I got a new bike for Christmas. There was no waiting until spring or even for the ice to melt—I took it out and road back and forth in front of our house all morning. Even with the slipping and sliding and wobbly control I had, I still got that feeling of freedom that came with a bike.
Even without snow cover, the gravel on our road made the bike hard to control. I had more than one nasty crash just from hitting the brakes too hard while going down a hill. I still have scars on my knee. If the road grader hadn’t come in a few weeks, a high frequency of ridges would form and riding over them was like laying on the dryer. I could feel the vibration for the next half hour.
That summer they paved our road. As soon as the paving trucks were out of site and the asphalt was cool enough to not melt my tires, I rode on it. Nothing had ever felt so smooth. With just a few petal cranks I could coast for a hundred feet. The 12-speed’s ticking freewheel confirmed my momentum and it felt like flying.
Freedom is what a bicycle meant to me. I could leave my house. No yelling, no tension, no watching my every move– just wind in my face and the pleasure of inertia.
When I was first allowed to ride my bike into town, I was not daunted at all. NOt by the 3.5 miles. Not the the narrow shoulder of the country highway with semis gushing by. Not navigating an unfamiliar world of traffic and adults without my own adult there as a safety net.
This freedom and autonomy felt normal and justified. I scoffed at relying on others. There was no predicting my step dad’s rage. And since I never saw anyone effectively stand up to him. At a young age I simply concluded no one else could do anything about it and it was up to me to protect myself.
Sure, when he wasn’t around people would agree that he was a maniac. And sometimes people tried to coax his behavior in person.
Jeff, if you keep yelling at him for not holding the gun right, he’s not going to want to go hunting with us when he’s older.
He needs to listen to me!
My mom might chirp when he was unloading on me or even scold him afterwards. But it was like talking to a raging animal. All of these attempts changed nothing. Sometimes she’d intervene with more momentum.
Nayt you’re not suppose to be doing that. I need you to…
What’s going on in here!
I’m handling it, Jeff.
I said what’s going on? What’s he doing?
I said I’m handling it!
Boy, what did you do?!
Jeff, go back in the bedroom. I’ll handle this.
Most of the time he brushed her aside and grilled me about whatever he decided was my offense, twisting each of my answers into deeper admissions of guilt.
Sometimes he would back off. But that was like seeing my neighbor’s house destroyed by a hurricane, knowing it would swing out over the ocean, gain momentum, and circle back to destroy my house.
As an adult I’ve learned of family members who stood up to him behind the scenes on my behalf, which makes me very grateful and amazes me. But back then I knew nothing of that, I concluded was I the only one I could rely on.
So the autonomy of riding my bike into town felt like being rewarded for the job I had been doing for years.
I saw friends in town and swam in their pools. We went to the store and indulged in treats. Pop. Candy. Gum. Hostess fruit pies. It was great.
One Saturday that summer I asked if I could go into town. When asking him for something, my stomach always twisted.
Dad, can I ride my bike into town?
What for?
Just to hang out with my friend.
Why do you need to do that?
I don’t need to, I just want to.
You think you get everything you want?
No, it’s just that it’s Saturday and I already fed and watered the dogs and I don’t have any homework.
Silence.
Fine. But you will be back by 3:00PM. Do you hear me, boy?
Yes. Thank you!
When he sad yes, I often felt guilty, like I was getting away with something. He would cite it as reason to deny my next request.
Didn’t you JUST do something last weekend, boy? All you do is take.
But that day it didn’t slow me down. It was 1:00PM. The ride into town was twenty five minutes, so I had just over an hour. That meant I didn’t have time to see friends or go to the store if I wanted my very favorite in-town activity.
The pizza parlor’s arcade room was the greatest place in the world. Nothing took me out of my tense emotional state like video games. They felt so advanced and sophisticated, like the older kids who hung out there. And it was all cloaked in the smell of pizza.
I pedaled fast. Semis gushed past me pulling me into their wake. In town I sped past my self-defined obstacle course of ditches and curbs to jump over.
I walked in and the beeping sounds and 8-bit melodies transported me. I dropped in quarter after quarter and the memory of my whole intense life evaporated. I played all my favorite games, some more than once. It felt good to be good at something so fun and exciting.
The hour went by fast. It was time to leave. But I was right there with all those good feelings just another quarter away. I couldn’t bare to willingly turn my back on them. Saying no to myself felt like I was piling on to all the bad feelings I consistently received from my step dad.
I dropped in another quarter. My anxiety went away and I was instantly deep in the game. When it finished it was 2:45. I had 15 minutes for a 25 minute ride.
Fuck.
As I kicked up my kickstand and pedaled away I couldn’t stop chiding myself.
Why did I do that? Why did I do that? He’s never going to let me ride my bike again. I’m going to get yelled for an hour.
There was no slack with him. Five seconds late brought the same fire and fury as five hours. Sometimes more. Effort and intention didn’t matter. Good or bad reasons didn’t matter.
Close only counts in horseshoes, boy.
I pedaled as hard as I could with no breaks for coasting. Through town, past the grocery store, past the cemetery, past the used car lot, past the apartment buildings. My legs burned.
I turned onto my road for the final mile and a half. Glancing at my watch I could see it would be close.
I rode up and down hills, past farm houses and hay fields. My legs were numb but the adrenaline from anticipating the yelling kept them going. I trudged up the final hill and I started rehearsing my futile defense.
I’m sorry, my watch was off.
I’m sorry, my bike had a flat.
I’m sorry, there was a car wreck.
I’m sorry, I saw a teacher in town and they wanted to talk to me.
For each excuse I could instantly heard all his rebuttals, reasonable and unreasonable. But underlying was the fact that I was indeed late. And I believed if I was wrong, no matter how small, another person had the right to any level of retaliation, no matter how big.
I was pushing my twelve year old body to its limit was to avoid this yelling. The fatigue of having been yelled at so many times in my life made mild yellings feel an arrows shot in my calf and big ones like boulders crushing me.
I turned off our smooth road into our gravel driveway. Between the momentum and my panic, the bike slid from under me. My knee took the weight of me, skidding for two feet before I stopped.
The yelling I was anticipating masked any pain I was feeling. I jumped up, ran across the yard, up the steps, and in the door. I stood in the entryway with sweat coming down my face and blood down my knee. I looked at the clock. I was five minutes late. I look at the couch under the clock. My step dad was asleep.
I couldn’t believe it. I crept past him to the bathroom, using every ounce of effort I had to keep my gasping deep breaths from waking him.
The pain set in. It was sharp and deep every time the washcloth touched to the wound as I tried to clean out the dust and pebbles and blood. It was also dull and burned from the friction of scraping across the gravel.
But that day I avoided his anger. Which was worse than a 40 ton semi passing two feet from me. Worse than any danger I could imagine happening to me, being 12 years old, out on my own. And worse than a bloody, burning knee.
I felt so lucky.