I grew up on gravel and next to farm fields. I quit trying to learn to bike after my third tire had to be replaced due to the amount of nails and glass that cluttered the roads.
I had several friends attempt to teach me how to ride a bike throughout college. Each attempt at an explanation or tips ended with the exclaimed “It’s like…well, riding a bike—how do you not know?!” Others were too scared to teach me in the city in case I ruined their equipment. That was understandable, considering how poor of a learner I seemed to be.
I finally grasped a rudimentary knowledge of how to ride a bike a year before this Fellowship from someone that is too patient for her own good.
Then, I moved to India and found my only transportation was a hand-me-down bike. Rusted frame and cracked tires, the balance felt scary. Yet, I had to get to work, and walking 45 minutes a day through the city was not going to be viable during monsoon season.
Almost two months later.
My hands begin to sweat and I can feel every piece of rock under me. As the honk comes, I speed up, racing over cobblestone and gliding past the pedestrian. My shoulders begin to relax as I take my spot in the stream of vehicles. My place on the road is constantly flowing, ebbing and waving in velocity with the traffic and speed bumps.
My demeanor is harsh, forceful, because hesitation is not friendly on the road. I swerve around the potholes, following the path of several motorcyclists. We group together to force our own crosswalk out of necessity to travel across the busy traffic.
Back again on cobblestone, taking the back road. Past the goats that lay beneath the tree in the middle of the road. One is standing on a motorbike. Their eyes perk at my singing as I past by. I don’t bother to take pictures anymore.
Nod at the same cow with painted horns and swerve left as the calf walks down the middle of the street.
The shopkeeper on the right waves to an oncoming friend and the construction to the left is still only half way done. The woman nods at me as she filters out sand; we’ve had this routine for almost a month.
I remerge onto the hurried and crowded traffic, turn left—coconut stand. Turn left again, past the rickshaw drivers outside the hospital drinking chai. Right—Right—“Good Morning Ma’am” from the same delivery driver. I still never see what he is carrying each day.
Right—Through the gate. Here.
And out of necessity and experience, we can still find a new, and once unimaginable, piece of ourselves.
