my neighbor’s gardens, to take short cuts through suburban bikeways, to not worry about parking. I’m envious of the people who are trying out the newly painted bike lanes on El Camino and El Monte. It’s no fun driving to my hairdresser. On Saturday morning my husband goes for the bagels now.
There’s an empty space in our garage. I expect it will gradually fill up with the things that go into garages. I hope the empty spaces in my mind will fill up too.
Allyson Johnson 