The old adage says: “It’s like riding a bike.” The implication is that once you’ve learned to do something, it’s unlikely you will forget how to do it. Some might call this an example of muscle-memory. Others relate the behavior to “practice makes perfect.”
I disagree. Given sufficient time, it’s very possible to fall off a bike while attempting to ride it. I discovered this truth several times over the last decade. I have no desire to try it again.
There was a time when I really enjoyed riding a bike. I rode a lot when I was young. It began, as I’ve written elsewhere in these reflections, when I rode a bike to Washington Junior High School, which was much harder to do going up in the morning than coasting back down in the afternoon. This means of travel continued during my brief life in the country, when I peddled from my grandmother’s farm to Mineral Ridge High School. Without a family car, bike-riding was also the only means of locomotion between my house and Niles McKinley high school. The journey took longer during the snow months of winter and the rain of early spring. It was more pleasant to bum a ride from either George Davies or Paul Collins, friends who drove jalopies, which moved faster and were more weather-comfortable than any standard bicycle.
Many college kids seemed to own bicycles, but this was not true for Kent State, a commuter college. Students had cars for daily travel from Cleveland, Akron and Youngstown, or from the many small towns surrounding them. Students living on campus or in the city of Kent, itself, were content to walk, not only to their classes, but to all the other events they attended. Some may have had bicycles, but I fail to remember them. This was not the case for either Cornell, as a graduate student, or Dartmouth or Oregon State where I held postdoctoral appointments. When it did not snow in Hanover, or rain in Corvallis, I was able to peddle a vehicle that had three gears, having given up the balloon-tired machine of my youth. Both the Connecticut and the Willamette valleys had flat terrains. Cars were needed only for trips into New England’s rolling hills and Oregon’s pine-covered mountains – or for in-town shopping to purchase items that would not fit into the basket attached to a bike’s handlebars.
When we moved to Bethesda and Rockville Maryland, my bike went into storage. At least I think that is the case. However, I do have memories, which may be false ones, of riding a bike through Rock Creek Park and around Georgetown and the Mall. This phantom recollection is also true for Houston, Texas.
I have distinct memories of riding past new homes in Ponderosa Forest and Cypress Creek, suburbs where we lived. When we moved to Cypress, I seem to see myself covering the winding roads of Longwood and, after hours, the golf paths of the local country club, whose rules forbid such action. Nevertheless, I was not beyond trespassing after sunset, when the golf-carts had been parked for the night.
Those were the days when my body was still capable of muscle memory and balancing was not a significant problem. In fact, I continued to feel comfortable making my journeys without a helmet or other protective gear.
During my annual retreats to Grand Coteau, Louisiana, I used loaner-bikes maintained by the Jesuit House where I stayed. The vehicles were old, but I could usually find one with tires that would maintain an acceptable pressure for several hours after I had pumped more air into them. The handlebar basket was large enough to carry a bible, a notebook for journaling, and a small blanket for sitting on during my reflections.
The paved and unpaved roads around the grounds and throughout the village were peaceful and conducive for meditation while in transit to sites where I might stop to contemplate God and His surrounding nature. The sun’s warmth, the slight breeze from my movement, and the patterns of shade and sunlight resulting from the old pecan and live oak trees along the roads, gave a special wonder to my excursions. When needed, it was easy enough to walk a bike across the fields to get to the open-walled summer house above the banks which once enclosed the Mississippi River. As a result of such interludes, I have associated bike-riding with peace and a quiet time for personal reflections.
Then came retirement. I gave up my bike which I rode around Cypress and turned to walking the grounds at Eagle’s Trace. This may be the time when I forgot how to ride a bike. I made this discovery on several vacation trips to Europe, where the majority of its residents travel everywhere on two-wheeled vehicles, either Vespas or bicycles. I never tried the motorized two-wheeler, but hotels usually made the self-propelled ones available for hourly rentals to residents. I could not resist, especially when spending a few days in small towns in Italy. The only problem was that European bikes have only handbrakes. You could not stop by merely pressing backwards on the pedals.
I learned the hard way. With adroit steering I did manage to avoid hitting pedestrians strolling the town’s plazas. Upon attempting to stop, I fell over only a few times before learning how to use the brakes mounted on the handlebars. It was easier when visiting quiet cemeteries found in each town. Then I could aim toward the side of the path and slow down enough so I could use my feet to catch the bike before I fell off.
Although riding a bike may be a lifelong ability, stopping one is not.