Fighting the Fear of Falling
Finding my way back to my bike
"I do not ride to add years to my life. I bike to add life to my years." —Unknown
The bike in my basement is red, one of my favorite colors for its boldness and energy, qualities I admire but must work to embody.
For a long time, I rode my bike to the local farmer's market on the weekend, the post office on the other side of town, and a salon a couple of miles away. I even rode the bike twice to doctors’ appointments during the pandemic, which I never attempted before due to distance, traffic, and a lack of bike lanes.
I also rode for exercise and stress relief during the pandemic, when my bike became a lifeline. I wore tracks in the concrete and pavement across our city's 4.7 square miles.
Mostly, though, I rode for joy.
I rode to festivals like Porchfest, where musicians perform on porches and neighbors from far and wide sit in front yards, soaking up the sound of the community. With different bands on each block, you can follow the lure of the music for hours past other bikers, walkers, and little red wagons carrying picnic supplies to share.
During an Atlanta Streets Alive event that temporarily transformed a roadway into a park prohibiting cars, I rode around six miles to downtown Atlanta and back. I felt free, taking up space usually occupied by cars, my soul stretching wide, not just hugging the shoulder for dear life.
A few times, my partner Ed and I biked from our home to Stone Mountain, a 16-mile trip, and only once took a wrong turn that almost sent us down an interstate entrance ramp. We eventually made it back to the PATH Foundation’s Stone Mountain Trail after walking our bikes up the grassy shoulder of a steep hill next to bumper-to-bumper traffic — and yes, I still count this as a joyful ride.
Again and again, I’d return to my bike for convenience, exercise, and fun. The sky would beckon, and I’d jump on my bike for another adventure without much hesitation, just a quick check on the weather and my tire pressure.
That is until I fell in Paris.
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” —Albert Einstein
In late June 2023, two years ago, I fell while cycling through the cobblestone streets of the Latin Quarter.
Not many people know about the fall, except for Ed. I did not tell my family and friends back home because I did not want them to worry and perhaps because it ran counter to the adventurous spirit I longed to embody.
In hindsight, I should have never gone on this particular tour. I am petite, and the bike was too big for me. I knew it did not fit well, but I thought I could make do until I couldn't. Bikes, cars, and tourists all competed for space on a narrow medieval street as the group transitioned from the cobblestones to a sidewalk. I hit a curb and went down hard. While I did not break any bones, my leg made contact with the pedal, and the pedal won. The guide had no first aid kit, so I waited with water and tissues while Ed ran to the closest pharmacy and successfully mimed blood and bandages.
As you might expect, we decided to cut the tour short. We took an Uber back to the hotel, where I thoroughly cleaned the wound and iced my bruises, pride included. I probably should have gone to a clinic or a hospital, but my mind, warped by the cost of the US medical system, quickly dismissed that idea.
Fortunately, the fall did not confine me to a hotel room or ruin our trip. We continued our journey to Lyon and Nice, and I logged numerous miles on foot and public transit exploring. We enjoyed our time and left each city wanting to return.
Even our last evening in Paris, right after the fall, turned out to be beautiful in a way. I remember sitting on our balcony, overlooking the rooftops with my leg iced and elevated, followed by a delicious dinner at a nearby restaurant. I slowly began to heal.
While the wound never got infected and barely left a scar, I have carried the experience with me. I am now overly cautious about biking. For two years after the fall, my bike stood ready but unridden in my basement; weather, traffic, and a lack of time were common excuses I offered for not riding.
"Riding a bike is the closest you can get to flying." —Robin Williams
In many ways, my relationship with my bike is a metaphor for my relationship with writing. My quest for ideal biking conditions is not unrelated to my desire to find the perfect words to convey my thoughts and emotions. They both stem from an attempt to avoid falls at all costs.
I should bike only on days with nice weather, along bike paths on weekend mornings, while most people remain tucked in their beds at home. I should write only when I have the perfect topic that is not too vulnerable, something a large number of people can relate to while unique enough that others might find it interesting, and, most importantly, when I have conjured the words that will be meaningful and true to not just who I am but who I want to be.
I have sometimes wished I had made a different choice about my last bike tour in Paris; wandering those cobblestone streets would have been better than riding through them on that day, using that bike.
I need to remember, however, to be grateful for both the joyful moments and bumps in the road. A life without bumps is boring, filled with standard run-of-the-mill cookie-cutter experiences. Our bumps matter. The story would not be a story that matters without the moments when the story does not go as planned, without the moments that change us in some way.
Part of the adventure of life is deciding when and how to explore the streets we travel, as well as when and how we share our stories.
Before the fall, I took two other bike tours in Paris with a different company that were wonderful. I biked around the gardens of Versailles, and I enjoyed the trip so much that I booked a second tour around many major sites in Paris, including the Eiffel Tower. During both tours, I remember admiring the views, noticing expansive blue skies, creating a breeze in the summer heat, and feeling alive from the exercise and the experience.
It's time for me to bike and to write, to let go of my fears and explore, to push myself to grow and improve, and to allow myself to fall and get back up.
My advice: start biking and writing again, whatever that means for you. While I need to be willing to walk away when the bike doesn't fit, I don't want to abandon a way of moving through the world that has brought me joy. I want to remember the reasons why I bike and why I write whenever I find myself struggling for willpower or words.
As a kid, I loved to put my feet on the pedals and ride. A dear friend and I would fly up and down our neighborhood’s streets on our bikes. What appears now as a few blocks on a map felt then like our kingdom. We had no cell phones. Our parents could not track us with GPS. Our moms would call each other and occasionally open the door and holler, but, mostly, we knew to come home when the street lights turned on. While biking, I felt free.
Writing has reminded me that my bike is red, and I miss the feeling of flying.
Thank you for traveling with me on these busy streets. Subscribe to join me on this year-long quest as I tell stories about my Car-Free-Full-Life — and like, comment, or share if you enjoyed the post.
Until next time, I will be riding and writing,
Karyl