Bike Love NY

Blind Spots

9/26/2016

Since I’ve returned to cycling, I notice a reluctance to take my eyes off the road and check if someone’s coming up behind me. It’s a question of confidence: after being off the bike for 6 months, I’m still getting my riding legs back. But this negligence has led to some near misses. Not good.

The fact is, even when I do take that moment to check, cycling takes place over time: what was absent when I first glanced, may be suddenly present by the time I make my move.

So I bought a helmet mirror. They’re called “rear view mirrors,” but in fact they tell the future. Without a mirror, one false move can trigger a series of others whose consequences escalate in geometric progression. With a mirror, there is more information about what lies ahead (based on what's behind); it buys some time to make safer choices.

If only we had such mirrors to guide us in life.

Last year, I went on a ride of the Katy Trail with L and 4 of her long-time friends. I haven’t seen any of them since.

I bring this up because cycling is often done in groups, and fitting into a group dynamic is a skill just as important as knowing how to follow a route map. Musicians are chosen for their chops, but often just as important, is how tolerable their personalities are; because you spend more time traveling together than you ever do on stage. As a musician, I passed this test. As a cyclist, I flunked: I lacked the rear-view mirror that showed dangers creeping up from behind; I was completely out of my depth in a group of people who’d known each other for 40+ years (and pretty much shared the same rear-view mirror). And even if I’d had such a mirror, we all have blind spots.

It’s humiliating to consider that that many people agreed I was not a suitable traveling companion (not that I’m arguing). But the hardest part has been losing L as a riding partner. She was a cycling “mother” if you will. She took me from a Brompton to a road bike with clips; she taught me the value of training, repeat hills and maintenance. She really got me started.

Will I ever join a group cycling trip again? It’s certainly easier (though pricier) to go with the big names: Back Roads, VBT, Butterfield. The rules are clear; the responsibility lies with the company. It’s a little lonely if you’re single, but the trade off is that the personal stakes are low.

As for my trip on The Katy Trail, today I can look back and see where I made the first bad choice which started the unraveling of trust (the fault is not only mine), but I can’t go back and change it. All I can do is learn from my mistakes, and not be too hard on myself for having made them.

Hindsight after all, is 20/20.

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A Good Friend

9/22/2016

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In an effort to get back into shape, I’ve gone into training doing the Central Park Loop a couple of times a week. I’ve worked up to riding the Loop twice, with two hill repeats (a total of three ascents), the last one standing on the pedals. Other than my quads being a little “noodley” after that last ascent, I’m feeling pretty good about my come back.

Until I run into this guy:

I’ve just done two hill-repeats and am headed around the loop for the last killer ascent, when he draws up next to me.

“Did you know you’re not sitting straight in the saddle?” He asks.

“Um, no,” I reply, “How’m I sitting?”

“You’re veering off to the right”

“Interesting,” I say trying to defend myself against this unexpected criticism while at the same time making sense of it.

He rides off.

That’s the thing about New York. Everyone has an opinion.

I confess to feeling slightly deflated. Who is this guy anyway? And what business is it of his how I ride? He wouldn’t have said anything if I’d been a man.

But after blaming the messenger for awhile, I decide to evaluate whether his comment has merit.

The fact is, I’m still making a come back from a Tibial Plateau injury. My right leg, while adequate for walking, is still not as strong as the left. Is it possible my body is compensating?

I continue around the Loop and make my final standing-on-the-pedals ascent.

But my heart isn’t in it. I get back on the saddle ¾ of the way up…

Notice something? No, not the pot holes.

The photo is not level – none of them are level. My camera has slid way over to the right.

Now that I think about it, it’s been doing that almost since I began using it – way before my injury. I used to think it was a problem with my helmet, and even got a new one, but that didn’t change anything; my footage often came out right-slanted, forcing me to edit it back to level. Since then, I’ve worn my helmet tighter, but still this keeps happening. If my riding posture is the cause (and I’m forced to admit that’s the most likely culprit), maybe this is a more intractable problem than I realized.

