I Cannot Ride A Bike

It's true. Up there, that is a true statement. Out in the open. Can't ride a bike. I'm a grown adult^[1] and I lack mastery of a transportation method used by children. Am I embarrassed? No. I have no fear.^[2] I am indestructible.^[3] I am America. I am youth incarnate^[4] and I keep no secrets.^[5]

What does this have to do with books? Everything.^[6]

I've been reading A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers for about a week now. Thus far, it is my favorite book of the summer. The writing style, manic and descriptive and conversational, is precisely what I want to read. Even with my full-time job^[7] and Rampaging Social Life,^[8] I have been tearing through this book. I cannot stop reading it.

The book, a fictionalized memoir, is about Dave raising his brother, Toph,^[9] after their parents die of cancer.^[10] It is hilarious and dark in a way that very few things are. If I'm forced to liken it to something, I'll say "Louie"^[11] is similar in tone. There's a part in particular where Dave and Toph are playing frisbee and Dave is talking (writing) about how he (Dave) is so fit and handsome and the personification of all that is Young and Right and Hip but he's worried that he's a little skinny, maybe too skinny, skinny like his Dad was when the cancer got worse, his frail legs unable to support him that time he fell in the driveway, fell on the hard pavement -- the sound of bone hitting ground resonating -- and maybe he's scaring Toph a little bit, what with the similarity to Death, and maybe he should hit the gym.^[12]

I Have Tried To Learn To Ride A Bike Twice Now

The first time was "normal" enough, in that I was of an appropriate age (five?) and my parents had the best intentions.^[13] I had even completed the Training Wheel Circuit in all its quadrupedal glory. At last, the moment of independence was nigh: the pushing, the guiding, the pushing some more, the letting go, the sailing through the wind, the mild steering, the teetering, the losing control --

-- the crying, the screaming, the red-faced anguish, the embarrassment, the swearing to never do it again.

I was a man of my word -- still am -- and so when I said, "I'm not doing that again," I meant it. "You don't mean that," I was told. "You have to learn how to ride a bike." Nay. I do not. I will walk. My ancestors walked, and I will walk. We don't have enough walking nowadays. These children, they get too accustomed to their bicycles. They don't know how great it is to hoof it. Hoofin' it. America. Smell the air!^[14] I will ride the rails if I have to! Hoboes! Culture! Lore! America.

I stayed strong for about sixteen years. I learned to drive,^[15] I went through high school (relatively) unfazed, and life was fine, all things considered.

Then there was the second time. Audience,^[16] I was swindled. A conversation between myself and J.:^[17]

I: Nice day out. Tryna^[18] read on the President's Lawn?^[19]
J: Sure, yeah. That sounds great. Come over.
Scene: Now at J.'s house.
J: Change of plans; let's go bike riding.
I: I cannot ride a bike.
J: I know. You will learn.
I: You are a lying troublemaker.
J: Shut up.
I: You shut up.
J: Oh, good one.
I: I have been deceived.
J: Get on the bike.
I: I am upset.
J: It will be fun. Cute, even.

This time, admittedly, was less violent. I did not fall -- I was 21; I was just naturally better at certain things like not falling on bicycles -- and I'll even say I made a good amount of progress in under an hour. But I did a lot of stopping. Not gracefully. Push. Stop. Push. Stop. Push while being pushed. Coast. Pedal two, three times. Swerve. Stop. Push. Pedal a bit more. Cheering, preemptive. Car. Fight or flight. Wobble, stop, walk to sidewalk.^[20]

Stayed upright on that two-wheeled death machine for a good clip towards the end, though -- rode from near Granoff^[21] to College Ave with minimal pants-shitting. Victory. America.






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[1] This is debatable; a container of chicken stock made a farting noise last night and I laughed out loud.
[2] Except, of course, for bike-riding and demons.
[3] Bullets, knives, blunt objects, and harsh glances still yield tears.
[4] Complete with a lack of motor skills!
[5] I ran over a dog once. See?
[6] One thing, tangentially.
[7] Humble brag.
[8] I am writing this on a Friday night while listening to Beyoncé.^[*]
[9] Short for Christopher, pronounced "Tofe."
[10] Mom: stomach; dad: lung.
[11] Are you watching this show? Fucking watch this show. It's incredible.
[12] This writing style is just so infectious and fun. The frisbee scene in particular goes on for pages like that. Amazing.
[13] "Please, God, just let him get this down. Please. You owe us after the Barney thing."
[14] A bit staler, since you're not moving through it quite as fast.
[15] Failed twice on account of parallel parking, an act I still avoid like -- well, like riding a bike.
[16] Gentle reader, friends, kind observer, etc.
[17] Still great.
[18] "Trying to." "Would you like to." I am nothing if not in touch with the young people.
[19] Reading and sitting? Safe. Doable.
[20] There is video evidence of one of my more-triumphant runs. It will eventually be destroyed.
[21] Music building. Glass doors. Nice.






[*] Knowles.