A Bicycle Built For Whom?

I have been a physically active person for most of my life. Even when I had a car, I used to walk for the sheer pleasure of it. I loved hiking in the Kentucky hills, teaching my kids to play sports, going camping and fishing during the warm southern summers. So when my husband suggested that we "get me a bike", I wasn't worried about it.

Cars, and their upkeep, are expensive in Europe. You have to be making a pretty decent amount of money to own one. I won't even start discussing how difficult and expensive it is to get a driver's license in Sweden, but I will tell you that it takes a year of classes and can cost as much as a car.

But I was never as "into" driving as some people are. Here in Sweden, the usual mode of transportation is biking. People generally start riding a bicycle at an early age (my step son was two years old when he rode his first "two wheeler") and continue riding throughout their long, healthy lives. It is not unusual to see as many 60-year-olds as 16-year-olds pedalling around happily.

But then I realized that I hadn't been on a bicycle in more than 20 years.

I have to admit, I became scared that my body had "forgotten" how to ride. I had visions of falling; in front of crowds, in the middle of the street, you name it. Just the potential embarrassment of that alone made me hold out for a year. But when my six-year-old received a new bike on her birthday and I was the only one in my family who didn't have one, I gave in. Thus began "The Great Bike Adventure". (Didn't know Sweden was such an adventurous place, did you? Well, it is for someone like me!)

Part One of The Adventure was finding me a bike. Oh, there are lots of them here. But you see, bikes just don't "fit" me. I'm only 4'10" (that's 147cm for my metric system friends) and if the bike is low enough for my feet to touch the ground, it's too short in the body. When I try to turn somewhere, the wheel always hits my foot. And if a bike is long enough in the frame, it is so high I need a step stool to get on. So, we compromised. I bought the bike my stepdaughter outgrew-- when she was 10 years old. I knew that I wouldn't be doing any "figure eights" anyway and if I slowed down before I turned a corner, I should be just fine.

Part Two of The Adventure was getting rid of my family long enough to ride the durn thing. I am so grateful to have such a loving, supportive bunch, but if I were going to kill myself, I would rather not do it in front of them. So I waited until they were all somewhere else and crept downstairs to where the shiny purple monster waited. I felt silly as I looked from side to side to make sure no one was witnessing my folly, but there was no one about. I gingerly inserted my key into the bar lock on the back wheel and moved it, ready for Part Three: the ride.

But then the key got stuck. I must have been there at least 10 minutes, manipulating it, locking and unlocking and wiggling it until my fingers were numb. It wouldn't budge. And I was beginning to sweat. Just then, one of the neighboring children, a sweet girl of 11 years named Martina, rode in to park her bike. She must have taken pity on me, because she just reached over and deftly removed the key without a word, smiling as she handed it to me. I smiled back and then pretended to fuss over something in the front basket until she gathered her things and walked away. After looking around one more time to make sure no one else was outside, I walked the bike to the wooded path behind our building.

I figured that this would be a safe place for my "maiden voyage."There is a web of bike trails through the woods, and I had walked them all. Better to try in a place I know than right in traffic, I reasoned. And, of course, it would be more private. I climbed up on the saddle and slowly started to manipulate myself around. It was pretty shaky at first, but I did it! I rode around for about 30 minutes, feeling mighty proud of my accomplishment. Imagine Tori's face when I met her at school the next day and we biked home together! I had an unbeatable, secret smile for the rest of the day.

Until I woke up the next morning and couldn't move. I was so saddle sore, I spent a good deal of the day soaking in a hot tub. It was a few days before I could climb aboard again and make my wobbly way down to the school. But there I was, in the fresh air, the sunshine, just my bosom bike buddy and me! Tori was delighted, just as I'd hoped she'd be. And that made it all worthwhile, even when the other kids kept asking if that was HER bike.

Another year has passed. I am not nearly as adept at riding as my husband Gunnar, who has ridden daily for the past 30-odd years, but I can certainly keep up. No more do I have to suffer the embarrassment of 70-year-old ladies passing me while pedalling up a hill. And we have discovered one more thing that we love to do together as a family. Riding has toned my body a little and I have learned how to safely ride through snow and other hazards. Gunnar is so proud of me.

As a matter of fact, he has encouraged me so much, this weekend I'm letting him remove the training wheels.