And a more dangerous one. When I had my fall in LA, I was turning left but I fell right. I’ll never know exactly how it happened, but wouldn’t be surprised if my right-slanted posture had something to do with it.

And now an invasive New Yorker has pointed out the problem.

In Buddhism, this guy would be known as “A Good Friend.” A Good Friend can be someone who’s kind and supportive. It can also be someone who acts as a mirror or catalyst for actualizing our higher self. It’s not always pleasant. It wasn’t pleasant for The Buddha* and it’s not pleasant for me. But correct cycling posture is a vital component to riding.

Friends come in all shapes and sizes. Some are kind and some are cruel. All of them are useful.

*http://sokaspirit.org/1354

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We Ride Together

9/15/2016

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Lauren Davis. Giovanni Nin. Sam Hindy. Matthew Von Ohlen. These are just four of the 18 cyclists who have been killed by cars this year, the last death believed to be intentional (no one yet apprehended). They were not riding recklessly. Sam Hindy was attempting to navigate a dangerous intersection in The Bronx; Matthew Von Ohlen was in the bike lane in Brooklyn. But they were left unprotected by the infrastructure that Mayor Bill DeBlasio had promised when he outlined his Vision Zero plan (no more deaths by car by 2024). It’s just September, and already we have surpassed last year’s tragic number of 15 cyclists dead. The NYPD’s response? Ticket cyclists for minor infractions.

In case you think you’re off the hook because you don’t ride, consider this: every 6 minutes, a pedestrian is struck by a car in New York. In the event of a fatality, it’s a misdemeanor for the motorist (if it ever gets to court), and TWU Local 100 - the NYC Bus Drivers Union - is trying to overturn even this.

Enough is enough.

Transportation Alternatives is gathering with numerous other organizations – the 5BBC, Families for Safe Streets and others – to stage “We Ride Together,” an unpermitted ride of 1,000+ cyclists in yellow shirts, down 5th Avenue. We’re cyclists, but we’re riding for safe streets for everybody.

We gather at The Plaza.

And listen to TA Director Paul Steely White (and several supporting City Council Members) talk about the need for safer infrastructure in all 5 boroughs. Our city is built on a 1950’s model he says, where city streets were seen as super highways. But the density of the city was very different then. With today’s population and rampant development, the needs of pedestrians – and cyclists – must take priority over the car. The City is encouraging cycling; there are Citibike stations coming to all 5 boroughs.

Where is the infrastructure to protect us?

The ride takes off to a stereo chorus of tinkling bells.

It's incredibly moving to see nothing but bikes as far as the eye can see:

We may not have the horse power, but we have the numbers. And it doesn’t take much to see we are just a fraction of the total number of cyclists...

And pedestrians out there.

Many of whom are glad to see us.

It’s a joyful ride, but a defiant one. Chanting, “Whose Streets? Our Streets!” and wearing yellow signs that read, “Mayor DeBlasio, People Are Dying,” some of us hold up photos of people we lost, killed by cars.

But drivers won’t go down without a fight. Like this guy, who drives right into our peloton, leaving his car in the intersection, determined to defy us whatever it takes.

Today at least, he’s on the losing end of that argument.

We sail through midtown, our members acting as volunteer traffic directors to protect us.

Down towards the Flat Iron building in the fading light...

And finally to Washington Square Park (we ride around it first), where we gather to thank everyone who put this ride together.

And to mobilize in groups to get home. I’m in Manhattan, where significant progress has been made. To my astonishment my ride home takes place completely on buffered and parking protected bike lanes.

A route that did not exist even a year ago. And as I ride, my eyes well at the commitment of the activists who made this happen. Someone thought of this. Someone cared about us.

But large numbers of my fellow riders come from the other 4 boroughs – boroughs where long-identified “dangerous streets” are still the only riding alternative. Until all of us are safe, none of us can be safe. In the meantime, we ride together.*

*Hours after the Vision Zero ride
http://gothamist.com/2016/09/16/brooklyn_cyclist_in_critical_condit.php

For more coverage of We Ride Together:

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The Politics of Joy

8/20/2016

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Two years ago, I rode Summer Streets for the first time. At 24th Street, I pulled over, curious about the tent exhibitors. I was immediately approached by Tom DeVito from Transportation Alternatives. He was not a cyclist, rather an activist for people who want to cycle, walk or use public transportation. He asked me if I would be interested in joining TA.

