Pedal Pushing

I can see about seven bikes in the motel parking lot, on the side where a low stone wall separates the lot from the dock. Each bike sits upright in the quirky way that kickstands demand. Not a one has gears or hand brakes. These are the old-fashioned kind, with bulky frames painted red and powder blue, black, even forest green.

I have come here with a friend, who tells me that the bikes are there for the borrowing. She has already taken one out for a spin in the early morning, heading down to the biggest wharf looking for lobstermen, reveling in the thought of nets and traps and that particular seaside fragrance.

I am content to sit out on the narrow deck and watch boats and gulls, sweeping magenta clouds puffing up like creamy sweets in the sky. A boat honks in the distance; probably everyone here knows exactly what it says. I am not schooled in the language of ocean.

When my friend suggested a ride earlier, I shook my head an emphatic no and said, “Hell, I haven’t been on a bike since I was a kid, and I wasn’t much of a rider then.”

“You never forget how to ride a bike,” she says.

“I’ll probably fall off,” I say. I don’t tell her the long story about how a few years ago my body lost all muscle memory, and a doctor pronounced he had absolutely no idea how I was standing, never mind walking, but since I was, I should keep at it. Just keep walking. Walk as much as you can, he told me. And I did.

I run my fingers along the frame of the baby-blue bike, squeezing the rubber grips on the handlebars. It’s the same color as the bike I had when I was about 12. Before I know it I have kicked up the stand and am balancing one foot on either side of the sloping bar. I remember how to test the brakes and place a foot on the pedal and push hard.

And then, in the almost empty parking lot, I swing my leg over the crossbar, mount the seat, and place my foot on the raised pedal. I push one pedal down and then the other, again and again. The bike moves forward, a little wobbly—actually, very wobbly. I grip the handlebars, thinking about what to do next, willing all the body parts to communicate with each other, until I find myself riding around in slow choppy circles.

I am giddy and petrified, thinking how wild it is that a thin, metal frame, two wheels, a chain, and a couple of pedals powered only by muscle and memory can keep me up and moving.

I call out to the seagulls and the clouds, “I’m riding! I’m really riding!”
“I can see that,” says a fisherman hauling a cooler up from the skiff he has just rowed in.

He waves. I don’t. I am holding on for dear life.

There are few cars, a handful of walkers, on the tiny main street. I ride out of the parking lot and turn right. I pedal like crazy until the road dips down around a steep curve and the ocean opens up in front of me. The wind salts my throat. I roar down the hill—there’s no stopping possible now—amazed as my legs and my arms, my hands, my feet, and the powder-blue bike carry me to the water.