I've been working on the Provo Bike Committee for the past little while, and I really love it. I love bikes. I love a sense of community. I love meetings. What could be better? Anna and I helped to sell neat water bottles with bikes on them at an outdoor concert. And I decided to start a bike education class, which will be GREAT. Or so is my hope. I have to get more information together and finally put together my power point, figure out who my audience is, and other such things.
In honor of bikes I decided to record some of my favorite biking memories.
As easy as ABC, 123
You might think with such an avid love of riding bikes that I learned early in life, but to be honest, I never honestly rode by myself until I was about 12. We had lots of bikes at our house, there was no shortage on rusty bikes, mostly provided by my Grandpa who would collect them from junk heaps and store them in the garage for years with a firm resolve to get around to fixing them one day. Eventually they would fall behind on his never ending list of projects and be buried by dust and good intentions.
But as far as working bikes were concerned, they were limited and almost always occupied by an older sibling. Considering all my friends were either across the street or too far away to even think of getting there on anything not motorized, I never had much motivation to learn. One day though I was invited to go on a bike ride with some friends and I was so embarrassed to admit my ignorance that I decided to learn.
So I approached my grandpa and asked him for a bike and lessons. He willingly agreed and explained how to mount, how to balance, and the basics of peddling. Or as much as one can explain it without using words so much as stories of his childhood. And then we were off.
My neighborhood in Kentucky is known for it's home-town feeling, quaint accents, and beautiful rolling hills-- the last of these became terrifying to my ten year old self looking down them from my bike seat. However, with my grandpa by my side and his comforting hand the back of my bike seat to guide me, I faced it with courage. One thing you should probably know about my grandpa, though, is that he is not fast. So after the first couple of steps he let go of my seat and I went careening down the hill.
The wind in my hair, the free fall feeling in my stomach, it was pure freedom. I closed my eyes and for a split second I could feel that this was where I belonged in life. Then I opened my eyes to the fast approaching base of the hill, the cross roads with an approaching car, and I realized I had missed a quintessential part of my training-- how to stop. I quickly veered into one of the deep ditches next to the road and came to an abrupt stop that included a stylish dismount over my handlebars and crumpling into a heap face first.
A few minutes later my grandpa came huffing and puffing up to me and apologized for letting me go. He related a story about his first (and last) time riding a motor bike and how after his accident he had sworn to never ride another one. He assured me that I could do the same if I wanted to and I wouldn't have to feel bad about never touching another bike again.
Thankfully, I discarded this loving advice and just learned how to use the brakes.
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