Asking me why I
ride is akin to asking me why I breathe. I ride to live.
As I prepare to embark on this adventure, I reflect that I haven't always been
the most fearless or adventurous person. I was always a bit slower than the
pack growing up. It took me longer than 'average' kids to stop wetting the bed,
to learn to read, write, and even to learn to ride a bike.
When I was young, my father often took my older sister and I to Cenntennial
Park in Sydney to ride bikes, mine with training wheels. Round and round we
would go, pedalling to our heart's' content. But after one of these sessions,
when I was about seven years old, when we got back to the car, my father went
to the boot and took out my sister's old bike. "Why is that here?" I
asked. "Because you're going to ride it," he said. I proceeded to
tell him I wasn't ready, just as I had on all the other days he had asked
before. He urged me to give it a try, saying we wouldn't leave until I at least
gave it a go.
I nervously approached the old bike, which had no training wheels. I placed one
leg over it and walked myself and the bike slowly over to the track. My dad
stood behind me eager to give me a big push. Dad pushed and I immediately fell,
scraping my knees, not even having moved more than 30cm. I was ready to call it
a day. 'There, I tried,' I thought to myself. My father picked me and the bike
up. "Here we go again," he said. This time I made it about 1m before
falling. This happened about six more times and by this stage my knees were
oozing gooey blood. So with blood dripping down my knees and tears streaming
down my face my dad and I kept on going. With each push I wobbled and whinged.
"I can't do it," I would say. "You can," he repeated. The
11th time he pushed me, I didn't fall. I kept moving forwards one pedal stroke
at a time. This was the day I learnt I could. That I could do things I had once
thought I could not.
As a kid I used
my bike primarily as a mode of transport; riding to school, hooning around on
weekends and having adventures with other neighbourhood kids. I fondly remember
the sense of freedom riding my bike gave me growing up. My feet pushing down on
the pedals, wind whizzing past my ears and sweat dripping from my brow. I got
the impression that I was able to take myself anywhere I wanted to go under my
own steam, and I liked that.
Throughout
adolescence I came to see riding my bike as an adventure in itself. It became
my way of escape. I was able to take myself away at speed for a change of
scenery whenever I pleased. I enjoyed the steep climbs, speedy descents and the
experience of the the outdoors that pedal power allowed me.
In 2009 I cycled
through the Finnish archipelago with a couple of friends, which was my
introduction to bicycle touring. In 2013 a good friend and I rode from the Gulf
of Mexico to Canada, covering +4000 km. I have since spent some time off the
bike, though I always seem to find my way back on to the saddle. And when
I do, those same feelings of freedom and adventure come rushing back in an
instant.
There have been
times in my life that I have lost touch with those feelings. When I have
forgotten. Having suffered from anxiety and depression most of my life, I have
struggled with panic attacks, blurred vision and severe lethargy to the point
where I was barely able to get out of bed, let alone ride a bicycle across a
country.
My bicycle
adventures have taught me a lot. They have revealed to me my weaknesses, but
more importantly, they have shown me my strengths. I couldn't hide from the
elements when on a bike. I was exposed. I was vulnerable. At the same time, I
became stronger with every pedal stroke and more fearless from every challenge
I face along the road.
So in answer to
the question why I ride, I ride to remember. To remember that little girl at
Centennial Park who realised she was capable of so much more than she ever
imagined.
The above is a
excerpt from an article I wrote for the She Went Wild blog. If you would like to
check out the full article head to She
Went Wild. Images by Marnie Vaughn.