Absolutely not. I’d had it with advocacy. As a veteran of the anti-fracking wars – a heavy lift from the beginning when nobody even knew about it – the last thing I was interested in was volunteering for another hopeless cause. Yes, it was a good one; there are lots of them. Who doesn’t want a livable city? But the anti-fracking battle – a daunting fight waged by determined little old ladies (I should include myself here) against multi-national corporations with infinite resources - had worn me down. Riding was my new-found escape from all that. Did I really want to pollute it with one more David and Goliath fight?

But then something happened.

I started to explore the 5 boroughs and the bike infrastructure for which TA had advocated – and there was a lot of it. I went to my first TA meeting. I was hooked. Unlike those early fracking meetings, a litany of one horror story after another, these meetings were actually hopeful. They were enlightened, spiritual even. And best of all, they got results; I was riding on the success of their advocacy.

Back then, TA was working on a parking-protected bike lane for 6th Avenue. They had already fought for and gotten a striped bike lane there (a miracle in itself on this commercial artery), but every time I found myself on it, the massive presence of vans, swerving taxis and semis so overwhelmed its little markings, I vowed never to repeat the experience. I was doubtful parking protection would ever happen. But if TA was for it, I was going to support them.

Based on the hope of TA’s cheery meetings, I found myself one of the “counters” along 6th Avenue, keeping tabs on the number of cars, trucks and bikes (regular, delivery and CitiBikes) for an hour a few times a week, to report bike usage. It was cringe-worthy to watch them, but our counting paid off: it turned out 10% of the traffic on 6th Avenue consisted of cyclists (brave ones if I may say so).

Now, almost 2 years to the day of my refusal to get involved with TA (ever!), I am riding a transformed 6th Avenue uptown from Summer Streets, the paint so fresh I can smell it.

Well waddya know, we did it. We actually did it.

Full Disclosure: the 6th Avenue project had been a TA priority for a few years before I joined – it did not happen overnight. As of this writing, it begins at 8th street and extends only up to 34th Street. But it is a project I’ve seen get off the ground against what I thought were impossible odds; a miracle I can point to in my own neighborhood, and it is already transforming how I get around town. If this can happen, what else can we achieve?

I continue to engage in the anti-fracking battle and while it’s not over yet, never underestimate the power of those little old ladies. They single-handedly held off the multi-nationals (a shout-out here to Vera Scroggins*, a heroine on the front lines) getting a moratorium against fracking in New York State, something we were assured would never happen. Keystone is history, and the battle has moved to the national stage.

But what renews my spirits to go back to that fight is the thinking I am reminded of every time I ride a protected bike lane in New York. The idea that the City belongs to all of us to make use of and enjoy safely; that how it works is up to us, the only limit being our imagination. And the notion that working for change can be a joyful process.

It’s not airy-fairy. It takes work and cooperation - with the DOT, with Community Boards, with City Government and the Mayor’s office, with activist groups like the TA Activist Committee. But it’s inspiring to be a part of it. It’s a different kind of politics than the kind I’ve been used to.

I think of it as the politics of joy.

*If you want to help Vera in her heroic battle, you can go here:
https://www.generosity.com/community-fundraising/donate-for-my-work-exposing-gas-industry-pollution--2

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Summer Streets 2016

8/6/2016

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What’s green, has wheels and grows?*

Summer Streets! It’s three Saturdays in August where those of us on wheels (and on foot) can dream of what New York would be like if there were no cars to hit us.** It’s environmentally friendly, and it gets bigger every year.

If you get there early (7am), you can beat the crowds. It’s almost like a Twilight Zone episode.

And this is Canal Street:

Which usually looks like this. Hint: it’s not just cars we’re avoiding.

This year, I’m newly back on the bike and I know the course.

