Last Wednesday, my friend and I borrowed two bikes from our school’s bike share program to ride around town. When I was a kid, I rode my bike almost every day—I loved it. The last time I rode a bike, I was 10-years-old. But whenever someone wants to explain how simple or unforgettable something is, they say it’s like riding a bike. So nine years of not riding a bike shouldn’t mean anything, right? Wrong.
As we wheeled our bikes away from the rack in front of the library, I was faced with the reality of the situation. The past nine years had allowed me to stress about the next time I would ride a bike. And when that day arrived, I couldn’t suppress the fear that I wouldn’t be able to do it or that I would lose my balance and crash. Which I did. Several times. And by several I mean many—too many to count. My friend, bless her, played the role my mom played thirteen or so years ago—the first time I learned to ride a bike: walking me through the steps, assuring me I wouldn’t fall and even holding the bike steady. After probably an hour of practicing and wobbling and falling and doubting myself and wanting to give up, we made it to our destination: the wheat fields 10 minutes away from campus.
Eventually, I got the hang of it. I stopped struggling to multitask, steering and peddling and watching the road. It wasn’t that any of the movements were complicated or difficult for me—it was that I didn’t believe I could do them. I didn’t trust my body to operate the bike and carry me where I wanted.
Maybe you can’t forget how to ride a bicycle, but you can definitely forget how to be comfortable doing it. I had no faith in myself, and a great deal more fear than I ever felt as a child. My desire to ride a bike and go somewhere with my friend was overshadowed by my lack of confidence.
My friend, with an admirable amount of patience for me, said a lot of things to try and help me. But the one thing that stuck in my head the whole time was, “If you don’t plant your foot on the pedal, then you’re never going to ride a bike.” If you don’t commit to something despite your fear, then it’s difficult (maybe even impossible) to move forward.
Attempting to overcome my fear riding along the busiest street on campus was stressful and more than a little embarrassing. Especially given that the Whitman student body is incredibly outdoorsy and that there are a ton of people riding bikes around campus any given day. I simply reminded myself that we all have to start somewhere, and that attempting to get back on a bike is a whole lot better than quitting or avoiding it out of fear.
It was a simple idea—borrow bikes, get some snacks, ride to the wheat fields, and have a fun day. And we did all of those things—and then some. And I overcame my fear and doubt to do something I’ve been meaning to get back to for years. It's amazing what can happen when you step outside of your comfort zone and embrace an embarassing struggle.
