Sculpin

Another day, another half-dozen turns around the parking lot, and then a half-dozen more. I’m getting better. In fact, I was getting so much better that I thought I would try relaxing, at which point the bike suddenly wobbled mightily and I let out my first terrified yelp of the evening. Okay — don’t be that relaxed. Check.

Josh convinced me to put my fingers on the brakes as I went around, which caused the real yelping of the day. I starting gripping the bars with my thumb as hard as I could, until my hands went a little numb, which of course made me grip harder because oh my god I can’t feel the bar. Eventually I compromised by keeping my pinkies on the bars, which gave me enough extra proprioception that I could relax while still having immediate control of the brakes.

Everybody knows that when you turn, you shift your weight. What I didn’t realize until late today is that the motion of turning the handlebars works better if I initiate it from the waist. Shifting weight and turning bars became the same motion, and the entire system became much less twitchy. That’s especially good because it’s a fairly twitchy bike to begin with — not the ideal situation.

Tomorrow I will try turning left around the parking lot. (And the crowd goes wild!)

Josh was talking last night as if the basic issues are technical. “Maybe we should put you on a coaster bike on grass,” he said. “Maybe we should try taking the pedals off.” Actually, I think he just wants to experiment on me. I can relate to that. But the fact is, technically I’m having no catastrophes, which is what passes for doing well at this point. The problem isn’t technical. The problem is dread.

Dread settles over me like a personal weather system. I am enveloped in a black fog. It’s almost literal — that first day, tunnel vision gnawed away at the edges of my visual range. I didn’t really notice it at the time, being so busy ensuring that I was not killed and eaten by grates, curbs, or small surface irregularities. But in my mind’s eye, when I call up what I saw then, all I can remember is a round hole in the dimness into which I rode while my brain chanted, “Okay, we’ll make it to there. Okay, we’ll make it to there.” There was perhaps twenty feet away. Further than that, I wasn’t counting on making it.

Today, the fog was a lot lighter. Tomorrow, it should be lighter still. Hell, today I rode over a grate, twice.

My job is now is partly about gaining muscle memory and all that jazz, but mostly about managing fear. I believe that keeping it in very short, frequent, consistent chunks is the key.

I’ve done it before and I’ve seen how it works: if I get macho or defensive and start going too aggressively into the fear, I overload myself with adrenaline and re-inscribe the fear into myself, and then I’m really screwed. No kidding — ask your local animal behaviorist. This, by the way, is why I raise an eyebrow at people who believe that fear is something to be ashamed of. In my experience, it seems like they never do anything — but of course they start things all the time, or say they’re starting things, or mean to start things. It’s just that they run themselves into the ground because they’re too stupid or bullheaded to treat their fears gently enough to be effective. And then, odds are, they try to drag you down with them by trying to inflict their shame on you, too. I say, if you value living in a way that gets your ass off the couch, these are not the people who are good for you.

So, yes. Being an aggressive idiot is not so great. On the other hand, if I’m lazy or inconsistent, I may not lose ground the way I do if I’m macho, but I’m still not getting much of anywhere. I think this is what went wrong in 2006; I tried to balance learning to ride with three or four other physical practices, which meant that I was riding about once a week. That isn’t enough. It has to be every day.

There’s a rule of thumb about making friends: try pinging them seven times. (You know what I mean by “ping”, right? Make a personal contact on your own initiative; show some casual interest in them; drop them a line and say hello; that kind of thing.) The idea is that if an event happens again and again, it’s at about the seventh time that the brain stops counting and starts filing those events under “stuff that happens a lot.” Familiarity happens. It’s as if the brain’s counting, “Weird, weird, weird, weird, weird, weird… okay.”

How scientific this is, I don’t know. It sounds to me like pop science that has been spun into urban legend. But it’s a handy rule of thumb that probably isn’t ridiculously far off — after seven contacts, either the friendship is beginning to happen or it isn’t. If it is, then great; and if there’s no reciprocation after seven contacts, I figure I’ve done enough to give up in good conscience. (In fact, I figure that I’d better.)

I’m trying to make friends with the bike. And as much as gaining understanding, skills, and muscle memory are useful, this week I think it’s mostly just about going “ping” once a day. The Rule of Seven reminds me not to pass judgment on the emotional experience just yet. Everything might be different in a week or so. As weird as it seems now, unfamiliarity has a surprisingly short halflife.

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