Tribe
At times, it was too much. I recall days dreading how I would bake in the afternoon sun or how the driving headwinds blasted through the river valleys. I didn’t always get out the door, but apparently I went often enough.
Double Century
This was the eternal, profoundly-boring, family car ride on the interstate laid out in cycling terms. I could now measure it in turns of pedals, back roads, shady hideaways, whispering rivers, long climbs, and delicious turns. It was mine. I had arrived.
Strength
My right to move through this world was being written into the fibers of my body. For a fat kid with no apparent athletic talent a bit of strength was good.
Agency
I am willing to guess that my parents had some debates about the appropriateness of their child being out and about on a bike, but there were never any doubts in my mind.
Blame the Grandparents
Being on a bike in my family was really not a choice. I was immersed in the same way a child is submerged in language. My education was as thorough as any fanatic could ever hope to produce –– perhaps not with the rigidity of the madrasa, but with the absolute thoroughness of any cult.