Like Riding a Bike

Megan Kirby
“You don’t forget how to ride a bike,” everyone scoffed at me. “That’s one of those things you only have to learn once.” Still, I had my doubts.
I hadn’t ridden a bike since the 8th grade, when my supposed best friends led me miles and miles from home only to abandon me in the wilderness of the Oswego bike trail when I grew too sluggish.

So bicycles and I don’t share the fondest past. Still, everyone deserves a second chance. Plus, I got a bike for free courtesy of Elmhurst College. When I’m offered something free, I will always accept. If there was a booth handing out rabid Doberman Pinschers, I’d be first in line with my collar and squeak toy.

My bike might as well be a violent canine, for all of the danger it puts me in. The only reason most students will wear their helmets is because they signed an agreement to protect their skulls. I wear mine because without it I would definitely die. Everything poses a threat: cracks in the sidewalk, passing cars, low flying birds.

Still, there is something inherently cool about a bike. Maybe it’s that first taste of independence left over from when you strapped on your streamers and pedaled away from mom and dad for the first time. Of course, you returned 7 minutes later with skinned knees, but it’s easy to forget that part.

Plus, bikes are eco-friendly, which instantly makes them hip. Whenever I go into Chicago, I see all kinds of extremely cool looking people riding bikes. In the city, urban hipsters use bikes as their sole mode of transportation. They lean their bikes against their beds at night so they can coast to the kitchen the next morning. If I planned to ever reach this level of trendiness, I knew I had to start pedaling.

Still, I was too embarrassed to let anyone see me wobble down the sidewalk. So one afternoon I set out alone, intent on exploring the neighborhoods of Elmhurst while relearning how to ride my bike. In an attempt to make my helmet look cooler, I slapped a handful of pterodactyl stickers to the plastic dome before setting off.

Apparently, you don’t really forget how to ride a bike after all. But you do forget how to turn. I discovered this as I toppled into a bush, meeting the disapproving glare of an elderly man across the street with a leaf blower. When you’re 9 you get sympathy, when you’re 19 you get disdain.

Righting myself, I examined my battle scars: a series of tiny scratches on my right arm. It looked like I battled an army of kittens. Teetering back on my path, I realized that my timing was off. In my search for privacy, I headed out just as hoards of teenagers were released from York High School. Not even a dinosaur covered helmet could protect me from the scorn of high schoolers.

Because being passed by minivans on the road proved too terrifying, I mostly zigzagged down the sidewalks, but this meant I had to stop whenever a group of high schoolers ambled by. Of course, stopping a bike is also something you can forget. As I pumped the brakes and lurched to a halt, I smiled broadly at passing teenagers to show them everything was okay. Sometimes, I laughed softly to let them in on the joke.

I didn’t realize how utterly creepy I was until a lone girl passed, listening to her I-Pod. “Ha ha!” I blurted out, trying to prove my sanity as I leered from under my crooked helmet. I don’t think the pterodactyl stickers helped my situation.
My bike’s been locked to the bike rack ever since my afternoon of terrorizing Elmhurst. I hurry past when I walk to classes, trying to escape the guilt that accompanies my neglect. It’s akin to buying a puppy and tying it up in the backyard as soon as you get home. Bikes are meant to be ridden, but I am not meant to ride bikes.

If you hear the lonely crank and squeak of gears late at night, it’s probably just my bicycle begging for attention. I’ll hurriedly lace up my sneakers, head out into the night, and go on a nice, long walk to escape the reminders of my failure. I hope I don’t run into that I-Pod girl again.