I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like
– Queen, “Bicycle Race”
Our Newton Street rowhouse had 73 steps, inside and out. There were 12 steps from the sidewalk to the front door, and a steep stairwell leading to a locked gate if you entered through the basement. Either way, it wasn’t bicycle-friendly, and I gave up riding years ago. That was too bad, because stashed in the basement was my purple Fuji S10-S, which I bought in 1980 for $80. It was still in decent shape, I was told, and with a little work would be a fine vintage bike.
So after we moved, I decided to start riding again. I took the Fuji to a local repair shop, one I’d gone to years ago. It had been thriving then but now seemed lethargic, the sole employee asleep or on drugs or just bored senseless. I left my bike there anyway, and several weeks later they texted to say it was ready. I rode it home cautiously and put it in storage to await a warm day. But when I went to get it a few weeks later, the front tire had gone flat, and when I pressed it, the aged rubber crackled under my finger. Wait, didn’t I just pay these people to fix the bike? Whatever. I ordered a new tire and took it to the real pros: the bike guys at our neighborhood farmers’ market.
These amazing folks set up a tent every Saturday and fix people’s bikes for free. You can Venmo them a tip if you want, but they do it for the love of bikes. They’re cheerful and competent and teach you basic repair skills as they work. My bike, though, was a challenge. When they finally managed to pry the old tire off, it disintegrated into dry, fibrous shreds. They mounted the new tire, trued the wheel, replaced a brake cable, and gave me new pedals. Since I hadn’t cycled recently, the head bike guy suggested lessons from a local bike club, but I waved him off. I was ready to ride!
And your little dog, too
Nearby Rock Creek Park has a bike path that stretches for miles. I set out on a brilliant Sunday afternoon, one of the first warm spring days this year. Everybody wanted to be out. And where everybody wanted to be was on the bike path, with their kids on scooters, babies in strollers, and dogs on leashes, or sometimes off.
You can see where this is going.
The first hint of trouble came as I approached a couple walking a dog, and another cyclist approached from the opposite direction. He and I saw each other; we saw that we could pass the couple, one at a time. But at the last second the dog lunged to the side, stretching its leash across the path, and both of us jammed the brakes hard. The other cyclist muttered something, prompting the dog walker to remark to his companion, “I think he overreacted, don’t you?” Hmm. We nearly had a four-person, two-bicycle, one-dog pileup, and he overreacted?
I had a glorious afternoon. Upper Beach Drive is two lanes and closed to cars, with plenty of room to ride. Never mind the twenty-somethings whizzing by me in their spandex. I felt youthful, athletic, free!
The crash came at the end, as I approached a bottleneck dense with pedestrians. I saw that I needed to get off and walk the bike; I saw it a second too late. Swerving to avoid another dog-walking couple, I lost my balance and hit the pavement, the bike landing on top of me.
Same old story
My knee hurt, but only a bit, and for the next few days I ignored it. There was no swelling or bruising, nothing that would merit a trip to urgent care. I kept up my daily walks, expecting the pain to ease. Instead it got worse. I was depressed and furious. How could I have done this AGAIN?
I’ve always been accident prone, not so much clumsy as careless. In January 2017 I fell down our kitchen stairs two hours before the women’s march, which I attended on crutches. My mangled foot took a year to heal, with months of physical therapy.
Since then, I’ve slipped and fallen on a muddy sidewalk; tumbled into a hole in the ground; and sprained my ankle simply walking around the block. I’ve learned by now that with a foot or knee injury you have to get off it, with crutches or a boot, until healing is underway. Faced with days or weeks without exercise, I go into a sullen, self-pitying funk – every time.
I can hear my family members laughing. My father has had a painful back and knee for decades, and walks with a cane; he seldom complains, but just gets on with it. Bill was hit by a car in 2012 and was in a cast for months. My sister-in-law, Diane, has had two knee replacements and now has herniated discs in her back. But when I told her my story, she didn’t laugh; she commiserated. “NOTHING is worse than not being mobile!” she wrote.
Well, some things are, but I know exactly what she means, and I feel the same way. I love to walk outdoors, and I walk fast. Movement is my stress reliever. It’s central to my daily life and self-concept and probably my health too, since my job is sedentary. When I can’t walk, I feel restless, frustrated, cooped up.
Time to slow down?
The third age is notorious for back and knee problems, whether from accidents or from a lifetime of wear and tear. None of us can take mobility for granted in the years to come. So what to do? Well, I could stop crashing my way through life, I suppose. “Stay vertical!” Diane urged. I will try. But eventually, an attitude adjustment may be necessary. A slowed-down life can be worth living. Right?
It’s been almost three weeks since the wipeout, and my knee is feeling better. I hope to get back on the bike soon. I’ll ride on a weekday when fewer people are out, and I’ll give walkers and dogs a wide berth. And I’ll do my best to make the most recent fall my last.
❤️❤️❤️
Definitely! NO more falls ✅🤞