Skinned

(This was originally written 7/24/08, on my super-secret blog. I have a point; bear with me)




I have a skinned knee. It feels strange and mildly inappropriate, like wearing a Hannah Montana t-shirt to a bar. I am thoroughly ensconced in adulthood. Skinned knees are the purview of tomboys and soccer teams. They're a badge of pre-pubescence.

And yet, there it is: pink, scabby, and still tender on my left knee. How did I get it? I fell off a bike. Yet another throwback to what should have been a childhood rite of passage. Except I never passed.

My first bike was a red Schwinn. It came from a yard sale. I don't think it's because we were poor. Just that we were thrifty. Why spend scads of money on a first bike for a child? She'll just outgrow it. Better to start her off on something disposable. Besides, my father's bike came from a yard sale too. I was maybe six or seven? I track the time by whether or not she shows up in the memories; she does, so I know it was younger than eight.

The bike had training wheels, which were pretty much my saving grace. Training wheels made it all better. These were the days before helmet laws, and nobody worried about kids cracking their skulls open because it happened all the time -- like when I was rollerskating in my Batman rollerskates (plastic, adjustable, blue) on the curb -- and they were just fine. Did I mention that was an adult supervised activity? So really, a little tumble off a bike is no big deal.

I didn't fare so well when the training wheels came off. It was harder. Still, I endured. I remember one neighborhood bike ride, where a tussle with a curb left the front wheel flat. Then a later trip down the big hill by my house, with a car hot on my heels, freaked me out enough to stop riding. After that, there was nobody to ride with.

It was never a big deal. My friends weren't really the bike-riding type, or maybe they were just kind enough to schedule those outings with their other friends. I was given another bike a few years later -- another yard sale purchase -- but I judged the brakes faulty and refused to use it. I would get around on two legs, not two wheels, thank you very much.

In college, I decided that I would start again. I asked for a bike for Christmas, and got one. I picked it out myself, from Wal-Mart. Moving up in the world! At least it was new, if not actual quality. I tried a few times over break to ride it, with middling results. It didn't exactly sink in. I summoned the bike to my apartment in Queens, where I quickly realized that a 5th floor walk-up was hardly conducive to regular bike rides. So it sat in my kitchen, taking up space (though serving as a handy towel rack) until I dismantled it and stored it in the space behind my fridge.

After that, it was schlepped to the Bronx, where it did see occasional use, the 5-year-old confidently assuring me that he'd teach me to ride it (he himself was in the heady training wheel days of "I can do anything!"). Then up to Rockland County, where it was stored in the attic, then back down to Manhattan, where it sat, again, untouched in my living room, like New Wave scultpure. Finally I gave it to my landlord's wife. "Are you sure you don't want me to pay you for it?" she asked, shocked at this seemingly generous act. "No," I replied. "Please just get it out of my living room."

But I want to be the kind of person who rides a bike. I want to dash across nature trails and amble around sleepy beach towns. I want to save money on gas, and gain extra fitness points. I want this image of myself as a bike rider to come true. So I learn. I wobble and weave, scraping knees and bruising ankles, pausing occasionally to exchange sobs for air (so overwhelmed by the frustration that comes from not being good at something).

I try hard. So hard that I finished drenched in sweat, coated in grime and blood. So hard that my wrists quiver from the exertion of holding on for dear life. When I finish, I want to do nothing else but puke from heat exhaustion. But I manage it. For several staccato moments -- growing to longer and longer expanses by the end of the morning -- I ride. The wind feels good on my face and the air smells sweet.