It looks long, but on a bike it goes fast. I don’t want to go fast, I want to savor. So I take Lucille and take my time riding up, towards Astor Place...

Union Square where the Farmers Market is just setting up.

And finally onto Park Avenue which is Bike Nirvana at this time of the morning

But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you this is my favorite part (it's everybody's favorite part):

The Park Avenue Viaduct which winds around Grand Central...

And which until Summer Streets, I’d only ever seen in a taxi. The feeling of freedom - that for three days we actually own the City we live in – can’t be beat. And before you know it, it’s over:

And we turn around.

Getting to view Manhattan during Summer Streets is a rare and wonderful experience especially for those of us who were here when no one cared about us:

And leads to a natural comparison between then and now. It’s different, but it’s the same. Nobody cares about us now either; they care about the banks, and the banks care about real estate. So we have buildings like this:

And monstrosities like this, which no one we know can afford to live in, and which are permanently ruining our skyline.

(I call this the Finger Building because of its shape and because of its gesture to the rest of NYC’s residents).

But New York is safer. Much safer. And though fewer and fewer artists can afford to live here, we do have art:

And of course, we have Summer Streets – an unimaginable event in the era of Mayor Abe Beame.

I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it. I’ll take more of it. I wish Summer Streets could last all summer.

And maybe one day, they will.
--------
*Confession: I stole this riddle from a joke I grew up with in the 60s. The answer then was “Grass. I lied about the wheels.”
**According to Transportation Alternatives, a pedestrian is hit by a car every 6 minutes in New York.

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Naked Bike Ride

7/16/2016

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Patti Smith famously counseled budding artists not to move to New York – you’ll spend all your time just trying to pay the rent and never get around to your art. Rather, she said, move to the “Second Tier Cities.” By that she meant: cities where the living is easier (cheaper). These days even the Second Tier Cities are becoming prohibitive. So I’d amend that to say, move to a city with a healthy “weirdness” factor. Portland has it. Austin has it. And St. Louis definitely has it. And how can you tell?

Well something like this might give you a clue:

Yes, it’s the St. Louis Annual Naked Bike Ride. I’m here for the Netroots Nation 2016 Conference, but this is truly one of the highlights. I still don’t have permission to ride (coming soon), or I’d be joining in.

It's a ride where you can never wear enough watches...

And you can never have enough tattoos.

It can't be comfortable.

Unless you're on a recumbent.

As you can see, not everyone participates fully, though everyone adopts the spirit of weirdness.

And style is everything.

You may be surprised to learn this is a world-wide event:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Naked_Bike_Ride

And New York has one too:
https://www.timeout.com/newyork/things-to-do/see-cheeky-nsfw-photos-from-the-nyc-world-naked-bike-ride-2015

But don’t expect full frontal in New York City (courtesy The Gothamist)

If you want to ride naked here, it’s gonna be more of an Underwear Ride.

New York long ago lost its cachet for being weird.

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Discoveries

7/1/2016

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At this point in my physical rehab, I figure there is little to discover. It’ll be a long slow slog, and eventually I’ll get through it. But it turns out, the learning curve is still full of surprises.

On the downside, I am increasingly exhausted. I mean "Get-back-into-bed tired, and-I’ve-only-been-up-2-hours" exhausted. Yes, I get to the Y daily for an hour of rugged PT and cardio, plus the 10 block walk there and back. But that shouldn’t be so taxing should it? Yet, I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’ve just made an appointment with my PCP to have myself checked out (fearing the worst of course), when it occurs to me to ask Danielle about it. “Oh yeah, building back muscle mass is incredibly exhausting,” she says. “And it’s counter intuitive. The more exhausted you are, the more you have to push it.”

Well, it doesn’t always work that way, but I do what I can. There’s lots of inspiration on the street; find someone going not too fast, and get in rhythm behind them – sort of like pace lining. If I got that close of course, I’d be arrested, but it helps with motivation. And walking, as Danielle has pointed out, is all about momentum. The faster I move forward, the less stress on bones and muscles.

