IWantToRideMyBicycle

When I think of city biking, I picture Meg Ryan in City of Angels. She has cute curls popping out of her helmet, thick wool socks folded around her ankles (as we all did in the ‘90s), old sneakers, and the skillful zoom between cars.

I want to be her just then, in that opening chapter of the movie. I love the clinking of the old gears and her confident lean into the ram-style handlebars. Unfortunately, I’ve always been afraid of those bikes—leaning so far forward and balancing on such skinny tires.

So I finally retired the image in my head and let me remain as myself instead of a Meg Ryan imposter (which is probably for the best [SPOILER ALERT], considering she dies in a bicycle accident at the end of the film).

I’ve had one excuse after another, and I finally said “Enough!” and decided to go for it, starting with yesterday. I got my bike out of the garage for the first time since we moved to Lower Queen Anne.

My whole life feels like a big ol’ equation lately.

The last Tuesday of every month, my church body holds a prayer gathering downtown. This starts at 6:30. If I leave work at 4:30, I can catch the 4:42 bus to downtown. If traffic isn’t bad, I can be downtown by 5:20 and quite possibly home by 5:40.

I can then walk Pickle, feed Pickle, change my clothes, toss Bible and raincoat in shoulder bag, and hit the road.

The first ride went well. A lot of uphill, but that’s just Seattle. I have to say, I felt pretty slick carrying my helmet around once I got there. (This was after spending 75 cents failing to put air in my tires because I forgot you had to squeeze the machine lever to make the air actually go out, so don’t worry, I know I’m not actually slick by any means.)

Then there was tonight. I stopped at Target on my way home from work and got lights for the front and back of my bike, since that was one of my many excuses for not riding—all of our after-work activities end near dark.

Still a little sore from yesterday’s first run, I tackled the small slopes, promising myself that I could do it and surely didn’t need to walk my bike. So that’s what I did. I pushed through, and the best reward of riding uphill is the downward slant that follows, the gaining speed, the full force of air in my lungs.

I rode with my new lights flashing in the dusk. I did my best to stay in the bike lane (which is sometimes misleading), and I made it home safely through the park, following the bike path that I’ve longed to take.

Now my palms are sore from the handles, and my arms and legs are sore from the ride (since when did biking require so much arm strength?), and I am happy as a clam because I feel like I belong here: in the city, on my bike. And I got home to my Pickle faster than the bus. And I got exercise, finally.

Maybe someday I’ll rock the ram-handlebars and skinny tires (I dream of it, but still need to overcome the fear), but for now, I’m rollin’ with my name-tag “license plate” and rainbow tire lights because, hey, it’s fun.

Reasons I have not ridden my bike:

• RAIN
• Tires need air
• Seat adjuster is broken
• No lights
• Lived on top of Queen Anne hill
• Nervous about taking bike on bus if need-be
• Don't know how to use bike lanes
• So many hills!
• My bike is pink
• I'm a total amateur in a city of bikexperts

Adventures in Photos and Phoetry & too much alliteration

I.

It only makes sense that it would rain the whole way back to Seattle.

The whole weekend was beautiful. Warm sun, enough to shade my shoulders pink, reflected cartoon-vibrant color all over.

II.

Of course, it didn’t start that way. It started with a canopy of mist, with fog hanging between the trees like the morning’s ghost as Pickle and me drove through central Oregon around 6am.

III.

And we were on the road.

Open.

Nearly empty.

Ours.

South.

Landscaped whirred, a mile a minute.

We faced the wind.

IV.

For fifteen hours, we drove and drove to match the sun, watching it like a rainbow, arced above our heads.

But the closest we saw, were spurts of leftover color in the sky.

V.

Road-trippin’

the way it should be

Hour after hour

asleep

at the wheel

Taking a new route,

my navigator

failed

VI.

But we made it.

Two sisters

swam in a river

in Saturday’s sun

and the beginning

of summer’s warm

rock beds and air

dry curls.

And meeting

for the first time

VII.

Tent-sleeping

is always warm

when you have a scarf

named Pickle,

but waking up,

choking

under her weight

is almost worth the cold.

VIII.

Home isn’t so far

when every turn

could be East

or West

at the same time.

It is Appalachia

only taller.

IX.

Are we there yet?

She’s a stud.

X.

And just like that,

we’re back to the streets,

the city

sidewalks

sprinkled

with evening rain.

fallen

Rollerblading is definitely not like riding a bike. You know, the whole once-you-know-how-you-always-know-how theory.

My first thoughts when I put them on (I at least remembered how to buckle the straps) were of the new, black rollerblades I had as a kid. We had a lot of hand-me-downs (which I LOVE, always will), but every once in a while, we got something really big that was new. Like my first new bike, as in, I was the first person to ride it, that I got for Christmas in high school. Anyways, those shiny rollerblades were one of those kinds of things (unlike the painted white rollerskates from one of our cousins; I never understood how to balance on skates).

I remembered how I was so proud to take them to the rink on Friday nights, and I was careful not to get them too scratched up when I practiced on the road at home or sometimes just on the cement in the basement.

And back to reality, which isn’t like any of those memories, save that I am proud of my current rollerblades, not because they are new and shiny (they certainly aren’t either), but because I got them for $5 at a flea market in Grass Valley.

