Riding a Bike and Learning How to be Afraid

Things I Used To Do Again

My memories are vivid. Like a deep violet red. The color of my first pair of glasses. The frames were heavy and chunky. I was so excited to pick them up after two long weeks of waiting after the exam. It was raining that morning and I was late for kindergarten because the optometrist’s office didn’t open until after school started. I walked into the classroom with a new boldness. Everything was clear and in focus. And no one else had glasses that color.

I didn’t know I needed glasses until about a month before when I rode my little pink and gray banana seat bike into a utility pole. I wasn’t hurt, but the collision left me shaken. The pole was completely outside of my vision until I was laying on the ground, my bike next to me, looking up at it. Some lessons are painful. And important. I had no idea all the things I was missing until I got those glasses. 

That experience didn’t stop me from riding my bike, in fact, it pushed me to ride more and take daring risks. In third grade, I attempted to jump garbage cans on my bike. Not only did I break my bike, I also broke my wrist and got a hole in my chin that needed several stitches. In fourth grade, after watching a movie about stunt bike riders, I tried a few tricks of my own. Let’s just say that I was unsuccessful at popping wheelies and standing on my seat while the bike was in motion.

I haven’t ridden a bike in many years. When I was making my Becoming List, riding a bike was near the top. It’s taken a while to get to it. I told myself I would know when it was time.

Last weekend was long. And frightening. The shooting at the presidential campaign rally in Pennsylvania, while not a complete surprise, was extremely shocking to watch. The never ending reporting and constant breaking news was overload to an already overloaded nervous system. The barrage of social media commentary and onslaught of opinions and theories were suffocating. When I couldn’t shut my brain off, I decided to put my legs to work. Thankfully, just like a kayak, you can rent a bike on Belle Isle by the hour.

Of course, I picked one of the hottest and most humid nights of the summer to ride a bike again.

As soon as I sat down on the soft black leather seat and began pedaling, everything shifted. I was breathing again. It’s true that once you learn to ride a bike, you never forget. I intentionally pedaled slow. Wanting to savor every inch of the ride. Aware of my surroundings and also connecting to them. I walk a lot, but biking uses different muscles and requires another perspective. You have to balance where you’re headed with what is in front of you.

I’m fearful of what’s in front of us and where we are headed. The world—The United States—is a frightening place. The climate of the earth and global politics is heating to incredibly dangerous levels. Our phones give us heat and air quality advisories and every day is an advisory of how troubled creation really is.

Fear is not a sin or a sign of weakness or lack of faith. Fear can be a measuring tool. A gage. A thermostat. It’s a reaction. Inviting us to respond.

During exceptionally fearful times, very well-meaning people told me do not be afraid. Christianity likes to share these words, too. Especially during Advent, a season of waiting and preparing for Christmas. Featuring weekly scripture readings that include stories of angels appearing to common folks in conflicted and confusing situations, with a message of have no fear.

Two years ago, just before Christmas, I sat in a crowded Emergency Room with my mother on a frigid Friday night. There weren’t enough beds or cubicles. She was hooked up to monitors and machines laying on a gurney in a hallway. I sat in a folding chair next to her. Watching her heart rhythms fluctuate to dangerously high and low levels. Listening to the alarms alerting us to danger. Moving out of the way when doctors rushed to her side. Aware that she was not the only person gravely ill and waiting to be admitted to a room or for test results to come back. I was very afraid. So were countless people around me.

What I longed for was not someone saying do not fear. But someone to come and sit with me while I was afraid. To listen. Be present. Be kind. Bring me a cup of coffee or a sandwich. Read me a poem. Let me cry without telling me to stop. Tell me what was actually going on. Why was her heartbeat so erratic and irregular? Was the pain in mine a sign that I was breaking? I was afraid of what cancer was doing to my mother’s body. I was afraid for her. I was afraid of what watching her suffer was doing to me.

And I’m afraid of what’s happening in our world. And I’m afraid of who we are becoming. How do we learn to be afraid? To not become numb by fear? Or callous? Or indifferent? Or apathetic? Or so anxious that we can’t pedal? Or solely focused on our own survival? Or unconcerned about the pain of our neighbors or strangers? Or silent about what we love and what matters most? Or surrender our values for the sake of (perceived) safety? Or morph into what we detest in others?

As creation falls deeper into chaos and violence, I’m more convinced that telling people not to fear and chastising them for being afraid is a most unhelpful practice. Instead, what if we make space for the question, how do we learn to be afraid without being overcome by fear? 

What do we need, individually and collectively, to hold us together? To hold humanity? To hold hope and resistance? To keep our balance and vision as we ride streets lined with utility poles and other dangers waiting to knock us down? To discover what’s missing? To realize what’s all along been there?

Riding a bike where I normally walk, I saw new things in a familiar setting. Different flowers. Brighter colors. Taller trees. Greener leaves. Animals. Even a beaver, which ecologists say is a sign that an environmental habitat is being restored. 

I saw a person sitting on a recently installed bench. Their face was fuzzy and it was clear that we were both listening to the sound of birds overhead, trying to locate them in the branches. There was peace in knowing I wasn’t alone in my searching. I was a little nervous about looking up and not falling off the bike. I was learning how to be afraid and not overcome by the fear. 

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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Next Tuesday, July 23rd will mark 3 months since the publishing of Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together, our first collection of poetry. We are so grateful for everyone who has purchased a copy and to those who have left a review. Click here to order and leave a review if you haven’t already. Your reviews are incredibly important for new authors.

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