Meanwhile, I’ve discovered something about protein: it’s important. The ingestion of chicken or fish (don’t like red meat) has an immediate and lasting effect on my strength; stairs are quickly becoming manageable.

As for actually getting back on the bike, I rarely ask Danielle about it anymore, and she doesn’t bring it up. It’s just as well. One of the hardest aspects of all of this, has been the constant moving of goal posts (always further away, never closer).

But I still miss cycling. I’m now more personally aware of its dangers – but I’ve come to the conclusion that life is intrinsically dangerous. I think of my friend S, who never cycled but stepped into a pothole and has struggled with walking ever since; or my friend A, who tripped on a bench at The Hi-Line minding her own business, and broke her arm. I’m beginning to come to the conclusion that if you leave the house, you’re taking a risk (and even if you don’t).

Meanwhile, until I can get back on the bike, would it be too much to ask for an exercise bike that is responsive? With gears, with steering and a screen that actually takes you somewhere? How hard can it be? We’re living in a digital world after all. I hate exercise bikes that never move and even worse, the whole concept of cycling classes with loud music and some instructor yelling at me. I know it’s supposed to motivate me, but here’s what motivates me: Hills. Curves. And - -

Hey what’s this?

Is this what I think it is?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41tNF1AWuBU

I get on. There are 40 different courses, a “Pacer” in a yellow jersey to maintain motivation.

As well as hills

And curves.

And best of all, I’m traveling somewhere. The only thing it doesn’t let you do is coast (which real riders never do anyway, but I find it one of the unique rewards of the downhill). I sweat like hell but it feels right (though I miss having a breeze). Like a real bike, the seat is godawful, and not interchangeable with my own Selle, but that’s what cycling pants are for.

Mostly, this bike is safe: it’s self-balancing, the roads have no potholes (or cars), no pebbles, sand (or devious driveways), certainly no ice. I’ll never have to change a tire – or be stuck for a ladies room. And surprise surprise, I’m breathing! I can tell by how I feel the next day. It's not the real thing, but it's very close.

This is a game changer. From dragging myself to the Y, I'm going to look forward to it. And it takes the pressure off my need to get back up and running because it satisfies my inner cyclist somehow. In the meantime, this bike will help me build both strength and endurance, doing what I love most; when I do get back, I'll be ready. I never dreamed it could happen, but The Expresso Bike could actually become my new best friend.

Shhhhh, don’t tell Lola.

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Rehab

6/26/2016

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In the 70s, I went with my boyfriend to Hawaii, and found myself sitting in the car near The Toilet Bowl in Hanauma Bay.

So-called because of the glug-glug sound it makes when the tide goes out. An ad came on the car radio that seemed to last forever. It was catchy, but I was mystified that anyone would write a such an elaborate jingle for the YMCA.

This was my first introduction to The Village People (yes, I’m a clueless Breeder).

The storied Y they were singing about, to which I now belong, is The McBurney Y on 14th St. It’s smaller now, and all cleaned up. When it was on 23rd St, it had a sort of U-shaped layout. I had a (straight) friend who lived there. His tiny room faced the women’s locker room. He threw his television out.

I love McBurney because then as now, you don’t have to be buff and perfect to go there. Then as now, there are still a lot of LGBTQs (the place is deserted on Pride Day). And there is still a group of Korean Vets who congregate there. Here’s a standard work out for these guys: one of them walks on the treadmill; his friend stands beside him arguing. Then they switch.

Who couldn’t get behind a workout like this? Still I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to.

Thursday night, I have an event to go to but the top of my right foot is killing me. I have no idea why, and determine to ask Danielle about it. Meanwhile, I know I’m going to be standing for hours, so I decide to bring a crutch. It’s the right decision in the moment, but no sooner do I start with the crutch than all the muscles I’ve been killing myself to wake up, fall back into a coma (lazy buggers). The next day, not only is my foot still killing me (but in a slightly different place of course), I’m limping as badly as I was when I first tried walking. What the hell?

