Whiskey! Glitter! Run Away!
I've been afraid of bicycles since I was young. I was never good at riding them, and nearly all of my experiences with the machines involved my falling down, bleeding, and being yelled at for my failure by the friends who forced me onto it in the first place. Before long the suggestion that I ride one inspired a chemical drip in the brain, adrenaline and resentment and fear. I don't mind hitting the ground. Pain I can manage. But the sensation of falling, that desperate lack of control, the swift victory of gravity: it sickens me. I hate the feeling that my body isn't mine.
But I've long been annoyed by my obedience to this fear. I don't allow anything so base as panic to bully me. If something scares me I flirt with it, find out what it tastes like, work my fingers into it. And often the things that I thought distasteful and alarming are things that I come to adore, and often to identify with profoundly. Somewhat violent sex and fish, for example: I couldn't look at either, once. Now. Well.
About one month ago the drivers of our busses and subway systems went on strike for reasons that annoyed most of the citizens of my city. Still uncomfortable but intrigued and weary of a dull and suddenly politically problematic commute, I bought a bike that I found chained to a pole in Old City with a sale sign. Friends were there with me when I found it, and one of them, a former bike messenger, was there to kick the tires and declare it sound. It was everything I'd wanted: a three-speed red 1972 Dutch style Schwinn with a basket, and a bell that sounds like the streets of Amsterdam. With my friends there I awkwardly mounted it in a parking lot, stumbled and wobbled and leapt off in terror when I tried to turn and tilted more than I'd expected. Parting ways with my friends, I walked with it, vowing that I'd purchase a helmet before I attempted to ride it in earnest. Three blocks later, too curious to resist, I got on and flew.
The trickle of adrenaline has gone nowhere. It still feels dangerous and foolhardy and deadly, and I crave that now. It feels so freeing, not only because suddenly I can get anywhere in the city quickly, but because I enjoy getting there so much.
I tend to distrust the displays of new couples. Public emotion of the romantic variety tends to make me somewhat queasy. But I find myself standing in a shop, gazing through the window at my bicycle where it is locked to a sapling. I think of it while working, and I smile. I even love riding in the rain; I think the total lack of functioning brakes to be strangely endearing. This is disgusting and unacceptable, and I do hope that I awake from this affectionate fever dream soon. The devotion and cliquishness of Philadelphia bike culture is something that I've always thought off-putting. So while I hope that my enthusiasm remains, I'd prefer not to love in the same way that they love. No unkempt beard for me, thank you.
Yesterday I rode under a pregnant moon, moving through the city on the way to visiting friends whom I saw more rarely when travel was tedious. We rode home together in a small pack until I turned South and they kept moving West. I thought while pedalling that I love this because suddenly so little of my days are wasted with things that are necessary but that I'd rather not do. There is less that is passive, slow, frustrating, and mindless. Fear is so much better than that.
But I've long been annoyed by my obedience to this fear. I don't allow anything so base as panic to bully me. If something scares me I flirt with it, find out what it tastes like, work my fingers into it. And often the things that I thought distasteful and alarming are things that I come to adore, and often to identify with profoundly. Somewhat violent sex and fish, for example: I couldn't look at either, once. Now. Well.
About one month ago the drivers of our busses and subway systems went on strike for reasons that annoyed most of the citizens of my city. Still uncomfortable but intrigued and weary of a dull and suddenly politically problematic commute, I bought a bike that I found chained to a pole in Old City with a sale sign. Friends were there with me when I found it, and one of them, a former bike messenger, was there to kick the tires and declare it sound. It was everything I'd wanted: a three-speed red 1972 Dutch style Schwinn with a basket, and a bell that sounds like the streets of Amsterdam. With my friends there I awkwardly mounted it in a parking lot, stumbled and wobbled and leapt off in terror when I tried to turn and tilted more than I'd expected. Parting ways with my friends, I walked with it, vowing that I'd purchase a helmet before I attempted to ride it in earnest. Three blocks later, too curious to resist, I got on and flew.
The trickle of adrenaline has gone nowhere. It still feels dangerous and foolhardy and deadly, and I crave that now. It feels so freeing, not only because suddenly I can get anywhere in the city quickly, but because I enjoy getting there so much.
I tend to distrust the displays of new couples. Public emotion of the romantic variety tends to make me somewhat queasy. But I find myself standing in a shop, gazing through the window at my bicycle where it is locked to a sapling. I think of it while working, and I smile. I even love riding in the rain; I think the total lack of functioning brakes to be strangely endearing. This is disgusting and unacceptable, and I do hope that I awake from this affectionate fever dream soon. The devotion and cliquishness of Philadelphia bike culture is something that I've always thought off-putting. So while I hope that my enthusiasm remains, I'd prefer not to love in the same way that they love. No unkempt beard for me, thank you.
Yesterday I rode under a pregnant moon, moving through the city on the way to visiting friends whom I saw more rarely when travel was tedious. We rode home together in a small pack until I turned South and they kept moving West. I thought while pedalling that I love this because suddenly so little of my days are wasted with things that are necessary but that I'd rather not do. There is less that is passive, slow, frustrating, and mindless. Fear is so much better than that.