They Told Me There’d Be Days—Weeks—Like This

 When you’re young, people in midlife tell you about things you dismiss as “old people stuff.” They include what most grown-ups do: work mundane jobs, pay bills and navigate adult relationships, including those with the family you’re born into or create.  

Then there are the changes in your body.  Dieting and exercising but still gaining weight? Hair growing in places you didn’t know it could—or falling off the places you want to keep it? And discovering you need glasses to read books and menus?

Then there are those “mysterious aches and pains.” You know, when a limb, joint or some other part of your body hurts for no apparent reason. Did I land too hard when I stepped off a curb? Reach for something without using a step-stool or ladder? Put too much weight on one side when I got out of bed? Bump into something a little harder than I thought I did? Or is some injury I brushed off decades ago coming back to nag  me?

Of course, my cycling always gets the benefit of the doubt. I never want to blame it for any of my aches and pains, especially since it’s accounted for most of my physical conditioning and, along with my cats, nearly all of my mental health.

So what, exactly, caused that ache in and around my left ankle:  the one that’s kept me off my bike for most of this week?

I can live with mysteries about the big questions:  you know, the meaning of life, whether there’s anything after this one and why JFK, RFK, Martin, Malcolm and John were murdered. (Actually, I know who…wait, is that a sniper on the roof?!) But, dammit, I want to know why my body develops more glitches than my workplace IT system or breaks down like a Yugo when I think I’m doing everything right.

They warned me there’d be days—weeks—like this. But they never told me why, except that it’s part of “getting older.”  But as a wise old philosopher said, “I ain’t dead yet”: I am in midlife.  And I want to keep on cycling.

Why Won’t I Go There?

I have cycled to and through places that stirred up seemingly-conflicting emotions in me. For instance, during my recent trip to Japan, I pedaled to temples, shrines, gardens and other places with great beauty and terrifying histories. The Nijo Castle in Kyoto was one such spot: It is wonderful to behold and can teach so much about Japanese culture and history, including the fierce battles and brutal ways in which rival families and groups vied for, and held, power.  I also felt awe and terror all over Osaka, which the Allies bombed heavily during World War II. (Kyoto, in contrast, wasn’t as much of a target because it didn’t have the military-related industries found in other Japanese cities.)

I similarly felt awed by the beauty and devastation of Cambodia and Laos where, as a legacy of the Vietnam War, there is said to be more unexploded ordnance per square mile, kilometer or whatever unit of measurement you choose, than anywhere else on Earth.

And I could write more posts, possibly even a book, about former battlefields of France and other European countries I saw during my bike trips, not to mention the Place de la Concorde: Today it’s one of the most elegant public squares in the world, but contemporary accounts describe “rivers” of blood flowing from the guillotines stationed there during the Reign of Terror.

I got to thinking about that today. While not an official holiday, this date—“Pearl Harbor Day”—was, until fairly recently, marked by parades and other commemorations to the attack on the American naval base.

 While such memorials still take place, they aren’t as numerous or prominent as they were, say, in 1991 (the 50th anniversary) or even twenty years ago because there are so few survivors of the attack or World War II generally.

From what I have read, there is a very popular bike lane that passes the attack site and offers beautiful views of mountains, ocean and rain forest.  Were I to ride it, I probably would have a similar combination of thoughts and feelings to what I experienced in Japan, Southeast Asia, France, Belgium, Italy and even some sites (the World Trade Center, anyone?) in and around New York City, where I live.

But I probably won’t ride the Pearl Harbor bike lane because I have never had any desire to go to Hawai’i. Any time I’ve ever embarked upon a journey (Doesn’t that sound quaint?) to some faraway place, one of my friends insists that I should go to Aloha land. I can’t explain why I’ve not only never had any wish to step off a plane in Honolulu; I have actively resisted going there. Something about it just scares and repels me. ( It has nothing to do with Pearl Harbor.) I understand that Anthony Bourdain had a similar feeling about Switzerland, where he never set foot in spite of spending considerable time—and hosting episodes of his show—in the surrounding countries (France, Italy, Germany and Austria). Could I, one day, find that I’ve cycled all around the Pacific Rim while skipping Hawai’i?

Till Rides Do Us Apart—Or Not

 

Photo by Everton Vila

Yesterday, during my bike commute, I saw a man and woman—he, on a Canyon, she, on a Cannondale—pedaling down Creston Avenue, a narrow Bronx thoroughfare that parallels the Grand Concourse. They seemed about as equally matched in their pace and durability as their bikes: one didn’t seem to outpace the other.

Later, I got to thinking about how rare, at least ini my observation, such cycling couples are. When I have ridden with clubs, it seemed that cyclists’ spouses or partners rode with family or some other group that wasn’t connected to the club—or not all.  In fact, I can recall only three or four “marriages” (whether de jure or de facto) in which both members participated in the same rides and kept apace of each other. That I didn’t see same-sex couples may’ve been a consequence of the times and places in which I joined club rides.

I have never trekked, trained or raced with a boyfriend or other intimate male partner. But I have been accompanied by girlfriends and long-term partners. Only one—Tammy, my last romantic partner before I started my gender affirmation—did much cycling before we met. And I suspect she is the only one who continued after we broke up.

One long-ago paramour, Jeanne, gave her bike away after we split up.  I suspect she wanted to get rid of it because it brought us together in the first place: I fitted it to her when she bought it from Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery, where I worked.

 I wouldn’t be surprised if the other girls/women similarly parted with—or discarded or sold—bikes I gave them.  Upset as I may have been, I can understand why, apart from not wanting things that would remind them of me, they didn’t want to keep the Motobecanes, Miyatas and other machines I gifted them. Before meeting me, they did little or no riding once they got their driver’s licenses, and perhaps not much before then.

Did I pressure them into riding with me? I don’t like to think I did (of course not!) but it would be fair to say that at least one thought she should ride with me, even though she obviously wasn’t enjoying it. I’m not sure of whether she simply didn’t care for bike riding or she was frustrated because she couldn’t ride as long or fast as I did.

I have long enjoyed riding solo. But I couldn’t help but to wonder whether I will some day ride in a romantic liaison with someone-of whatever gender identity or expression—who is my equal, or even better.