I get myself to PT, take one look at Danielle and throw my crutch in the corner: full blown tantrum. Danielle tries to calm me down, but I refuse to be consoled. I’ve done everything right. I do these damn exercises 3 times a day. What gives??

Danielle says everything she has always said. She’s seen this before. I’ll definitely walk (and cycle) again. It’s gonna be a long haul. Recovery is full of set-backs. But then I hear her say I need to build back muscle mass.

Wait a minute – what?

Without trying to sound too dramatic, it’s kind of a Helen Keller moment. She’s been saying this the whole time. It’s just the first time I was ready to hear it. Muscle mass is a whole other concept. If that’s what we’re talking about, of course it’s going to take awhile. And God bless Danielle, she never mentions age.

Cause here’s the thing about age. Your doctors get younger. And they get cocky about it (like it’s a character defect of yours that’s never gonna happen to them). And the first thing they’re likely to say begins with, “At your age…”

My mother once went to a new young doctor when her own doctor retired. He decided to give her a full check up, so he sent her for a chest x-ray. When she returned, he said everything looked good except for a little dark patch on each lung. “Ya dern fool,” my mother said, “Those're my tits.” And so they were.

But here’s the other thing about age: muscle mass is a bear to rebuild – or even keep – after a certain age. I know this from older cyclists. They always make it to the top of the hill, but they’re not the first ones up, and it’s not for lack of conditioning or experience. So I know whatever I’m facing, it’s gonna be harder than it would have been say 20 years ago.

But Danielle never mentions age. Today, she takes off the “Ratched” hat, and becomes a masseuse, going over my sore foot tendon with an ultra sound wand and explaining why it’s inflamed (no matter what shape your other muscles are in, the foot muscles are always working. These muscles, and their tendons, are tired!). She gives me a compression sock - depressing but helpful - and sends me home.

I curse every moment of series bingeing I did, sitting on my butt in LA while my muscles atrophied – but what were my options?

Meanwhile, at least I have information on muscle mass, and I can go to the McBurney Y to work on it.

I’m going to have to be a lot more patient than I planned.

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The Ratched Effect

6/21/2016

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All PTs are not equal. When I went to PT in LA, I did everything I was told. Yet I didn’t progress much. When I walked in with a galloping case of Old lady Foot…

(Yeah OK, it wasn’t that bad), my LA PTs - of whom I seldom saw the same one twice in a row - were completely baffled. But Danielle takes one look at my foot and says instantly, “Oh, I see this all the time with leg injuries. When you start weight bearing, the body sends fluid down. Once it gets there, the muscles say, ‘Oh, look at all this fluid. Wonder what it’s doing here? Ho-hum, guess we can go back to sleep now,’ and the blood never comes back up.” (Those muscles were having a nice dream.)

Ah Danielle (“Nurse Ratched.” or as I sometimes think of her, “The Happy Sadist”), what would I do without her? She fairly claps her hands with joy when my muscles get to the trembling stage (to be honest, it doesn’t take that long). “OK,” she beams, “Now we’re gonna start our reps!” I groan through our sessions, but I always feel stronger and optimistic afterwards.

Danielle is a whiz to be sure. But even I know, she can only do so much. If I don’t follow through with sessions of my own at home, I’m going to stay right where I am indefinitely. She’s there to teach me, and I need to learn from her example. To channel, if you will, my “Inner Ratched.”

Meanwhile, the irony does not escape me that the very exercises I took up cycling to avoid, are the ones I have to agonize through now, if I ever hope to get back on the bike. One thing that helps, is to let Danielle count the reps. At home, I do reps till muscle fatigue sets in, and then move onto the next exercise. That way I can at least watch a movie without having to count.

But walking is still beset with inconsistencies. I get stronger daily, but each new exercise taxes a different set of muscles, so sometimes my walking is actually worse. My perception that I’m walking at warp speed is cheering - until I notice I’m being passed by a texter, dragging an ancient dog behind him.

And there are dangers. Now that I’m back on the street, I run the same risk of landing on crutches as every other pedestrian in NYC. Children (and those who should know better) hurtle by me on scooters on the sidewalk; cyclists dart out between car lanes running the light as I cross at the green (this at 8th Ave, which has a parking protected bike lane, mind you. God forbid they should use that).

