bike riding

I've been in a moody rut since coming back from Vietnam, conceptual anchors loosening into the framework of physical disorientation. Things that normally ground me feel heavy. My knee throbbed after a run yesterday, climbs that used to come easily feel frustrating. Instead of being excited by the recent experiences that compel me to write, I'm paralyzed by the stack. I get even more easily upset than usual, wallowing in trivial petty things, and staying irrationally there. M tells me to give it time; I trust him and the sentiment, so I am letting things happen. This doesn't mean I overcome the moodiness, I let that happen too, but I trust that the stifling character will break, leaving a baseline moodiness which I can handle, and appreciate.

On Saturday, after a morning of moping in moodiness, we entered a a sunny crisp not-yet-spring day, and he said, let's get you on a bike for lesson #2. Lesson #1 entailed sitting on a bike for the first time and having him hold the bike and me up, running alongside as I got a feel for pedaling. It served several purposes. I learned that it's scary, and hard, to be on a bike for the first time. I fell, the scruff of my pants opening to scrape my skin; having been holding me, he fell too. We expected lesson #2 to proceed in similar increments of progress. I know he wanted me to move, to try something new, to make me feel better, and the thought was enough to slightly jar the heavy air fogging me. He said, even if you're just on it for five minutes, it'll make next time easier.

So we drove to get a bike pump, which didn't really work, but I got on the bike anyway. I pedaled in the parking lot of the mall, him again holding onto the handlebars and running alongside. The first thing he emphasized was to steer into my leans, because I'd lean to one side and would've fallen over and over if he hadn't been there to correct for me. It was too much for me to think about, to correct my leans and pedal at the same time (two things, too much). So because I couldn't, he steered for me as I pedaled. This let me focus on the motion of pedaling, and it also let me subconsciously absorb the hand motion of steering, to feel the handlebars under my fingers. Then he made me try to push off on my own, to start pedaling without him holding. I'd push off with my right foot, but wouldn't trust the bike enough to push hard enough to make it work. Each time I tried, I had to consciously breathe in and suck it up; sometimes the fake courage worked enough to push hard enough to bring the left pedal up quickly enough so that I would actually move forward. To our surprise, after some struggle with this, I could keep pedaling for a few seconds, before I leaned too much or pedaled too slow, and stopped myself.

We returned the faulty bike pump, drove to Wal-Mart to get another; he pumped the tires with success this time, and we started again in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. Realizing that I could continue after starting, he helped give me a push to start, and shouted to me from our starting point to keep going. Back and forth down the length of the parking lot, I stopped as I got scared or worried that this strange capacity to steer that I unconsciously acquired would slip. He made me keep going until I'd gone down the length of the lot, each way, without stopping, and I think we were both pretty surprised. I was surprised not just by the concrete happenings but by what it did for me.

The surprise, a childhood moment given to me as a near-27 year old, the dislodging of things in their proper place, facing loss of balance during a period of inward shakiness, the doing of something new--did me a whole lot of good. Being pushed to let go of ground, we find new holds, and that seems like good reason to keep traversing across moodiness.