My birthday coincides with the full-throttle heat of summer and, often, our yearly vacation to the beach. Two days before our trip, Zen and the kids surprise me with a “comfort bike” as an early birthday present. It’s made for people with shaky legs, poor balance, bad backs: the seat and pedals are extra wide and the bike, though light, is on a slightly larger frame to help keep the rider stable. I haven’t had a bike in three decades and have accustomed myself, for years, to walking alongside my kids as they bike in the park or down the road.
I snap on my new helmet and take a slow ride around the parking lot that surrounds our condo. Claire rides beside me, watching every turn of my wheel. Zen is beaming at us both from the doorway, hands in his jeans pockets, Christian grinning beside him. Claire and I go quite slow at first. “Are you okay?” she asks, ahead of me now, her hair whipping back and forth as she turns to confirm that I am still upright.
“Do you like it?” She is sporting her Christmas-morning face.
“I love it!” I say. And then I just . . . take off.
“Mom!” Claire calls out, laughing. “Mom, wait up!”
And we are whizzing down the sidewalk, the green, happy leaves of the trees tapping me on the shoulder as if to say go go go as I zoom past, my daughter in pursuit of me, laughing. I switch into a higher and then higher gear. We get to the next big cross street and I come to a stop. She stops abruptly behind me.
“This is a seven-speed?” I ask, as we slowly cross.
“Yup.”
“I need ten!” I say, as I peel off ahead of her, heading again toward the park near us, to a large paved path that meanders down a grassy hill through a stand of pines and oaks and ginkgos. “Seventh gear is too easy!” I call over my shoulder. “Slowpoke!”
I see the glee on her face. I cannot recall a time when Claire could look at me doing something remotely athletic or vigorous, without worrying over whether I’d get hurt.
Our bike ride has been on nearly flat surfaces so far. But as we hit a small incline my legs do their no-more-muscle-energy conk out, leaving me, momentarily, unable to turn the pedals at all. I stop. Claire flies past me.
“I’m just resting for a minute!” I call.
I need to pause but that doesn’t mean I’ve hit flu-dog-fatigue status. I haven’t. This is different. I’m exhilarated. My muscles are simply what they are. They need a little pause. Claire turns and rides around me in circles, waiting, smiling.
The reverberating eases. Thighs reengage. “Okay!” I say.
“Do this!” she calls out as she passes me. She throws her arms out to her sides, no hands. “Pedal one foot all the way down toward the ground and hold your legs really tight and still and you can keep your balance!” She has been thinking of this moment. Planning it. For some time.
I try it. I follow my daughter, spreading my arms wide, one pedal all the way down, legs locked, back straight. Whizzing past the pine trees and the green ginkgos and oaks. No hands! My hair is flying, I am flying, I am a bird, I am an airplane, I am five again, I am in love with this life.