I sat down on a small line of brick near the ramp to the park. Upon standing, I suddenly realized that the sidewalk still had some decline before going up the ramp. Limbs stiff, I stood straight up as I rolled forward, picking up momentum until I hit the grate with a clunk. It was a shaky stop, but I managed not to fall.

I continued up the ramp. Then, of course, what goes up must come down. I eyed the decline with determination. I knew I wouldn’t be able to just go. (I didn’t know how to stop!) I had the brilliant plan to hold the railing and slowly coast down. The farther I went, the farther my feet got ahead of the rest of me.  I decided to let go for a second to catch up, but that was the worst idea. As I grabbed the railing again, my upper half slowed back down while my feet kept going full-speed. Fall #1.

I romped over the grass to get to the sidewalk (the rest of the way down didn’t have a railing). Once there, golden, so I thought. I wobbled each step, arms flailing like I was drowning in midair. Tenth Avenue North was blasting in my ears as the swift wind from the Sound brisked me along. Lift Us Up to Fall.

As I rolled along, tripping and stumbling, I realized how true those words were. I wanted to do it all on my own. I wanted to be a master rollerblader on try one. Just like I want to do everything on my own; I want to be good at everything all by myself. It just doesn’t work that way.

I’m slowly learning a need for a savior, why God alone is not whole without two other pieces. And I’m learning that that need is because no matter how many times the wind gives me the momentum to continue, I will stumble and fall. 

church: a tradition

The people I knew growing up believed in god because they just did – he just was. He was Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Praise him all creatures here below, heavenly hosts, the works. We said the Lord’s Prayer every week, sometimes even the Apostles’ Creed. The focus was god. When we prayed, we prayed to god. The trinity, particularly Jesus was peripheral. Jesus seemed to be just another apostle instead of the Christ.

But there was compassion and truth and a sense of belonging because everything was so rooted in the tradition of “thisiswhatchurchislike” that how was I to know any different?

As much as I claim to dislike that church, it still has a hold on me. The people who sat in the pews each week (and in the same seats) were genuine and old-fashioned in that they clasped their hands, bowed their heads, and went home and made dinner after the service. I remember sitting on the left side of the sanctuary, four rows from the back.

The wooden pews had a long stretch of mustard yellow cushion along the seat, and the ends were the best because they had the attendance booklet. More doodle paper in addition to the never-used offering envelopes and prayer sheets in the pockets of the pew ahead.

I used to stare at the stained glass windows and trace the frame patterns with my eyes. I would think about the colors and the texture. I did the same with the Christmas tree that stood up front, letting my eyes swirl along the unexplained trinity symbols and counting the marbles of lights. During Silent Night each Christmas Eve, I stood in the dark and stared only at my candle, the wax dripping down the sides, sometimes slipping through the paper try cracks and sticking to my fingers in a pinch of heat.

Sometimes I looked at the banners. The crown of thorns, the wine glass, the broken bread. The Good Shepherd and one sheep. The colored themes for different times of year: whites and purples.

I remember the warmth of summer, and the breeze coming up through the open doors behind the pulpit. I remember walking down to be acolyte, my favorite task. I loved the balance of holding the flame just right. I loved putting out the wick at the end of the brass rod. But my favorite was tipping the little bell over the flames, extinguishing them for the week and then, quickly, going back up the aisle to take off the heavy robe and go home for lunch.

It never took long. We’d hardly have our skirts and tights off before Katlin and I would be fighting.

“What did you just learn in church? Didn’t they just talk about love?” Mom said the same thing every time we fought, even if the sermon was about Cain and Abel. “Don’t you learn anything from church?”

Sure, sure. We learned the histories of the Bible. Creation, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Sarah, Isaac, Moses and the Israelites, Noah and the ark, the Covenant, the Commandments. By the time we made it through those, it was time for the holidays. We did the usual Christmas story and Easter, and by the time it was all over, it was time to start at Creation again. I don’t remember learning much about the New Testament, certainly not ever Revelation, but maybe some Matthew. Psalms. Lots of Psalms. Lots of read and response in droning tones like chanting monks.  

I am thankful to have that back-knowledge. I really am. It has helped me a lot in preparing for the New Testament. Preparing for and recognizing a need for Jesus. But at the same time, I didn’t learn until last year that micro-evolution and the Old Earth theories are widely accepted by the Church as a whole.

The discipline of getting up and going to church was more important than I realized. Now, I find myself needing to go. I love my church and my church family so much that it is an absolute joy to go, even when I do not feel sure in my faith. This Sunday, I will be out-of-town, and I feel like I am going to be missing out on that community of worshipping and praying and learning together.

Tonight at membership class, I felt for a moment like I was back at Poke Run. Everyone was seated quietly. The lesson was more read than taught or enthusiastically spoken. The calm took me back to the pews and the candles. Only instead of grape juice, we have Starbucks, and instead of stained glass, we have skyscrapers, and instead of focusing on rules and history, we focus on Jesus and redemption and life.

We talked about mission, about the calling to share the gospel to others. Well, I am no where near ready for that, and like all other things regarding Christianity, it scares me. I am afraid of all of it. But this in particular frightens me because evangelism has always been such a loaded word, and I’ve always just wanted to say, “Let others believe what they want to believe. Why should I push my viewpoint on them?” But I am starting to learn that it is not about forcing others into the same religion but rather loving others into the same community.

And now it seems just a little more clearer that maybe that was what the church I grew up in was trying to do after all. We were a sort of family, and I was a prodigal daughter.