But the irony that is hardest to stomach is the fact that I traveled to LA for 1 month of cycling, only to spend what will be 7 months recovering.

I’ve suffered enough. Can’t I just sit back until I get better? Do I really have to do these fiendish exercises? But an injury is not like a cold, and learning how to walk again takes unremitting, sometimes excruciating effort. “Yes, you do,” both Inner and Outer Ratcheds reply in unison.

It’s called Tough Love.

2 Comments

I Disobey

6/19/2016

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It’s a beautiful day. We’ve had - and I’ve missed – so many great ones – in LA and in NYC. If I stop to think about it, it’s actually painful: rides with the LA Wheelmen through the hills and canyons of LA, countless outings with the 5BBC who post familiar rides and destinations with smiling group photos to my Facebook page (ouch). I’ve missed The 5 Borough Bike Tour, The Blessings of the Bikes – and Spring in New York. Surely I’m ready for one small amble up the Greenway by now.

Danielle has not OK’d this, mind you. Last we spoke about cycling, she said we’d reassess in a week. But my walking is steady, and as long as the streets are as sleepy as they are today, I should be fine. I decide the test is hoisting Lucille’s 30lbs of joy down the stoop unassisted. All other things being equal, if I can do that, I feel ready.

I choose Lucille as the safer bike because of her lower center of gravity. The unfolding is seamless (muscle memory), even if she is initially “twitchy.” After waiting for the few cars there are to go by, we make our way on city streets to the Greenway.

Up we go, ambling past The Magic Pan

Past the 79th St Boat Basin

Starlings pecking in the new grass

The GWB in the distance under a cloudless sky. How lucky I am that this is my daily ride! Surprisingly, I do the hills that lead to The Promenades with relative ease, and before I know it, I’ve made it to the Tennis Courts at 120th.

Not bad for a first ride back. The fountain is working, the courts are quiet. Home at last. I’m breathing.

Now, I can (and have been doing) the exercise bike for weeks, so I have a certain amount of cardio conditioning. But here’s the thing about exercise bikes: the pedaling is like cycling, the sweating is like cycling (though far more unpleasant). But the breathing…the breathing just isn’t there. Is it the indoor air? Or am I just not breathing the same? All I know is haven’t breathed like this since January 29th. I wouldn’t have missed this ride for anything.

And that’s a good thing, because I pay for it.

By the time I return to Recovery PT two days later, my walking is once again fighting a limp, the right foot swollen up like it hasn’t been for weeks and my left leg (my “Godzilla Leg”) is stressed from doing all the work. I’m expecting Danielle to be in full “Ratched” mode, tapping her foot. Just the night before, I’d emailed her triumphantly, “I rode!” I did not get the congratulatory response I was hoping for. She is miffed, but more than that she’s concerned. “You could have been hurt!” she replies.

The thing is, I know my walking is compromised. From the moment I get out of bed, that reality is ineluctable: I struggle to maintain a steady gait; walking is an exercise in concentration, a moment-to-moment battle with gravity. I’m impotent and frustrated and there’s no escape. But my bikes are like a phantom limb: because I haven’t tried riding since my fall (exercise bikes don't count), in my mind I still can. And I’ve clung to this construct as the one place where life could still be what it was. But now the jig is up. This injury is real and I’m stuck here until I get better. Which will be…when?

Thankfully, if Danielle is disappointed, she doesn’t show it. I’m not the first frustrated patient she’s had (though I may be the most contrite). She asks where it hurts and the length of the ride, noting my responses on her clipboard. We run through some old exercises and I learn some new ones.

Once home, I sink back into despair and try to remember some of the encouraging messages I’ve received from those who’ve been through this before me. After all, I had given up ever walking again and now I can (if less well at the moment). From hereon in, I will do what I’m told. And when I’m ready, I hope to ride once more.

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Blind Spots

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We Ride Together

The Politics of Joy

Summer Streets 2016

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