Back in the Saddle Again

Just before I started driving at 16, a car hit me while I was riding my bike. It wasn't a bad accident, but I couldn't get back on again. Every time I thought about riding, it made me feel kind of sick. It was OK for other people to do it, but not me, no sir, nohow.

As the years wore on, the sick feeling never went away when I thought about riding a bike. Walking became my preferred means of outdoor exercise. "You see more than when you're riding a bike anyway," I'd think, feeling smug as the cyclists whizzed by. I'd point out a particular flower to Gary or Lindsey and stop to smell it. We'd walk down to the pond to see if the turtle was sunning himself on the log. I'd watch how the seasons change the gardens along the many paths I walk: the incremental changes you'd never see if you fly by on a bike.

Then a couple of months ago, my sister bought a bike. My mom and stepdad started riding again, too. We were all talking about it one day, and a switch clicked in my brain. I wanted to ride. I test drove my sister's bike in my Crocs and jammies in the back yard. I knew I wouldn't crash, and I didn't. I knew I could balance, and I did. I knew I could stop, and I did.

I rode for five miles on the Ralston Creek and Clear Creek trails yesterday. As I peddled harder, I felt the thrill of speed. Oh, I'd forgotten how fun this was. Birds and trees and ponds flashed by in seconds. I almost felt guilty, and I stopped a couple of times to look at this waterfall or that bird. But mostly I just took it all in. The smell of the water and the green spaces, the cotton flying up my nose, the bugs bouncing off me, the joy of moving along under my own power.

Perhaps it's a metaphor for the rest of my life, this taking charge of my fear and changing an old belief in the blink of an eye. What would happen if we pushed through that old programming every single day? What would my life look like? What would yours?