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minnesota writing project
center for writing
mwp.umn.edu
center for writing
mwp.umn.edu
Jill Merkle
©2019
Because I Ride
There are times when I cannot tell the difference between my handlebars and my hands or where my feet end and my pedals begin. Energy goes through my body in a cyclical matter. I cannot distinguish where my frame stops or where I am. It pulses through my fingers, up my arms, down my back, around my legs, connecting to my pedals, streaming through it's frame, and runs back to my fingertips only for it to begin again.
I feel powerful and empowered. I feel strong, fast, unstoppable. I feel daring, rebellious, yet controlled. I feel the things that I crave every second that I am on the ground. The energy radiates as I swerve close by parked cars, around potholes, and through the tiny gaps in the traffic. The slight exhilarating fear making it all the more worth it.
And when I ride, I see life in a different way. I see how the cities are laid out. I see how people interact. I see how the pace of life changes from place to place, moment to moment, person to person.
Because I ride, I know where the children play. Where loud, boisterous, laughing kids run in small green yards right next to the street. I know which parks the children gather with large families and friends to meet for an afternoon BBQ. I know that with each block I pedal away from the city, the houses will get bigger, the streets will get cleaner, and I won’t see the children play or smell that smokey Sweet Baby Ray.
Because I ride, I know the border of Minneapolis and St. Paul by the sudden transition from the smooth black trail to the rocky, pebbled, unkempt road. I know the neighborhoods and streets where I need to swerve around the same undisturbed, shattered broken glass. And I know the places that will always be clean no matter what happened the night before. I know which parts of the city they are tearing down, and what they are building in its place. I know the one ways, the wrong ways, the bike lanes, and where there are no sidewalks. I can distinguish the sound between a garbage truck, a moving truck, and a bus. I can hear the hybrid cars turn on as the light flashes to green. I know where the smell of sweet cakes being made ruminate the streets, and the corners of the city where the sour stench of garbage reeks.
Because I ride, I know what the spray-paint on the sides of buildings say. I know that the underbelly of an overpass bridge on the Greenway has the words “I was raped; My mom was raped; Where will it end?” spray painted in thick, black ink. I know that it is the only bridge on that path that has no one getting high or sleeping underneath it. I know that there are other parts of the city with social, political, and all other types of commentary that are left alone, undisturbed, and tucked under bridges, behind signs, and on vacant alley walls.
Because I ride, I see the garbage on the streets. The plastic overflowing in the garbage cans. The wrappers, the glass, the white Target bags take on a life of its own, setting up camp near sewer drains, against curbs, and becoming glued to the innards of this morning’s road kill.
Because I ride, I know what it’s like to have a car ride next to me, swerving so close because of the undeniable feeling of adrenaline derived from someone with more power playing with the life of someone with less. I know what it’s like to have doors open into me, cars tailgate me, hear the sound of a blaring horn right in my left ear, and jump as people scream out of windows and zoom away. I know what it’s like to listen to those same people complain about bikers. How they are disrespectful, unlawful, and dangerous. Some bikers might fall into those descriptions, but when we begin to generalize that’s when we run into the real shit.
Because I ride, I know that at stoplights men on bikes will swerve around and plant themselves directly in front of me. So close that my front tire nearly touches their back. They think their faster. But unfortunately for them, and honestly, unfortunately for me, I was told in third grade that I couldn’t play football. Had my teacher give me an F on my handwriting because it wasn’t good “for a girl.” I’ve been asked why I act like a boy? Been fired from a job for not being perky enough. Been laughed at for the clothes that I wear. Been told that I can’t go to gymnastics until I put a leotard on. Had boys yell for everyone to move in-the girl is up to bat. Unfortunate. But what’s even more unfortunate for them is that didn’t stop me. I hit the doubles, triples, and home runs in the all-boys baseball league. Created my own co-ed club when I was in kindergarten. Ran the fastest mile every single year. Captained a nationally winning frisbee team. Punched a kid for saying that people aren’t ready for a woman president. And now I teach boys every single day how to recognize and challenge gender inequity. So as the light turns green, I whip around them, and by the time I hit the next red light, they are gone from my sight. They just couldn’t keep up.
Because I ride, I see the world for what it is. I see the good as certain as I see the ugly. I experience a whole new kind of reality that challenges the way I live when I have my two feet on the ground. I experience the things that I talk about in my classroom with a whole new perspective.
Because I ride, I witness how beautiful, how dangerous, how extraordinary, and how fast our city is changing.
Because I ride, I defy norms, and challenge assumptions. I am strong, even if I look fragile. I am fast, even if I look slow. I am tall, even if I look hunched. And I am flying, even if I looked grounded. I ride for me, for how I want things to be, even if that means that I will always be a little late, a little tired, a little out of breath, and a little bit more determined.
All of this because I ride.
