I never learned to ride a bike because I was afraid I’d get pregnant. Don’t worry, my mom isn’t an exhibitionist who forced me to ride some beastly dildo-bike creation to elementary school; she just had a unique way of dealing with that awkward sex talk usually accomplished with lots of metaphors and educational books. Pregnancy, she told me after my cousin provided me with a few surprisingly detailed drawings of the deed, happened because a woman sat on the same place a man has just sat. She assured me pregnancy was most commonly contracted on the toilet, where your skin was directly exposed to the virus (a handy explanation for bathroom segregation), but I was still terrified. Nowhere was safe. The chairs in my second grade classroom, benches at lunch and seats on the bus were all breeding grounds for the preggo bacteria that might crawl into my secret place when I least expected it.
Bike riding was a no-no, naturally. That pointy seat definitely didn’t look sanitary, and why take chances? This pleased my mom, since she’d happily have raised me in a giant polyethylene bubble if possible. She told me it was okay not to ride a bike, and instead enrolled me in less dangerous activities like Tae Kwon Do and fencing.
Once I learned how people really get knocked up, I tried to ride a bike junior year of high school. That time, my teacher was my boyfriend at the time who, in retrospect, kind of reminds me of one of Zeus’ bastard children – convinced of their own superiority, overly entitled and really hot. I was in the throws of that charming stage of awkwardness and insecurity induced by misguided lust, and was really nervous. He kept barking orders, calling me “baby,” and hurling insults with “It’s just a joke” disclaimers. I’ve never been able to have someone dictate be like that. I always wear the pants – even if they’re not padded biker pants – and this situation was highly uncool.
You’re probably wondering, ‘What kind of person doesn’t know how to ride a bike by the time they’re 20 years old?’ One of those headgear-wearing, 4.0, socks-and-sandals swagger, WOW-addicted jokers, right? As much as I’d really like to experience advanced orthodontia like that, I’m pretty much a yawn on the personality front. Riding a bike isn’t like swimming – I’m not afraid I’ll suddenly have to pedal my way to safety, so why learn? Just like porn stars are endearing in a dumb, slutty way, I was endearing in a pathetic, helpless way.
At least that was how my “instructor,” as he requested to be called, explained it to me, in between floating around in grey skinny jeans and rambling uncontrollably about the babes he could have hooked up with Friday night if only the party hadn’t been busted by the po’. Of all of his ramblings I’ve endured over the past year, this one was by the far the most informative. The lesson started by him gliding around the graduate student housing parking lot with the swagger of a yoga instructor, or possibly one of the pseudo-straight Dancing with the Stars contestants, ridin’ dirty with no hands, one hand and questionable motives.
“I’ve prepared a monologue,” he said. “Biking is just like walking, except it’s much faster. It doesn’t just get you from point A to point B, it allows you to interact with and experience the world in the complete spectrum of interactive possibility.”
And he thought it was okay to blaze without me before this? No wonder he was late. He put me through several “balance exercises,” which basically entailed standing like a flamingo while he tried to push me over and giggled.
The day was perfect for conquering a bike. It was sunny, and I had shamelessly skipped my sisterly philanthropy and slept until noon. On my way to the lot, I saw a group of three pink-and-lacy girls on bikes being herded around by a Mr. Mom with an infant carrier strapped to his chest. They looked so damn fly and I just wanted to be them.
After 30 minutes of falling over, leaping off of the bike and screaming I was no closer to riding. To cool my heels after the fiery break-up number seven of the week, I retreated into his house for an ice pop, resolving only to ride things that gave me a different kind of joy. Sweet satisfaction.
This time, I was ready. After a long explanation of sitting and pedaling technique, I climbed on the glittery purple thing, since apparently my friend’s bike had been stolen the night before from his garage. I went a few feet and then sagged to the side and stepped onto the ground to avoid falling on my ass in front of some Kellogg hottie/prospective sugar daddy (what, you’ve never thought of that?). The second time, I circled the parking lot with ease. Lame. It became clear that you never forget how to ride a bike because it’s really, really easy. You don’t forget how to crap or brush your teeth, do you? It’s a really meaningless saying.
“This would have been so much more fun in you were completely unathletic and unable to balance,” he said, trying to be smug despite obvious disappointment. “Uh, ETA is 10 minutes. Lame,” he said, snapping unattractive pictures of me squinting into the sun and ironically, wearing the shirt from the sorority event I was blowing off.
There’s no way I’m getting 800 words out of this, I replied. Thank sweet Jesus for weird parents and adjectives.
