Navigating the aisles of the Eastern Shore bike shop felt like entering a labyrinth of metal and rubber. Racing bikes gleamed, mountain bikes stood sturdy, road bikes whispered speed, and even tandem bicycles hinted at shared adventures. Yet, the specific contraption I sought seemed to be playing hide-and-seek amidst the two-wheeled throng. Finally, a helpful salesman with a ponytail and tattooed arms approached, his query echoing my slight unease, “Can I help you?”
In a voice reminiscent of my teenage self requesting feminine hygiene products from a male pharmacist, I mumbled, “Do you have any adult tricycles?”
To his credit, he maintained a professional demeanor, responding, “Give me a minute, I think there’s one in the back.” Before my resolve could waver, he reappeared, wheeling out a bright red three-wheeler. It was a grown-up version of the trikes that once graced my children’s toddler years, thankfully devoid of the colorful plastic handlebar streamers.
“Let’s take it out to the parking lot so you can give it a try.”
With a furtive glance to ensure minimal onlookers, I mounted the seat and began to pedal. Disappointment washed over me. It felt cumbersome and heavy, a far cry from the nimble Schwinn gathering dust in my storage closet. My Schwinn, with its forgivingly wide tires, plush seat, and practical wire basket for water bottle, lock, and purse, was my trusted companion. But a fall the previous summer had cast a long shadow of fear over our rides.
My husband, Charles, and I had been cycling to our usual breakfast spot. As we neared the restaurant, Charles executed a sharp turn, smoothly transitioning from the road over the curb into the parking lot. I attempted to follow suit, but the maneuver ended with me sprawled awkwardly on the pavement, resembling a startled lineman in a ballet tutu.
Concerned passersby offered assistance, which I waved off with a flushed face. Charles lifted my bike, and we assessed the damage: scrapes and bruises, thankfully no gaping wounds requiring stitches. (Later, my left knee, as if mirroring my embarrassment, swelled dramatically and needed draining.)
Charles helped me up, and after a perfunctory “You okay?” he offered the post-mortem: “Honey, your bike was parallel to the curb, that’s why you fell. You should have turned the wheel and crossed it at a right angle.” My internal response was a bewildered, “How was I supposed to know that?” In that instant, my cycling confidence crumbled. I walked my bike home and relegated it to the back of our storage closet. It has remained untouched for over a year – a dormant memory of joyful rides.
Cycling, alongside walking, had been my primary gateway to the outdoors. (Activities like tennis, diving, hiking, surfing, and skiing remained firmly outside my skillset.) At the beach, my bike was my passport to exploration, allowing me to traverse Coastal Highway, uncovering hidden gems in bayside and oceanfront communities. I’d pedal south towards the bustling Boardwalk and north to the quaint charm of downtown Bethany. A vivid memory from a Wyoming trip involves stopping for a majestic herd of buffalo as we cycled along mountain trails with Charles and my daughter. And in Vancouver, I joined my sister and our daughters for a memorable ride around the scenic Seawall Trail in Stanley Park.
Cycling had become intertwined with my self-perception as an active individual. Now, the fear of another fall had become a significant barrier, creating a paradoxical fear of both riding and not riding. The adult tricycle, with its promise of stability, was a desperate attempt to reclaim that lost self-image.
Honest self-reflection revealed that the issue extended beyond just bicycling. Like a newly etched wrinkle between my eyebrows, anxiety was subtly eroding my self-assurance. I found myself hesitating before merging onto I-95 in a rental car from Miami to Delray Beach. Trifocals now hung conspicuously from my blouse when approaching steep escalators. And I meticulously planned routes to avoid icy or snowy sidewalks.
While acknowledging these growing apprehensions, I fiercely resisted complete surrender. Was giving up on cycling, giving in to a broader trend of self-imposed limitations? I vehemently hoped not. The inevitable losses associated with aging were largely beyond my control, but my response to them was not. I could choose to confront fear rather than succumb to it.
Returning home from the unsuccessful tricycle test, I decided to confront my cycling fear head-on. I wrestled my Schwinn out of the storage closet, pumped life back into its tires, and tossed my essentials into the wire basket. Grasping the familiar black rubber handlebars, I navigated it into the elevator and out onto the street. With a deliberate click, I fastened my helmet strap under my chin and swung a leg over the seat. Taking a deep breath to inhale courage and exhale fear, I pushed off and pedaled north on Coastal Highway. A wave of liberation washed over me. Turns out, when it comes to riding a bike, it’s just like riding a bike.
